So Be This

Let it not be said that the moment of the voice is lost. The words that find their space in the cataclysms of this unfortunate space we call real lack the need to be here. We throw our limbs to the calling of the wind and hope they find a place amidst its mannerisms. In the transient freedom they find I can only grovel. May they echo off the walls, and find the voice that screams in harmony with it. There is countless beauty in its triumphs and suffering. It is born from the unequal interplay of taking breath and forcing it from your body. If only for a moment things can sound sweet. Let that not dissolve admits the bitterness of being alive. I have no great wisdom to lay before you. I know no great truth  I only hope you understand that the great moments of sadness can only be understood in relation to the horrific pains we are forced to endure by waking into this un-dream like world. It is bound by history and the guilt and regret that accompany the capacity to remember. There is no tabula rasa that will allow you a new life. New places may provide respite from the external, but your life live within you. No action can be retaken, no past unwritten. What we have done will stain the unfortunate flesh, that we can do nothing to change. At least we have that, the failing and its lessons. So I ask you, as my fellow sufferers, scream with the brilliance that only your voice can concoct, and tell the world that what you are cannot be silenced. Maybe then, if only for a moment, you can be free.

I Wonder

Where is the challenge in your laugh. The simple hand turns a phrase to your liking. The smile and the praise come without effort. I would have craved this so long ago, but now I wonder, in a sick and perverse logic that serves only to destroy me, what value does that have. Why must all good things be presented at the end of a razor. With my fist clenched, beating the table, my body rocks in wonder, how could I have jaded myself to all joy that may come my way. Like some strange story told to me by a dying relative, I believe that I must suffer greatly for a moment of joy. As though i can only be seen once at the precipice of my own demise. My value lies in my capacity to be a victim to the unfortunate ill of existence. In those moments I can obfuscate the role I played in crafting my own misery and in so doing avoid accountability.  If the world breaks me enough, perhaps some one will rise from the smoke and save me from the horrors of my own reflection.

Sadly, that is a fatalist dream. I am this bag of blood and flesh. This is who I am. I will be seen as many a wonderful, strange and horrific things along the way. What else can I be but the person I have come to know myself to be.

Or perhaps I turn the scalpels I have collected  in my flesh and place them in these quivering hands. No man nor woman know the maps of my mind as well as I, layman though I am. Modifications may be in order. this may get bloody, and and i doubt that all of me will survive. Lets us hope that the dead and numb cannot feel pain.

To the Lost and Beloved

I am going to kill it. The moment that lies in the movement of our body, the sound of your voice that echoes in my memory. I will leave its corpse in the gutter, not out of spite but out of desperation. There were words that once tied themselves to meaning, that now fall flat. I would hold them high as heralds of truth and beauty in the secret moments of my honest self, but those have all been lost. You were the place that safety felt real. That cannot exist anymore. Now cold and naked I must wonder the tundras of my own mind. There the beast of history come to the field snarling, as rage hangs in steaming exhalations. It may have been valid, it may have been how I really am, but you took that with you. You cannot come, bring all the good love gifts its endurer and expect them to last in your absence. I suppose that is the risk you take when entering the life of another. You become the sunshine, and bring upon the sunset. What days come there after. Though when it does, that day has passed, an any light you could have been passes. There have been few times in my life when I have looked at my records and wondered if the day had never ended, if perhaps I could have painted a landscape, crafted a world that may have held the suns interest for just a moment longer, before I fell from its grace, and it died among the demons of the underworld, only to be reborn. I have gotten more accustomed to the darkness than I have the light. At least in the cold solitude I know what little worth I may have. I do  not need the lies light to dissuade me from the horrific nature of my reflection. I shall not tell time by the passing fancies of light. My skin will grow cancerous in the attempt to please its glaring. I have only so much surface to sacrifice.

So tell me, those that have not seen the light that pores from your essence, what will you do when some one sees its radiance. Do you know the landscape you wish to illuminate. Have you become comfortable with the shadows you will force upon the face of those who grace you shining. or will you burn, blind to the world it molds by simply being. Will you forget the power that holds, or will you claim it. How many more times will your sun rise. I only hope that you find the one great moment, one great landscape, that would destroy you to see cast into darkness.  

Do You Remember

Cut and tear at what I have left behind. The bread crumbs to the mine field.  I left them hoping you would find me, hold me. Alas you went looking for a child and found only a part of its past. Among the scattered limbs you may be able to rebuild a likeness of me. Alas that person has long since lost his place in this world. Now the ghosts of failure and regrets haunt the flesh, seeking their solace and piece of mind.

