The Fallacy of Incremental Well-Being

The Fallacy of Incremental Well-Being

There seems to be an unequivocal conviction in the mind of man that he needs to strive to be better than what he is today. This constant yearning for the betterment of oneself is, undoubtedly, the force that drives humanity’s endless thirst to advance into an eventual technological utopia. The thirst for betterment is driven by external forces and the entire idea of becoming something, or someone, is driven by the desire to add things, whether tangible or intangible, to oneself. These things include cars, spouses, college degrees, trendy clothes, decorated vocabularies, and can range to things as extreme as spiritual supremacy and political correctness. Nobody is coded to find such things strange as the common mind in society is securely entrenched in a matrix of beliefs and convictions that are accorded to a collective human mind. The normalcy of every member in society is usually measured by its degree of accordance to this collective mind. The security that such accordance offers is so immense, so complete, and so intellectually unchallengeable that it clouds the natural intelligence of the human brain and keeps it from recognizing the fact that the collective mind, itself, is a manifestation of a very serious form of insanity. To begin with, very few people have questioned their elders about the validity of obedience to the older generation. While the wisdom of the experienced is sublime and immensely helpful in guiding the human child into a responsible style of living, it is only limited to very basic lessons such as, fire is harmful or wood is not food. The wisdom of the elder might extend to dimensions beyond such basic lessons, however, it has no place in defining the morality of the new age being.

Morality, being inherently subjective and carrying with it high levels of danger, is not a psychological form of energy that anyone must tamper with. Science has induced in us an innocent sensation of awe at our smallness in the universe, but has also simultaneously cursed us with the recognition of our mortality. It has given our mortality an aura of doom instead of an understanding of liberation. The science that is nurtured and advanced by modern man concentrates on a very limited dimension of human existence—the physical. While the play of the physical universe seems to occupy the majority of man’s awareness, by no means is it evidence that the limitation of man’s awareness is an implication of the universe’s limitations. However, the collective human mind, being so childishly infatuated by the physical dimension of existence (and its limitations) has somehow managed to develop an almost incurable fear of its inherent mortality. Such a fear, of course, is guided by the mind’s perception of its separation from the rest of the universe. It is this sensation of separation that leads every individual to believe that more needs to be added to oneself in order to complete oneself. There seems to be a great feeling of lack and negative emptiness that motivates us to strive for betterment, and often times, at the cost of the comfort and happiness of other beings.

We cannot transcend this diseased system of thought with haste. It requires a tremendous amount of clarity and inner observation to even recognize the disease. The regular mind will cease to even spare an extra glance at such an enquiry because it is convinced that there are other important activities to pursue such as finding a good job, buying a new car, finding a reasonable spouse, or visiting the next spiritual guru who can offer a fresh concept of freedom at the price of one’s individuality. Man seems to be too occupied with the games that occur in the physical dimension and will perish as a race if he seeks his survival only in the correctness of outward affairs. It is a fallacy. We have been enslaved to this endless desire to add things to ourselves. If I tell you that you are perfect as you are, you would pant like a dog searching for reasons to justify something imperfect within you.

So, what now? Do we give up our jobs and burn our cars so we can throw ourselves into a pursuit of the unknown? Do we hastily enquire into the nature of our mortality and rebel against the formidable establishment of the collective mind, so that we might discover our freedom before it’s too late? An intellectual mind that is spurned and excited by logic would find only such a conclusion valid and rational. Only an intelligent mind, as opposed to intellectual, will understand that there is no conclusion that is required. The trick is not to change the world, but to discover that it does not need to be changed.

But, of course, the collective human mind will resist the individuality that is inherent in each one of us. The individual mind is alive while the collective psyche is a residue of a million yesterdays. The transcendence from the collective psyche of humanity indicates the transcendence from human history. We make ourselves unavailable to the divine potential of our own intelligence because we are afraid of the insecurity that is kindled by the unknown. You only fear your mortality because you have never walked deep into it and faced it with an open mind. Instead, you have settled for the fancy heavens and hells that you bought from strangers and, at most, have come to realize that if not for the heavens and hells, your life is a purposeless dance into a pointless, hopeless void. Such a recognition has made most people bored of living. The human being is the only sentient creature (I hope) that has reduced the eternity of the universe into time. There are several illusions to be uncovered if only one dares to step out of the collective psyche and shed light on one’s own mind, as it is, in its natural state, uncorrupted and undivided. It takes a courageous man to decide that his freedom lies in his own hands. Do not waste your years on patriotic freedom and social correctness. Why do you so fervently endure the trash that is fed to you from the collective psyche of humanity? You are neither responsible nor accountable for the rash, ignorant activities of your kind. You are responsible to the universe for a far more important thing. You are a creator, and if you waste your years in this beautiful world seeking success, convenience, and incremental well-being, you will meet death in a very distasteful manner.

