love cannot be deceived
but it can be mimicked
thru numb taxonomies
and damsels to the
obvious

things, non-things,
eyes and the space
between, the anointed,
the damned,

the longing for unity
for things in our likeness
brings forth love's ultimatum
and thusly our crisis--
All or the death
of semblance perceiver
that knew Illusion for christ

but it is our summoning
of love's power too soon or
too late that is the mistimed
prayer to symmetry
to which
our world is made prey to the
World that duly consumes

and the figure that thought
that truth was to be gained
and coalesce to be had
sinks below
grasping on certainties
removing the veiled focus
for fresh eyes to see
the bare world

we hide the wick
forget the heart
convince ourselves
to be tired
as we plant stake
in surer realms swearing

"never again,"

as the roots
of the earth
wait for our
taxonomies
to know them
to be mothers
and fathers
as the roots
of the soul
wait for our
reverence
and our worship
as we seem to
be fixated on
merely their
fruits
as our heart
waits to be guided
in firmaments of
refuge rather than
shambles of immediacy

for our All could be grounded
and united
that which is to
that which could be
for when we summon Love
it may find the avenues to
bring forth true wholeness

always and forever

rather than testify for
numb taxonomies that
do not know the soul
do not know the root
do not know the source
and do not wish to know
for Now is their resolve
Now removed from the past
Now removed from the future
Now removed from the heart
Now removed from the mind

only empty sensations that
are not woven or rooted
empty sensations that cannot grow
empty rituals that do not prove themselves
and thus need our argument.

but love cannot be deceived
if conjured in such instance
it will destroy the world that
attempted its birth

make desperate
make afraid
bring to panic
until we kneel
and remember
and divide not
the whole cycles
that brought us forth
and worth through them
and speak on their behalf
and love through them
and cherish what will last

meditations on the end

the end

the end

meditations

on the

end

the end

the end

the end

meditations

on the

end

the end

the end

the end

your testimony

and her cohorts

rehearse among

themselves their

story until para

dise is breached

and visions

free the multi

plicity that is

calamity in flight

prism pheonix

prying color

out of his

incubance

and thusly

striking the

damn of

amnesia

as artistry

is free

to flood

the artifice

swallow

swallowed

swallow

swallowed

functionality

rooted in

functionality

and that which is

oblivious

to the soul

returns to

oblivion

swallow

swallowed

swallow

swallowed

that which is above the earth

your high enclosures

with peered eyes to the lowly

is not rooted

there is no symbiosis

it is empowered

by our forgetfulness

amnesia on high

sweet ambrosia

our somnolent

worship our re

cital of ignorance

our ritual of

concession as we

become more and

more sure there is

nothing we can do

or need to do we only

welcome

the end

the end

the end

the end

the end

meditations

on the

end

remember

the end

is

the end

of enclosures

the end

of wombs

meditations

on the

end

remember

the end

as dark viel

over a new bride

with eyes that peer

to your soul

sincerely

the end

of widowed

mind to light

the end

of closed ear

refusal of hermes

message

'there are no gods

without you

create not what

will destroy

you

yet create all

the same'

the soul is not immutable
its cycle is slow
eschelon of deep tones
stirring the substance
of eternity and it resounds
and it waits for our
entrainment--

our heads like transistor radios
scanning through the stations
some hone the spectacle and strengthen it
some hone the white noise and praise it

but the soul is what is always signified
the mythic symbols bring the soul
to rise and still have within us
the greatest alure

soul one

i don't want your sadness
but i'll take it if its on the way
to fidelity--refuge firmament
planted deep within the earth
with reach that has heaven's
appeal

joy can leave your flesh to rot
the ecstatic can leave your mind
in shambles
love can be your suicide
if you aren't rooted

no one wants reminding
no one wants harping
no one wants the caution signs
no one gives a fuck about the soul
cause its the awful chore

quiet grail
buried deep
in the mountain

nothing said
no renounce
nothing

when they hid it
the hour glass
was set a new

the people
to their ritual
together

the gods
to their feast
together

'everything
we give
to the gods
will be returned
seven fold'
said the priest

the hungry
gave shrill
prayers

the gods
out grew
the heavens

the people
sulked
into the earth

as severed infinity
awaited her
coalescence

A child was born on the day of reflection
where no person was to leave their hut,
all were to meditate the course and
pray for penance for the times
they did stray but the child
would not wait and
the mother
could not
bare

the child was neither man
or woman the child was
both man and woman

it cried a deafening cry that caused the men to yell
and the women to coo and all to end their reflection
to which the priest did run and snatch the child
and shame the people to return

he conferred to the gods
and they did swallow
the child whole

seasons passed
the same ritual
three women
gave birth
to children
that cried
an avalanche
to come fervent
over the village