The cackle of the crowd remind me of the world that seems so wonderful, so far from my grasp. This is the story my mind has been crafted to tell. This is the face I see in he mirror. This is who I am to myself. If I could prove myself wrong I would. Alas I lack the evidence to see anything more than the waste that clogs the drains.

I ask not for pity or proof of my worth.It would be a futile badge worn on a broken frame. I am only this, and nothing more.

Know Your Skin

It is your prison. It will hold all that is you too the world, and hide you from it. It is your embrace. rejoice in the futility of leaving. The sins of your heart will stain it until the image of it tells the story of your sorrow, loos, love, joy and deep contrition. It will move you to aid, to hurt, to cry out for the pain it has cursed upon you. It will tear, and it will hurt. It will burn, and it will hurt. It will be pleased, and that will hurt most of all. It will long for bodies, and reject affection. It will heal, scar, and refuse to forget, as much as it will be unable to remember.

The most frightening thing is that we chose to remain in it, hoping that the net day will feel better than the next. Remember, we chose. Our skin promises us nothing. We can not know for certain what will pass over it, or go into it. We cannot predict how long we will have it. But having it, in this moment, is a choice. If you forget that then you waist it.

Fallen

Bones now lie bleached on the sand,
reaching up to the sky with all the appearance of longing.
They once held so much in their grasp.
The blood that pulsed passed them,
the flesh and hide that clad them, now lost to the rot.
They have been marked by the beaks and claws,
by the teeth and talons of the hungry
There was a life to this frame
Now not even the memory remains.
 

Were I A Tail

What if I was a story. My life and the action that color them told through the ideas of an observer, researcher or dreamer. No more would I be the person that inhabits this flesh, but an idea creator, a character constructed to be shared. My actions dictated by a purpose, within a narrative. With every turn of the page I would live for those few moment, in the words that form I the minds of the reader. I would go through the changes that are part of a fiction. First the idea of the dreamer, then the momentary reality of the reader. The same words, many different me's. Carved out in phrases.

What would my story be. What would be my reason d'etre. What tragedy would I face in order to grow. What elements of me would e used to relate to and what to alienate. Shall I be the protagonist or the antagonist. Will my ending induce happiness, or be cemented in tears. Is my story to be one of love and joy, or a tragedy.

I will tell you once the tale has been fully told.

A Forest

The eyes stayed closed as the sounds crawled past. In them were the promises of a time that was once my own. I had them if only for a moment. They were the very things that took me too long to consider. Now hey are no longer the means to make the dream seep from the sheets I stained with your blood. A sacrifice to a manner of flesh and sweat. They held me in the way that scorpions embrace the prey of the sand world. It shifts with the notions of the wind, the carrier of the souls who are yet to be judged. I may have seen you for a moment, weeping silently, but the sound is familiar enough for me to hear it even among the scream of my own mind, the drowning contrition. The way the cackling of days long decayed come back in torrents of embers that cling to my flesh and fill the air with smoking flesh, the sent of sorrow manifested. I would beg for the chance to hold you whilst your skin turned blue, for the winter air was fiery beside the idea of your body. Drown as we may, in our own ideas and the poisons that we cloud our minds with, rage at the capacity to hold fleeting clarity. It is not the place we promised ourselves in the drunken desire that took too strong a charge of our actions.

Cut not the strings I have used to have used to sown my chest closed. The rib cage still missing, and the lungs tend to press the heart agains the walls of my body. So I sit and watch the blood pump through the rotten organ I once call my heart. You named it such in a moment of naivity

Rot

So I heard her, in the gargled expression that comes from a larynx negotiating its relation to the sinuous grasp that once held it in place. Unable to find the melody that fired in what remained of her mind. Hunger raged a midst a murky hollowness where once her name resided. She reaches out to me, whilst approaching with a crippled stride, her body fighting to remain in motion. No more tears fall from her eyes, nor shall her face ever smile back at me. The world hangs in screams and flames behind her. In jerked decay the space between us barreled. Her lips sliding past the steel. Her winter skin forced against mine. She fell into me. It was not long before I surrendered to the sinking wormth, as I too was no longer able to scream.

The Hole

Hey there, what is that hole doing in the middle of the garden. It seems to be getting bigger and bigger. What an amazing event, a strange happening. Just think of all the possibilities. You could make a pool out of it, and then have parties with scantily clad ladies and drinks with umbrella's in them. Wait, maybe you could plant a tree in it, one  that will grow many stories high and provide for you, others and the enforcement. If it strikes water then you can make a well, and enjoy free water.