Creators are not born to be survivors. Eternity is in their very nature. Why do you add things to yourself? You are born to add things to the universe that belongs to you, as much as you belong to it. Why do you so thirstily rummage through the wastebaskets of society’s false offerings of happiness believing that you will find a sense of satiation? The answer is inside, in the very same place that the hunger for truth resides. The only voice that will help you return to the humanity that you so desperately crave for is your own voice. You do not need time to wake up. You can do it right now, wherever you are, whoever you are.

Screamjack

 

art: Real Gold – Sir Eduardo Paolozzi

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The Other Side

The Other Side

We need to write imagining that no one will ever read us, because that liberates you, because that frees you from the public’s necessity for correct grammar and appropriate punctuation; that frees you from the enslavement to decent words and appropriate imagery; that frees you from the expectations of people who have previously deemed you to be a good writer, a fantastic writer, a decent writer whatever. We need to imagine that nobody’s reading us.

Pick up that paper and spit it out. Let the music ring out from whatever instrument you have clothed in dust in your messy room and let your heart break before your monitor, your notebook, your friend, whatever you have. What liberates you is the very thing that the appropriateness of society loathes and rejects; humanity is a very subtle prison you see. Every artist needs aloneness to liberate himself. Every artist needs to bleed out the manners and acts of decency that have been cultivated within him by the people he has dearly loved. You need to walk to the places that no one else has dared to tread, you need to find the courage to let your heart bleed when nobody is watching. That’s the hypocrisy of most men you see; they love to bleed, poets love to bleed, painters love to bleed, but they do it only when everyone’s watching. You need to do it when nobody’s watching, that’s the point of liberation that lasts forever, free of time, free of yourself, free of everything.

They’ve created art schools to imprison the few of us who are remaining; don’t go to art school, don’t let that little part of you that is still alive be converted into political vomit and embroidered literature in the museums of the world. Don’t destroy yourself sweetheart. Don’t go to art school. Look at me, a young man who already sounds a hundred years old. School destroys you. Don’t go there. Instead, go to the Himalayas, go someplace faraway, let your heart break into a million pieces when you meet the reality of loneliness in a city that is home to more than a million people. Don’t go to art school, go to the places that you are afraid will kill you. Don’t go to Paris, or Rome, or New York City, or Tokyo. People have been going there all their lives. They’ve been telling us the same old stories; they’ve been regurgitating the same old tales of cultural excreta that every honest man has grown to become tired of. Don’t go to those places. Go somewhere else, anywhere, but those places. Go to the places that you know will kill you.

So many people are sitting before their monitors and begging their minds to shut up for one minute so that they can complete a verse of poetry. Don’t ask it to shut up, transform it, transmute it. Let your confusion become your art. Let your writer’s block become your novel. Let your dysfunctions become your orgasms and your tragedies become your redemptions. Don’t believe in god, believe in yourself. So many people have believed in god; god is yesterday’s delight. Today, you are your delight.

If you write a novel in fourteen days, they won’t believe you; if you spread it over fourteen years, they’ll put you on a pedestal and praise the work that you supposedly strived to complete at all odds, even though your heart kept forcing you to go the other way; if you write a song when you feel no pain, they won’t get it; if you take too much LSD and tell them life is beautiful, they’ll tell you your high; nobody wants to touch roses that have thorns, nobody wants to kiss a woman whose lips are dry, nobody wants gold that doesn’t shine, and nobody wants to be told otherwise. Everybody wants numbers, reason, and solid facts and if you ask them to play with you, they’ll call you a child. That’s why, learning to bleed when nobody’s watching is the artist’s great abode, his temple hidden from the impurities of the perfect world. Don’t listen to them; if you have to go to school, go to school, if you have to love a woman, love her like there’s no other, and when the time comes to meet your broken heart, drink your whisky, smoke your weed, drop your acid, and be on your way whistling on to a new tomorrow that offers something newer than yesterday. Nothing sticks and everything moves like frames on a movie screen; if you have to get a job, get it, work it, lose it. It seems to matter a great deal now, but when you’re facing death a few seconds away, if you’ve let nothing stick, you’ll greet it like an old familiar friend, and that will be your moment of liberation. What everyone considers their damnation, will be your liberation.

