28 September 2014
As I slept,
And my house unfolded,
Demons in the night,
The police came,
When they were already
safely out of sight.
So it appears that intruders were in my home last night. They stole mighty fine belongings, garish items which served only to remind me of the extravagance of my life. They also stole a car. They walked through my home. While I slept.
As a result, my focus will yet again shift. I’ll realign and try to work through the paranoia and remind myself that love is supreme. That beauty always exists, even when we appear knee deep in mud. Love is always the highest vibrational frequency in the Universe. We must always choose love.
Thanks for reading my stuff. It was mostly imaginative, with a few pieces of truth peppered in, but It was all me.
I love you, dearest reader.
Odourless, the incense lit in the midnight vestibule of a waxen heart, anchored by silken webs, at the mossy foot of an oak tree.
-That was you, before you came to me.-
And I, the stench of a trough, a deluge of swill, piss and filth discarded, damaged, enfeebled, abandoned. The excrement anchored to a barren hill, with no love to give.
-And yet you came, and taught me how to live.-
The boy cradled his torso with his arms which he held wrapped around himself, making him appear cold in a room that was kept deliberately warm by the Psychiatrist.
Dr. Jenkins, who sat behind an imposing oak desk, lifted his gaze. Poised, pen in hand he momentarily stopped the incessant scratching of ink on paper as he updated the clinical notes. Staring at the boy through strained eyes, the silence of the room broken by the dulcet tone of a ticking clock.
"Ignore the voices," the good doctor commanded with Etonian authority. "Whatever the may impress upon you to do, whatever they may say ignore them. They are a figment of your imagination, oft considered malevolent, yet, young man, I assure you, they are meaningless tripe of an abundantly active imagination."
Soon after, the young boy exited the physicians office. He walked down the hallway, looking for his mother. His arms stooped at his sides, his shoulders slunk forwards.
The voices had plagued him ever since his father had died. But he had agreed to do exactly what the doctor had prescribed. From now on, he would ignore the voices that cascaded and echoed within the inner chamber of his head. The voices that had kept him up for months, causing deep mottled rings to appear around his eyes.
He saw his mother seated. She turned and smiled sympathetically.
The young boy looked sullen as the voices in his head whispered from within.
"Don’t harm them…" they pleaded whispering in shrill tones, that caused a chill to careen across his belly.
"Don’t kill her…"
He would ignore the voices.
I died when you came into my life, with the pallor of a trembling moon.
And your white dress and burning mouth.
With a body cut like sunlight
through braided rain clouds.
You quenched your thirst with rain water from my clenched neck and yearning mouth.
My soul stripped by fingertips and pierced with bladed strained words.
You killed me.
Leaving me stained.
Yearning of my heart. Burning of my blood. Dampness of my tongue.
All exist for you.
24 Sep 2014
There is a psychiatrists couch, nestled beside a window in my small library. It is here that I find myself, reclined this morning. A book sits near my leg and I tip-tap the keys of my ipad bringing this message to form.
I’m still in my gym wear, despite having been home for an hour. The sweat of my torso wicking into the compression shirt hiding beneath a light Y3 workout hoody.
I could easily fall asleep and the world affords me the time.
I see my long narrow feet as they hang resting on the couch. Both feet intertwine, locked together in embrace at the ankles.
Heart rate slows.
I apologize for this plainly evident attempt to win some form of adoration and validation by posting this transparently narcissistic picture of me.
I am a victim of the technological disease which only allows us opportunities to further our own social ineptitude by vulgar displays of ego attachment to the self, whilst eroding all those aspects that once enabled us to commingle and bond within a framework of unity.
Welcome to the glory of shameful days of decadence where ‘best foot forwards’ simply means status updates and beauty involves filtering photos to disguise the blemishes and imperfections that make us human. Yet, our reality continues to be one in which we cannot disguise the blemishes of our lives when faced with the mirror of our own circumspect existence.
We are here.
And it sickens me.
So, kindly enjoy this projection of a version of me which does not exist. For I am just a lost soul who cries easily. A sheep on a desolate irradiated path who has lost his way. I am a boy, a man, a woman, who has lost all sense of identity and one who craves a solitary moment of connection with a soul like his, or hers.
That is all.
I catch myself falling with open palms. So often were they once held together in prayer. Now I commune with Lucifer.
"Evil is in my pocket and your Will is in my hand."
When I were a young lad, my dreams were vivid. Brightly coloured sensations that danced in merriment across my mind scape.
The colors have been now become bleached and the vividness muffled like the sobs of a hungry child locked behind a closed door.
I lift myself with my own groping fingers, as they snake across my chest and nipple. Hips trace oval lines as my pelvis careens off my bed. Grip tightens, clenching myself between pallid sheets.
Breath and sweat commingle. Pulsing until emptiness ensnares me once more. I fall into the vacuum-void of my own wasted consciousness, as dull patterns whirl against the dark subsuming the bedroom.
I feel fetid, as bile rises into the edges between teeth, frothing. A sensation akin to pre-vomit cleaves the insides of my gut. I cradle my twisting stomach.
My life is putrid.
I deserve nothing but contempt.
I hate me.
I hate you.
I love me.
I loved you.
“The moon stays bright when it doesn’t avoid the night…”
In each of us lies an irrefutable drive that makes us believe in something other than the tangible world as it presents itself through sensory organs.
We repress glimpses of our own mortality even when they come crashing in by way of loss of loved ones, or our own illnesses. Yet, something…
I sent you my picture
Because I want you to remember me.
You stopped sending yours,
Hoping you’d fade from my memory.
You roam, path to darkly path
You laugh, you cry,
Sigh and a thousand times die
You urge every passerby,
To hold your heart.
But they pluck your veins
Puppeteering you through a world
Tearing and clawing
Your dreams apart.