Wait, what are you doing?
Why are you climbing inside?
You want me to do What!
No I am not going to fill the whole with you inside.

I Was Asked

Ah these bars seem familiar Yet the horizon beyond them feels sickeningly alien. I do know know what I would do in those fields that lie out beyond me. I have all the space my imagination can provide. In them are battle field coloured red with the falling blood. Metal strikes flesh, steel melts against the raging flames that envelop steel leviathans, as they are made to surrender beneath the constant barrage of cannons. Creatures with masks of light with elongated limbs flick blades from their forearms, severing troops from their limbs. Shadowed mercenaries fling themselves between the fray with steel wire and spikes, leading from one victim to another. A sweet metallic taste hangs in the mist. No my friends, I could find no solace in those open field. I would be far to tempted to make of them a stage. But oh what a pantomime I would play upon them.

I would tell the the tails of loss, fire and melting. I would write songs in the screams, that would shiver the flesh till the skin would pull itself free in search of respite. Oh, I Can hear them now as I dream erect and searching myself for a means to exalt the notion. The give of flesh beneath the suggestion of a blade, subtle at first, but at first resistance, fierce and hungry. Tell me, what do the meadows offer me. What wipers of the fleeting butterfly can sooth as the bubbling jugular can. 

There is so much a tool can tell you of your intentions with those you are given the space to explore yourself through. Sunsets my come in passing splendor, slipping through the fingers of time, so subtle that they fade Swift into a gallery of time passing. Sharp steel, hard wood, and a strong arm feeds intent with unorthodox prowess and capacity. What then shall I label as freedom. Even between four walls, my flesh is my own, my mind solace. I have dreams enough to keep me company. We are given one frame, like a warrior, one weapon. Keep it loaded, make it shard, barb it and let it take you past any obstacle that may inflict itself upon you. Then You can be nothing but free.

We own only what we have paid for in blood, sorrow, ours or others. Tell me I can go anywhere, but you put boundaries to keep you people safe. There, out in the world lie many barriers, erected through force of finance. The chance of cost and availability chain those who cling to their ideals. Show them a moment of chaos, let them lick the nature of all that supersedes them, and the loss of rational will drive them insane. Relinquish these petty needs. Submit, and feel those desires crystallize in your  mind until they embrace you like a long lost lover.  Tell me you cannot feel the lifting of fabric and the smell of secrets, disallowed by formality. Give what they may, take what you can. Their are so few allowances. Who are we to die in regret.

I have no wings, so why would I long for the open skies as the swallows and falcons do. They sky is purple with our desire to be more than our bodies allow. yet we look to those beside us and us them to forgive our indiscretions, as though they have not build the very ground upon which they walk, or the roves beneath which they sleep. I only keep enjoy the luxury of inhaling because no one has been able to take that capacity from me. Tell me. Am I not free. Tell Me, are you.

Then Again

Now comes the time for reflection. From the swelling memories crawls the need for redemption, constenting, to the body. It had its place, but cage its open, and broken, by the weight of its sight. So in this remorse comes time to forgive, the sins that have haunted this worn skin.  If every manner can begin, the history its lost within, for solace knows its humble king, be a place to begin.

The nature of the beast is to tell you the truth as it sees, not the way the world really is. We could go believing the words as they, tied it seems, to reason we lost long ago. Free for the quest, reliquish the best of our selves.

Something About Fire

So let the rage continue an unabated. May the heated torrents lick the walls and pain faces with the scorches that held their passing. They have no solemn purpose, but the nature of their ways. For the land behind they is desolate, and the path before them fueled by hunger. Despite the horse cries of the innocent, there is no means for mercy, no capacity to care. there only lies a purpose, and a means. So rage on, and make this world anew.

Feed Me More than Loud Words

Tear the words asunder, till the flecks of blood can be seen on them. The mind that wonders to spaces of the cage of safely and known mantras come to the fall, safe yet again. Do not let the time of your own voice become a sound unlike your own tone. The nature of the manner does not hold true. So the two swallows cry to each other. In them songs of equal value seems to waver in the wind.

And so the hearts bound by silk and razor wire beat towards and against each other, screaming for skin and the knowledge that they have a home. A place to rest their bloody selves. They are two scared to push free and risk tearing their walls open and leaving themselves empty, and hollow.