Don’t go to art school, go somewhere else. Contradict yourself, cheat yourself, hurt yourself. But in the midst of the chaos, remain honorable. Not perfectly honest, or kind, compassionate, or honorable in a cheap noble kind of way; remain honorable to yourself, that will take you across the fire to the sunshine that you so desperately seek.

Go away now, to that crazy place, that’s not Rome, or Paris, or New York city. Go away to that place you’re afraid will kill you; and when you’re back, I’ll be waiting for you, here, on the other side.

Handel, You Bastard!

Handel, You Bastard!

Unearth me. Without the salt of words that you borrowed from the people of yesterday, who sold you the poisonous idea of right and wrong. The blood that flows from the fingertips of honest poets is not accounted for by the gatekeeper of flattery. It is neither allowed to flow into the hearts of the wicked to change their ways nor make an entry into the castles of the perfectly positioned to help their eyes see a reality that transcends the sparkle of the gold they have collected from their legal endeavors within the fences of their doubtful morality.

As the final mourn of Handel’s left toe rings through the pink hallways of my manhood, I come to strip apart the falsity of my present envy. My envy for the men clothed in soft leather, with words that sound like milk spilling from the breasts of half-clad goddesses, watering the soil of humanity’s shit-situation and bringing flowers out into a sunlight that does not exist. I envy these men. And my envy is justified by my inability to be dishonest in the light of English Literature’s demise. Let them have their way, these men I envy. Let them suckle at the breasts of these perfect goddesses, and garden their pastures and grow fruit that will feed their hearts to enlightenment. Then what? Boring breasts. Boring fruit. There is more solace in the epilogue of Handel’s madness and the heat of Beethoven’s orgasms that, to my absolute delight, seem to carry no other meaning than their very selves.

I seem to have sold my penchant for strange and distasteful metaphor throughout the evolution of my severed public poetic self through the last few months. I’m unlocked now. Somehow, the real me seems to have found a way through the clouded sunshine of summer to find the foot rug of autumn to sell its apology of an existence to. And to you as well.

Distasteful metaphor is the calculative entity that determines man’s sanity. If all seems to be sunshine and honey, vagina and bunnies, nothing would make sense anymore. We need distaste in this world, don’t you think? A certain sensation of contempt for the erected edifices of human ideality. Such a distaste can only lead us deeper into the mystery of our un-intended existences. I’m not trying tragedy for an avenue of creativity my love. I’m a photographer, who uses words instead of light. Look at my work, won’t you? I might not be your perfect doomsday man, but at least, I seem to capture enough tragedy to give you the best perspective to life.

The last sound of midnight’s violin will tear your skin apart to reveal your raw, tender heart. You haven’t let anyone touch it, have you? Seeking your cowardly shelter beneath the dry-straw roof of yesterday’s broken delights, you’ve shelled your raw aliveness in a steely cage made of cheap pop music, golden dreams of the afterlife, and an endless addiction to the scents of the weekend. Let it out! Your raw heart darling, let it out. It wants to be touched. Nothing can hurt a creature that has never soaked in the slavery of touch before. Let it out.

Your raw heart, let it out. The intensity of hurt is designed to help you wake up to life again. It is like a scissor used to unveil the most delightful present you have waited for your entire life.

Let it out.

Itch

Itch

 

What makes you itch?
The fact that people know you,
Or spare a moment to bear thoughts of you,
Before they lay their lips to their pillows,
On nights when they meet loneliness,
In the middle of the road to optimal living?
Do you find the things that make your insides move,
In the twinkling of your neighbor’s eyes?
In the revelry of those falsely laughing other people,
In the craftily exposed exultation of your success?
What’s success? Hey, I don’t know.
What makes you itch?

Is it that a meager life, clouded in undirected misdemeanor,
Brings nothing but an allowance for soul corruption,
To your doorstep?
Corruption that you color with green and gold,
Drink and leaf, sweetness, mellow sour,
I know you; another escapist, dancing on the bottle rim
What makes you itch?
I know the work of your fingers,
The way they move, on paper, on women, on metal,
I know the cravings of their tips,
The little sips they take at subtle touch,
Drinking from the immortal ocean,
Of sensual feeling
But you haven’t listened to them, have you?
You were an artist. Now, you smell,
Of fraudulent indulgence and self-deceit
You broken child; you don’t smell too well

When we found our meetings too easy,
We took the long way home
So that we could meet the storm,
And dance with its tunes
We took the long way home

I’m lost now, and so are you,
What are we going to do?
Eat pickle and stew

What makes you itch?
Rock music, prostitution, delirious deductions,
Of decimal numbers and polarity
The sweet satin-clothed movement of milky skin,
On black-tiled dancefloors,
Or the cruel embezzlement of empathy and eroticism,
In the jailed gyms of our workplaces
What do you choose? What makes you itch?