the people
crushed
the gods
starved

the grail
unspoken
the hour glass
set anew

our altercation
will destroy
our certainties

to make religion
of certainty
is to praise amnesia

as we attempt
to forget
how it is
we ever came
to be so sure

and that which is resistant to change
is that which must be the most violent
with fervent pistol to solemn mouths
demanding their memory as supplication

and that which is resistant to change
is most vulnerable to be destroyed completely

i wonder
if there is true newness
to our experience
or the absence of gnosis
as we drift, disconnected to our heritage,
as conscious entities that have strived
to know the forms to which our hearts need
to thrive

our origins are as fabled
as our purpose
from some nation state

who is your neighbor?
who is your god?
what do you worship?

what do you ever hope
to rise from your depths
to bloom in this shared space
to pervade throughout generations
what will it tell your descendants?
what aims will it enforce?

do you matter to your real?

then why would you ever
worship it.

you told me
you tell me
all the heavy things
all the heavy things
that treat darkness
as caress and see
death as king

fire on your finger tips
that point to the vacant
centrality that wants
only what it wants
when it wants

but your flames
cast your shadows
to which you praise

and to dodge shadows
is impossible
to absolve shadows
impossible

and your lips are loft
with such impossibilities
as you engage your supplication--
a vacant vessel
to the inevitable

your king would have you believe
that there is nothing to be achieved
as the energies sway in entropy
there is only our wallows yet

the king that feeds
will never provide
the king that feeds
will be your demise

the end is your iconography
as you frame the abyss
and make silence to demise

you, to your heavy things,
you, to your idols,
you, to your intonation
of self defeat, as crippling
as lullaby, as you lie your
hands to rest, every lament
a damsel's goodbye

to which there is no reply

methods of the acceptance of the absence of the assembly of emblazoned eternity

inter-weaved continuums
that turn coarse collision
into serenade
that bloom the heart
further
that cause the soul to
swell
that seduce tender
that forget not
what lingers in
forever

5:26 and
i dare to taste
the bitter tastes
and feel loss completely
rather than sweep it
under the rug like
some ho-hum idiot
on the quest for no trouble

fuck that.

interweaved continuums
in an apartment
polish 1st generations
reminisce on all that it is
to be them juxtaposed
and i stare wide-eyed
realizing i lost the game
she did not even know
we we're playing but

i will be altered
even if it makes
iron frame-works
of my brain quake
i will be altered

drumming foreign rhythms
on a twelve pack of beer
to the polish happy birthday

nodding humbly to the human
who can mention their bi-polar
3 minutes in the conversation

maintaining exhausting theatrics
as to suspend the consoling
questions but

i was hit yes
i was hit with
"so where are you from?"

and the script was
initiated

trite interweaving continuums
conjuring a cleanly feeling of togetherness
that never seems to translate

no one is ever alone

but our games
some crafty
some easy
our games tear us apart

like beer pongs
or crucifixits
or the 4:20s
or the damsels,
or the owls

desire is important
getting what you want
isn't

the coarse continuums
i let them go
straight through me
taking what they would

sometimes you are left
cheap and used let alone
confused and all riled up
to defend yourself against
all the resistances

luckily the world falls apart
and you wake up learning
how to cheat your way out
of a conversation or

how to not cheat your way
out of a conversation or
methods of the extension
and maintaining of the
heart or

safe-vault heart precedures or
methods of the assembly of
emblazoned eternity or

methods of the acceptance
of the absence of the assembly
of emblazoned eternity

the way is many

the way is many
and many is the way

many have died
to have the way won
to have the way one

the lone truth is a lie
a lie is the lone truth

our minds as sacrifice
to our creation
our creation as sacrifice
to our minds

the eternal certainty
is the summoning
of our ends
the eternal summoning
is the ends
of our certainty

the way is many
and many is the way

I walked into the classroom. The teacher maybe looks at me and says "You're amazing," and I wasn't as startled as I was enamored.

"About time," my subconscious mutters.

What the fuck is wrong with me.

She wasn't talking to me, though, don't worry. She was talking to the obese girl woman who brought some sort of loaf-of-bread to class.

"You're amazing."

I take my seat and give my quiet critique of my maddening egotism. WHen will I stop writi9ng about myself?