I wonder. The body is tied to the image, and the idea that we are here. From that we lay down our notions of frailty, and doubt. Hate of the reflection, lost in the tides that beat against the flesh till it becomes raw. So hope lies in giving the mirror to another, alas in that we give value to the words that seep from its keeper. One day the words may become so deep and painful that we take that mirror back, but the words remain, etched in the frame, unable to wipe the meaning from the reflection  And so the history of other ideas become carved on our image. What is left for the the loving keepers but to scream louder, and over ride your own narrative, hoping that their good intent does not scat as deeply as their lover's history.

If I knew I would tell you what hope was before the feet of those with good intention and only slightly speckled hearts, but alas the dessert hold so few an oasis and too many mirages.

Sins of my flesh

Beyond the flesh of my flesh, to the souls that reside in my heart, I ask your forgiveness. I know that my actions have harmed those that have strayed upon my path. Know that was never my intention. It pains me to know that my presence has caused you ill. Alas i know know mans by which i can gain absolution for these sins. They haunt me like specter's, discoloring every shade.

Prostate I lie before them, in the hope that I will be forgiven. I never meant you any harm. I am certain that does little to quell the storms that rage within you. What else can I offer you, i do not have that many pounds of flesh to offer. Though I will not call my life a disgrace, now matter how much I may feel it, for it would discredit those that gave so much for me to be here. Know that I plead for atonement

I Am So Sorry

I am sorry. For what I am not too sure. Perhaps, for it all.

I have kept a log of my sins, and hung them form the barbs that tickle the veins of my heart, keeping it from beating to hard or too fast. Keep me alive, that will be good enough for the moment. Let the hills roll past the horizon, as the colours change from green to yellow, until they are met by the cold purples of the darkening skies. With only my eyes to fill them with meaning, the freedom sits in my throat. Unable to swallow, it is better to leave it on the the road, amidst my mucus and bile, for soon glass, metal and blood will litter the intersections.
I could tell you the stories that whimper from the stones, muffled by peeling paint. But that would reacquire a caring demurer and I am pretending to be another player, hoping that this one will stick around long enough to keep my own nature from poisoning those dreams that have managed to survive this far.This face does not have as many scars. It belies the cringes that have etched their marks on its predecessors.  On it new errors can seem pure and intertwined with then need to learn. Alas these are not new marks. Aside from replacing the face, the cost of restructuring the core may be more than the mannequin can bare.
So pray for the child that sits besides the leg of a dream, looking up with all the hope that only ignorance can induce. He has long since lost that hope, his eyes have become murky with the truth of his own nature. The past has scraped away any effigy of purity his soul may have clung to. The suffering his inability induced has tainted the mornings that begged to be embraced. The tears, the pain, the regret, caused by his own hand. The child wanted nothing of the sort. Though the man realizes that his visage now mimics the nightmare that his desires despises, hence the face itself. No metal, nor colour will conceal its decay. Soon the stench will spread and no sweet smile will be able to conceal it. 

Look Around, but not too long

Christ. I know, relax and breath in. The spinning will stop. But the road calls out in languish, and the fear holler back. They want me to stay, then like me here, the voices whimper then shout. You are comfortable, you are home, everything shall be alright, the chorus continues. Though I wonder. Like an shade I float among the scenery, effecting the interplay of light and dark, but despite the obvious effect I have on the landscape, I am not of it. Were i too root myself not, so early, it would not be a discovery, or a journey, but a flow to a new familiar, a slide to a smaller port. New things soon become old. For all the allure of a simple life of aesthetic indulgence, it is not my time. The horizon calls, and I shall answer.

Sunrise

You see, not all days share the same lighting, others are darker than the rest. Even when the path itself is clear, and the way forward decided, the shadows that pass before us tend to take the shapes of things we chose long be free of. But memory and manners of the heart have the strange tenancy to crawl out from under the rocks we placed beside the path to keep us from the woods. We can cut ourselve with false fantasies, we can tie our limbs to bar stools and break our will withoutany cause for alarm. But we must stay resolute, and hardened. We cannot give the passing shadows in our minds too much credence.

To quote James Maynard Keenan, "Change has come, keep your indignation, take the higher road, take it like man".

I am starting to understand the importance of he who holds the banner. when the field before you reeks of death and fear, the image of what you fight for, beating triumphantly against the wind must give hope to those who do not know if tomorrow's sunrise will grace them with its presence, for fate has made other plans for them.