I don’t know.
Do you?
Good night.

The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

My name is Wit Warrior,
83 years, 13 months, and 32 days old
The world doesn’t seem any older to me,
Than it did, when I decided that I was bored with it
The many myriad images,
Of desolate forests and broken souls of flowers,
Are but a tiny flickering to me,
In the endless expanse of space that I access

I broke the boundaries with old friends,
All those many years ago
We, like kids in a candy store,
Having a go at every molecule we found colored,
With even a tiny ounce of rebellion
I’ve seen things, heard, loved, and hated,
Opened avenues within me that,
Only the skies can know the true nature of
That sweet word, REALITY
I stitched the fragrance of it fibrously onto,
The deserted canvas of my imagination
And how I’ve danced with its many meanings,
Throughout my years

I’ve seen so many children in the sunshine,
Making choices, that broke them, that made them
To live on omelettes, chai, and rolled cigarettes
To scale the soft cushion covers in high penthouses,
Drinking bourgeoisie wine and making love,
To plastic dolls and rubber toys
Men drift too much to the east, and sometimes the west,
Some choose principle, honor, patriotism
The others choose love, madness, dancing, and rum
The few choose polished shoes and trimmed beards,
The many choose daytime jobs and evening whisky
Men choose too much, but me,
I’ve been as clueless as the sea waving blindly,
With open eyes, at the sky

There is a dimension to living,
That my way of mind has opened to me
It is, a kind of secret door in the psyche
There are two intelligences
One made of numbers, analysis,
Endless counting, metallic, perfect
But the other, is mine
It is untouched, yet entirely felt,
Ungrasped, yet so tangible
There is a kind of style in this way of life,
To groove on the edges, of risk,
And yet stay unbitten, unsmitten,
By it all
To notice the leaves dancing in fall’s death rhyme,
Is one aperture for human eyes
But to see, the sweet untold songs of death,
Being sung in the silence of red and yellow leaves,
To see the sweetness of death’s ugly feminine touch,
To waltz along with the absolute meaninglessness of existence,
That is the other aperture
Through which all men find a strange,
Lasting peace

The language of poetry only creates walls,
Around the sting of life’s true touch
But all men must write, for it is the only medium,
Through which our thirsting aches for expression,
Find fruitful waters

When I watch the news,
Have a little conversation at the grocery store
I cannot help but perceive,
The separation of my soul from the rest of it all
It is not, that I loathe it,
Or that I wish it was otherwise
Perhaps it was meant to be;
The flavorless tunes of loneliness,
The dull vibrancy of a settled happy life,
The absolute security of a lovely damsel,
And the cherishment of fresh, beady-eyed children
I construe this universe to be a great chaos,
Through my melodic explorations into the endless psyche,
With molecules, shortened breaths, and simple silences
I have seen this chaos, and the choice to find melody in it
Men are too lost in choices,
Our confusion is too great to truly communicate
You see me? I walk the middle, the inside path
I am neither this, nor that
I have no principles, I am bound by no reason
But I am reason

I watch the dabbling noisy ocean of humanity,
Striving to induce meaning,
Into their words, their treaties, their theories
So many men who are so convinced,
So sure, that death can be avoided,
By chasing some great dream
I saw it the day I opened my eyes,
With the molecule, without it
It didn’t matter, my eyes were open
I was looking at an old friend,
Death, dissolution, end, finale,
And it felt good.
All men must die, that is what they are born to achieve
There are some things, however,
That last forever
Like questions, born from old answers,
What is man? Who dies? What dies?

“The seeking must stop!”
We’ve heard that before

And all those many years,
As I swayed into those dangerous realms,
Of clear tangible beauty,
And little sweet droplets of tormenting wisdom
I felt it for the first time,
I felt the weight of being alive
And it released me,
Into a blissful corridor of absolute delight
And I saw the origin of this entire cosmos,
It came from, why ‘ME!’