Probably never.

cadavers cannot march

the disengagement of computer screens
the hot affair with mud and rain and blood
the mobilization of camoumen that shoot turbinedmen

terrored freedom
freedomed terror

the lost fetishism of the reconsider
the cock brazen fucking of otherings
the idea of the colour red
that so shrugs off a death count--
big thousand numberings of men
and billionings of dollars--
as sacrifice to the artifice
that puts minds to ease yet

are these walls truly walls
or the end of our periphery
resultant of lock necked gazing
to pretty things that satisfy
our wombed kingdom

our tombs would rather have us asleep
and in a cradle rather than strangle us forthright--
cadavers cannot march.

psychopompos

recant

yr defamation
yr death grip
yr drearies
yr phantasmagoricism
yr nuanced magick spells

repent

yr toneless silence that drapes the quiet heart
that beats in tiptoe in cowards cloaking

yr loveless hands in league with entropy

yr melted fortress lips that Saturn wrought
to a perfect nothingness

yr deaf ears to Mercury as Babel has but
another soul to stack in pantheon to listless synthesis

disparages
will flood
our static clings
until
we are forced
to grip
a temporal
immutable
or
succumb
to lowly bellies

either our love to some vision or
our stumble to some grave

a spark to ignite our everythings to one condition

one stirring of magic to make a tempest out of the vacuous and

the gentle out of the harangue

it will be ours

it must be ours

but we are brought to

a mighty kingdom daunted in her own forever

forever vulnerable and forever denouncing

the undeniable utopia that will bring

our dreams to form a coup unto themselves

the victor incorrigible to power

will demand company until

a spark to ignite our everythings to one condition

one stirring of magic to make a tempest out of the vacuous and

the gentle out of the harangue

it will be ours

it must be ours

when the gods smite our altars

the bewildered caresses of foreign loves

will make destinies dumb

and covenants mute

old spells will lose their power

every habit formulaic will fall

as thought loses her distinction

and beads collect to ocean

formless, void

still water becoming the sky

as above

so below

god jr III

He was only dancing because he didn't want to deal with thinking about whether he should be dancing while sitting at home thinking about conspiracies and weird abstractions but the reality is he didn't have a choice. He was thinking and he was dancing but he was more thinking than dancing, so when he looked out and saw things he was suddenly this weird voyeur.

His brain was always trying to generalize everything--the more experienced, the more precise he would be, which was useful here and there--but he had trouble for particulars and immediates and non-extrapolations. But he would still be ruminating about all these perverse quasi-realizations as most people were looking to crotch it up. He was old enough to feel something more than different.

He decided to just feel better, which made him a douche. He would insist that he was always aware of that, as to not be vulnerable to the lowly's consciousness. Everything being a mere order of his all consuming brain, and he tried his best to not be delusional but all he ended up doing was being the dick who had to contradict everything.

He used to just contradict himself, which made him that little insecure kid who thought too much--and it would still show up here and there. Dance floor protocol was major. The age of chivalry was dead the current time decidedly was fucking its skull, meaning that dance partners on dance floors were decided by ratios of sobriety and the proclivity of crotches.

He was never drunk enough to be entirely suggestible meaning he had to deal with the staggering question of 'Wait did her butt just slip there or is she coming on to me?' And he wasn't one to deal with the crisis cause that meant being vulnerable so he just pretended he was dancing for some weird spiritual purpose which made him an arrogant douche.

That being said, he was one of the few people on the dance floor that could journey past the sentiment 'this song sucks' and give you a reason why. That being said, most people would rather hear another damn song.

Rupert

He proposed to her right before he came. His loving gaze was framed by her ankles in his hands. The lights were dimmed and the sheets were hardly rustled and it would have been romantic if she hadn't been a prostitute and it hadn't been the forteenth time he tried and he didn't have an emotional episode for fifty seven minutes of his one hour expenditure.

His theory was that in the heat of the moment, a woman would assosciate the feeling of orgasm with marriage and duly marry him. In action, he failed to realize that his orgasm did not equate her orgasm, leaving his proposal to fall on deaf ears and artic loins.

He would then cry in an attempt to guilt them into a meaningful marriage, but the obvious absence of wealth, let alone existential power, left him to be known as the flu shot lover--quick yet nagging.

His name was Rupert and he was a pitiful man.

He wasn't even fat or that ugly--Yeah, he was a little awkwardly proportioned... His head was a little bulbous and his arms were freakishly long, but anyone wouldn't look so tremendous if they were devastatingly sure that style entailed rust coloured cordoroy pants, running shoes, and a consistently trite graphic t-shirt.

He won twelve fantasy baseball leagues last year. He horrified all his competitors at how hard he worked and thusly served as a catalyst for them to stop playing. Which is mostly why he won.

He played the lottery every other month. He switched to boxer briefs after skimming through a GQ magazine.

He made everyone feel devastatingly uncomfortable at all times, but was admirably delusional as to consistently do nothing about it, catering to the admirably delusional people who were so compassionate that they would hang out with a corpse, vehemently arguing that it being dead was society's 'opinion,' if it meant that they didn't have to own up to the idea of them being freakish.