I Might See You

Today I cut my finger on the edge of my diary. I stared at the drop of blood till it when a colour close to black. I took the tip of the blade you gave me and scraped a smile into it. As I curl up in into a warm blanket made of lost photographs, with faces I struggle to place these days, I begin the nightly bartering. I reach down and take an image at random and set it aflame and whisper to the chaotic shadows, “keep me safe this night”. An offering to something I cannot know, and fear that one day I just may. May this nigh keep if a bit further at bay, for last night I saw it had left a few claw marks on the bed post. If it gets any closer I may have to offer it the picture of you

HAHAHAHA

Now I know that I should not be laughing. Yes the skin around my back is getting tighter as new limbs try and find their horizon. I am not sad, but scared. I am not worried, but concerned. Excitement can wait, there is still so much to shed from my spine.  I have debts to pay, and no currency available to me anymore. Not every investment had produced the returns I had hoped they would. Pity. I was to some degree relying on them, hoping they would help me afford the face paints needed to mach my many garbs. A painted smile is a faint substitute for joy.

My Pet Singularity

I have always wanted a pet singularity. I would lead it by a quantum leash and if need be, clean up the dark matter it might leave in the yard.  I may have to discipline the little of if it tears up the fabric of my existence, unless I wanted it to do so for very specific reasons. I could take my singularity for warps on the beach, and bask in the solar flares. It may flux at passersby, but I am sure I will have the capacitors to deal with it. If anyone sees a wild singularity sniffing around black holes and marking its territory with radiation please give me a call, I would so like to give it a home. I have already started to build it a warm dimension for it to sleep in, right next to a convenient little time stream to drink from if it gets thirsty. It would be shy at first I am sure, but in after a while it will start to gravitate towards me. I am positronically certain that we will be happy together.  

I need not, but i do apologise

I wish I knew what to tell you. Sadly, in this moment the stories conflict and collide in my mind with a powerful malice that leaves me breathless and weak. I know my legs can hold the weight of my body, but I am certain that far more is being pulled down. Among the many things tied to my spine are my memories. Through them I could swim, but I would not leave their embrace unscathed. I still taste the blood that the wounds of my own nature have left in my mouth. Dripping I crawl against the parapet and shield my eyes from the bombarding rays of retrospection. With white knuckles I gnash my teeth in what looks from a distance like a smile, and sing an apologetic scream. When that cesspool gets spiced by the hopes and presuppositions of those that have carried the burden of loving me, then things start to become most unsettling. I do not for a moment doubt that those factors strengthen my deep relationship with violent poisons. If I am to lean against a sword, pointing towards my heart, I should at the very least sharpen it. Then, when I add the rumbling melodies of lost lover’s whispered assurances, a ball of razor blades feels the need to go exploring my chest. Weakly I struggle to submit to the unyielding voice that proclaims my deficiency. It cannot be correct about every incomplete aspect of my shell. If I had learnt to believe in the consistency of joy then I may not be standing at the gates with sharpened arms. But that is not who I am. In truth I simply hope I do not destroy you, for I have become rather good at it, in the way that can only be felt in retrospect.

My Beloathed Goddess

I suppose if you were sitting by the fire, stoking the coals intently with a branding iron, and were it to find my hide, it would not shy from the mark of a romantic. If anything, the means would match the manner. For you see, that accursed thing I have deified and dedicated my life to has sharpened each of its edges and found it fitting to leave them both wedged in my chest, only to twist it at its leisure. Love, of all the underpinning emotions my nature had to submit to, why did it have to be such a bitter and venomous drive. It clouds logic and crawls from one unattainable to the next. Yet still I am to prostrate myself piously before whatever and whomever it may land upon, whiles my free hand, when given the slightest opportunity, flings uncensored personal vile in the hopes that purity and honest validation may clean it and allow it safe passage home. A lifetime of tying myself to others, albeit they blind be to it, has left my heart a gapping maw, puckering its lips and sucking at the cold air in the hopes of latching onto something to sustain it. It does not pacify easily nor for long. So when this adolescent organ does eventually find nourishment, it covets it with every inch of itself, and grows strong and large when well fed. Though no feast can last forever, so when its sustenance ceases, it is now a creature designed by the acquired love of another. Were any to refill the void, its passion would pump through the veins another made. So to the cleaver I go, and clean it. Now only the scars remain. Though I am open and able to worship yet again, my dear lord, for I have paid my pound of flesh, my penance. I have sacrificed myself at the cold alter yet again. Yet I remain devout, as zealous as I am callous. My heart lies yearning and partially numb, as the coals cough and crack. But give it tinder, oh then it shall take up its station yet again, and rage with blind fury, only to lead to me to another melancholy.