There is an art in life that too few men find the time,
To discover and master;
This art is ancient, so ancient,
And yet so timeless
That drives us to live with magic,
Crawling and battling at ease,
To birth ecstasy in the concrete manors of mundanity
And find fullfilment in the smaller perspectives of movement

We set ourselves goals so high,
And parameters too unreal to be tuned into our realities
Men live with such delightful theories,
Of perfection
It is not that we need change in this world,
You see,
As it is; this cosmos is splendid
This little earth with its little germs,
Creating war, endless murder,
The perpetual social catastrophes in our communities
Lovers appreciating intricate architecture,
Thieves and rapists, terrorists, and masked bombers,
Milkmen and prostitutes,
Drunks and drug addicts, conmen,
The children of midnight doing business at dawn,
The machine maker, the code cracker,
The marketing maniac, the suited salesman,
The suicidal, the ambitious, the artistic, the calculative
I see them all as one creative movement,
One explosion of life
Ah the several aspects of living,
The numerous creaks through which we find expression
These are the lovely little acts of living,
Are sweet scenes in a delightful drama,
And it makes no meaning,
To proclaim the elements of this drama,
Within the drama itself!

But well, that is the folly every poet must turn to,
Every artist, artisan, and engineer of innovative living,
To proclaim the drama, within the great act

We must, so that a few men,
Might wake up to see,
That life after all,
Is quite an intricate thing
Quite a complex thing
And, is quite worth living
Whether entrenched in meaning,
Or abandoned to oblivion

It is not, my friend, that these things,
Might come to your understanding,
One great eventual day
Most of these things are left to die,
Without finding the halls of universities,
And worse, the hearts of living sentient beings
But, what drama is there in understanding alone?
What adventure will we find in complete revelation?
What joy will we discover in eternal clarity?

The dance is in the chaos,
And the truth in the laughter,
That erupt from our untouchable innocence
My friend, it is sweet when we look at the colors of living,
The delectable opportunity for eternal exploration,
Answering the mating calls of the unknown
And yelling, “That’s fucking psychedelic, man!”

artwork: Archan Nair – Alchemy Resonance

Broken Painting

Broken Painting

I want all kinds of things,
Like a life with no work, no hardness,
Simple moments floating around,
Like paintings, to be looked at.
I want lots of whisky, laced with magical syrups,
To do all kinds of things to my mind.
To be innocent, I want to be drunk with innocence.
To know nothing, and be in foolish awe at every penny,
Striking glass, spilt water on the floor, boiling milk.
And to laugh with the wind and dance madly,
To shave my head, leave my hair to wildness in winter.
Let the snow freeze my balls and the sun of May eat into my lips.
I want to leave my tongue to touch the rain, leave my ears,
To be slaves to the senseless semblances of old music that live today.
I want to be a bad poet. A good one. To listen to good music, and bad.
And drink cheap wine, expensive whisky, illicit rum,
To die young. To waste my years into old senile rebellion.
I want the world.
But here I am, sealed to a plastic chair and brightly lit screen.
Looking at the reflection of a large universe,
Dying every moment.

I want to fuck her with her hair pulled back,
Pouring peppered boiling whisky into her mouth.
Watching her groan for more, and smiling,
In all that dastardly pain.
I want her seething and rolling in thorned cotton,
Screaming for her blood to come rushing,
Through into the light,
Spurting through tiny holes in her skin.
But we as men make pacts, as women we settle,
For cheap roses and hot chocolate.
For expensive wine, satin clothes,
Plastic condoms and boring nights before a dead flickering screen.

I want me, in absolute insanity giving origin,
To new life. To let the whisky that dances on my lips,
Birth some great new verse. Great new dream.
But then, I’ll stay sealed to these old ambitions.

I want no schooling. I need breed insolence,
Bloody wreckage in all that is orderly.
I want to heat the blood of every working class drug addict,
Every tobacco smoking fool who’s sold his life to repetition.
Every alcohol consuming shit-speaking contract-making,
Hair-trimmed half-spectacled well-dressed dead body,
I want to teach them how to dance.
But then, I settle as a brother to them.

Only defeat makes me write, and I waste my wisdom,
To be ashed into the trays of self-righteousness.
Dead, already.