Since the age of forteen, Rupert was hanging in there, misunderstood, and 'chilled' at home every weekend. Teachers gave him good grades, passing him on like a tremendous cross of inexplicable behaviors, which gave him the due course to afford to be able to propose to prositutes every Sunday night after singing out of tune in the church choir.

"God didn't bless everyone with a sense of pitch," a church goer patted to her daughter, "but He did bless all of us with our hearts."

Secretly, she hated gays, arabs, blacks--admired the jews, but did not trust the jews, with her great, God given heart.

The prostitute, after coddling Rupert, collected her money that was left on the dresser, put on her silk robe, and headed to the door.

She turned her head--

"Hey Rupert?" she said, in a prositutes attempt at sounding maternal.

"Yah?"

"Hang in there!"

The door closed. His laptop opened. He played internet games online and owned people online as she bought a new pair of shoes as a therapist was sleeping knowing that one day everyone would realize they needed therapy and all the sane would be two steps ahead of them and have already killed themselves.

I hate the 21st Century

IF you ask kids what their struggle is, they'd probably say something incredibly stupid and trite and annoying.

When they return to their absence of thought, they will probably be more emotionally effected when a text message goes unreplied or when that bubble that someone is writing them an instant message lingers for too long or when they log into facebook and there isn't that little number next to that weird rectangle thing in the bottom right corner.

I do not want to accidentally make a valid point, but there is this staunch stubborn desperation for 'freedom' that causes people to become saturated in the trivial. People are so disgustingly catering to commonality that, given all the avenues of communication, people aren't fucking saying much of anything.

As our technologies for communication reach a greater intensity and immediacy, there is a greater and greater revelation of the substance of societies consciousness. And I am horrified.

I remember when I used to defend Twitter. The ability to instantly share information with people is something that can be used for great things. And it has been--the crisis in Iran is a perfect example--people actually exchanged information of worth. Accomplishing something.

The majority of people's updates on twitter are pejoratively self-indulgent and utterly worthless because they aren't engaged in anything. Its unapplied emotional drudgery.

Every human being in the first world has a voice and we are singing bad karaoke. We have the tools to build and mobilize more intimate social structures and yet we are still being disciplined by vicariousness.

There are too many people with the secret belief that there is nothing they can do about the problems they face because no one else sees them as problems. There are people who are understandably catering to the hands that feed them because this is their crisis and they have to do what they need to do in order to survive.

But there is a generation of docile upper to middle class people who aren't looking to do anything but feel fucking good. Which is fine, if you are willing to actually explore a real methodology of ecstasy rather than merely trying to repeat the habits of prime time television.

We let our lives be lived for us as we continually accept unfulfilled roles to live unfulfilled lives. With all these avenues of communication, with all these abilities to connect, we must offer our immediacy, not sacrifice it. And yet we live in a world where face to face experience is being sacrificed for a quick text message.

No one is anywhere and its beginning to show.

god jr II

"Hey--what does this mean?"
She handed her subordinate her cell phone. A text was open. He couldn't make out the text--
"What did you send him?"

She sipped her froth syrup sugar foam.
"I asked him how his weekend was," she whined.

"Oh! He's into you."
"You think?"
"Duh! Just trust me! Ask him what he's doing this weekend."
"You think I should?
"Ya! Absolutely!"

She grabbed her cellphone back and intensely clacked her affection. The awful look of excitement that threatened the caking of eyeshadow would soon turn to horror as she whimpered "He's... studying."

She gently pushed her still full drink forward and strode off, looking to lose weight and consciousness.

Her friend looked on unstartled, as if this was usual behavior.

god jr.

He was pretending to read a book at the coffee shop. It was something real profound and established, as to his meager angling of the cover served as a cat's hiss or a really bad cough or a middle finger--
But his scorn for the world was eased by tender sips of a sophisto brew, which did not serve him excuse to stop his pretend reading. Inked words latched to some partchment wasn't his fix--not now, anyway. Life sucked and everything was just so carcass and trite and decrepid--

It was loud, the coffee shop, which was distracting, which was comforting. He had keen ears that had such a desperate longing for forms, not only of phonemes and words and sentences, but of pitch and its flux, and the emergent looms of thought of such communicados and their cutesy waltz for salience.
Worlds were debated and shared and falsified between lacquered black tables--oblivions nodded as gesture as lowly empires maintained their reign.
He was a devourer of jumbled messes and affixed befuddling. If there was no covert obviousness, no specters of thought looking to condition him, he could be sole soldier on quest for precious meanings. But he was in a wasteland--a gruesome wasteland of small talks--abhorrant mutant people worshiping triviality.

He sighed, sipped, and drew a picture of a cat smoking.