In those older years the words came from honesty,
Now they come from disgust,
Flavored with a strange taste for life,
To keep on living.
For what? Who knows?
The song keeps pouring away into the future,
And we remain, stuck to yesterday

We are the men and women of our dreams,
Freeing our hearts violently,
Fucking each other with our lies,
And seeing the final freedom in our bondage.
What a joke?
Life! Aha!
It takes a great taste for madness to understand it.
A madness to want nothing and yet all of it.
And then the cowardice to switch your love to that whisky bottle again.
A deep column of sweet shining gold,
In the sweet embrace of which your dreams find a marriage,
To everlasting non-happening.

People have forgotten the charm of tragedy.
To stand and behold, the subtle subliminal flavors,
Of injustice and monstrosity. The evergreen messages,
That linger beneath the ever-elusive grasps of death.
Tragedy is our friend! Our friend! She remains,
Till time frees us from whisky and women, men.

Here comes the bad news, we are all going to die.
And between the lines I see it,
The great hoax. The things I’ve wanted, the things I’ve had,
And between the photographs of red lips and heavy breasts,
Lost trips to wonderland in chemical indulgence,
Forgotten bibles and bashed folklore.
Between it all, I have found myself, and yet,
Not the self I quite expected.

Give me more drama,
Or I will fade away into the backstage of existence.
Forever left unsatisfied,
And screaming for one more breath,
One more inch of open eyes and honeyed lies,
Never to return.

Puppets in Paradise

Puppets in Paradise

Dwindled in boredom,
Aching for feminine touch,
Salted in pretense, rage, and fever,
Aching,
For all things dark under the sun

Come now, hearty one,
Who lost his laughter in the rains of time,
Who has given his humor to idiots and thieves,
Come lay by me, and rest beneath the moon,
And find your solace in a dreamless sleep

You cannot go searching for Canaan with an empty heart,
You cannot dance if meaning is your purpose
I have beaten senseless to pulp your notions,
Of grave family, ambition, thieving religious greed
I have removed the division between your Science and Love
How many years through which you will sell yourself to this prostitute?
These equations and symbols that swerve in ignorance

Kiss rain,
Before it slips like dust,
Through the dreams of the stars
Hire the scent of the wind,
Before she lays once more,
With your enemy laughing,
With another damsel in his arms,
Who you fucked last night
Dip your arms in this bloodstream,
And let it turn to a lily farm
Come leave your melancholy at my doorstep,
And run to your wife before it’s too late

My heart only aches with more lizard tales,
Reptilian nonsense about aches and lost lakes\
Can you come look into my meandering self?
A little fading dream in a colorful adventure
I have heard the fools bring color to concept,
The blasphemers with beady eyes selling their shit,
To cravers and ravers on these shit streets,
People simply seeking some last inch of archaic wonder
It won’t come with your words stupid wonder child,
Leave this place,
My whisky loses its charm with your senseless ramble

The heart seems to be a hole for treacherous things,
So come, let’s behold treacherous things
Let us glorify the sickness of our glorious race,
Let us decorate our dysfunction with inner murder,
I will teach you a new yoga. Would you dare to hold my hand?
I will bring you a breath that will tear your limbs,
Cut your tongue, burn your hair, break your heart,
Do you dare to know this magic?
These old fools sell you their ecstasy nonsense,
Let them rot in their white light and saffron-robed kindness,
Let them rot in their godly folly, their selfish understandings
I will give you the very edges of darkness,
I will kick your innards into that maddening awakening
Over there, in that dark place, you will find yourself,
On the razor’s edge, where you will lose me,
And I you
And us both, find ourselves, and never look back again

These folks don’t dare the infinity of the human being,
They will bring you to a hurtful finitude
Where your endless potential becomes an endless illusion
A thirsty search for some great money dream,
Where these losers bow down to you,
As you are puppeted on a plastic box,
Doing things that make them laugh

You derelict soul, you broken mind,
You are here to be whipped into a mold
Like butter into cake batter,
They will make you thick and tender,
But you will be dead

Who dares look into the workings of anger?
Who dares kiss him before a mirror,
And shed tears of rage for all cosmic life,
Do you remember tears? I wonder.
The world’s evil is a mere comical folly,
In the eyes of the eternal cosmic darkness
And we waste our years with the plastic box,
In drama, rage, and childish conversation
Go live! Stupid wonder child,
Bring yourself to open capitulation
No one cares for last night’s visions,
No one dreams of you. No one cares for you.
So alone, the snow comes down,
And we’re drenched again in yesterday’s dreams

We must rest now.
We’ve beheld enough treachery,
On this useless night
Ah! The stars seem to have not moved.
Things shall remain as they are,
Tomorrow.

 

artwork: Enchanted Doll – Maruhana Bachi