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

Advertisements

Dancing through Hell Fire

Dancing through Hell Fire

I often feel we cheat ourselves because we’re afraid of our own glory. We’re afraid that deep down, we truly are magnificent creatures destined to keep on living, not achieving, but being the most glorious pieces of light that stretch across the endless expanses of space. Sometimes, I feel that the greatest purpose of breath is to dance, to dance through every single day like nothing matters. There lingers deep down oneself the immense urge to explode into oblivion, to become a simple nothingness that is more glorious than the atomic truth of material existence.

Every time somebody reads something, it seems like they are looking for something. In every act, it seems like each person is expecting some kind of great mystery to come rolling down onto the floor of their conscience, naked, bare, and innocent. It’s only a daunting thought to see that there might not be any mystery at all. If we remove purpose, meaning, tomorrow, and time from our lives, we simply aren’t able to imagine what might be there to look at in the sunshine. There might be nothing at all. Say I just give up thinking entirely, would anything be there at all?

So many people are searching and searching. I like laughing. I adore the human ability to burst out with energy from the innards laughing into space with a sense of insanity and absolute craziness. Because of the way so many people have told me life should be, the mold it should take, the kind of boundaries it should be limited by, the kind of stupid scientific theory it should be reasoned by, I find even writing this difficult. From deep down in the unconscious I feel an almost unstoppable forcing drawing only dishonesty from me. There is a kind of living organism stopping me from touching life. I don’t know, maybe the organism’s just another thought.

You know I’m afraid that if I stop writing, I might lose myself again. I might forget life, might just disappear into the endless void of non-being. But then, I’m this endless explosion tickling myself at this little corner of the galaxy dreaming of doom and hopeful of a blessed tomorrow that hasn’t come for over a billion years. Funny, eh?

Morbidity is this little flash of wisdom that sits smoking a cigarette made of childish doubt at the tips of my little goose bumps that come erecting through every little molecule of breeze that touches me. I sit here, asking the sky to come molest my existence and cloud me with more and more confusion. There is great evil in this world, and it isn’t our enemy. It is our experience. And we make it because we like it. We love great tragedy. Deep down, the human heart is crafted by soil, wind, and spirit to handle the most grievous torment, the most heart-ripping sorrow, and the most devious and disastrous self-deception. The human mind is made to feel evil at its greatest height. This is not our destiny, this is our creation. And we play it out so well that all our acting has transformed itself to become real personalities in this desert of verbal and mathematical calculation. Only gods can hoax themselves to perceive mortality as a real concrete thing. Only gods can take this existence ride into absolute mayhem and uncalculated misery beyond self-understanding. This confounded movement through the undefined cosmic soup is the absolute glorification of our divine existence. You know, it’s great, hell and all. In the deepest fire is where you will find the light. Rotting like a living corpse in the deepest, deepest most unimaginably painful place in your infinite self.

I stopped searching for reality when I discovered that losing touch with reality is reality itself. This whole thing, this life, it’s too fast. We try with paintings, music, poetry, we try, but those are just desperate attempts that come meagerly close. It’s too fast to capture in a sentence, it simply can’t be done. Ah, it’s great though. You know, we’re all drunk on this great cosmic thing. It’s a great and long intoxication, almost eternal. In the mind, sixty years seems too little. Run to Medicare, fitness, hit the gym, sport, diet, good food—bullshit. When you forget tomorrow, you’ll just be dancing out there breathing the very air that sustains you. There is no tomorrow, so many idiots are fighting a battle that does not even exist outside their mental space. The mental space is an elusive entity. Everything that exists in that space is a dream. And it’s funny when you realize that the entire universe as you knows it happens in that limited mental space.

Does anyone really set aside time to think of useless things? I wonder. The world is so preoccupied in making tomorrow better than today, they are interested only in productivity and mechanical manipulation of every dam thing. Even this thing they call love, it’s a mechanical process devised to end in confusion, torment, anguish, and total indifference. Duality defines the world every minute in such a way that each intention is bound to attract its diametrically opposite intention. If you chase happiness, you will run into sorrow. If you chase salvation, you will run into damnation. If you chase love, you will run into hatred. Success and failure. Life and death. How can there be so many people out there who never figure this out? It is so, obvious. So, concrete. Yet people live in a way which merits the belief and hope that one side of the coin can exist without the other. It’s absolute ignorance. It is hope that keeps you crawling in the shadows addicted to wishful thinking and endless dream.

You will not wake up if I ask you to. I will not wake up if you ask me to.

Whisky, wine, rum?

 

art: Vincent Van Gogh

It Might End Tomorrow

It Might End Tomorrow

It’s easy to be afraid, of yourself,
The weight you carry
Of all these years of people’s bullshit,
Literally that you’re wreaking off
Carrying all those old folks’ dreams,
Of greatness, honor, some more of that stuff
All the normal things like orange juice,
Ice-cream, cricket, and football
What’s good to win and better to lose,
How to call a good game
What to eat, where to run to with wearing what,
So many more things that make the code
The code that we call human,
Some weird code,
I’ve never seen the better of it

And now we’re bored, of the code,
But left with nothing else to cherish
But the stench of our own thousand years,
Of history, violence, peace, and fake romance
Why are we aching still?
We’d ache knowing if there was a way out
But there is no way out,
We’re eating our own vomit in this boredom prison
And dreaming of a heaven with strawberries,
Neat whiskey and crystal ice,
Flowers and virgin damsels,
Dancing to Mozart’s lighter tones
It isn’t happening,
In this life or the next,
And why are we still dreaming?

The problem with poetry,
Is that it feels like weight-lifting
Every line requires lifting the shit,
That’s named in past memories
And unloading it into the dumpyard,
Of your unconscious
And then for each effort,
You get a new line of poetry
That prances through,
Looking wild,
Like a newborn child
Sewed in eroticism,
And might, and, some of those other good things

I don’t know,
This hopeless tale of man and his medley
His long song of suffering and false laughter
I don’t know,
It all feels, very jelly-like to me
Like candy poisoned with orange and apple,
I don’t know
I guess when it all ends,
Most of it will be forgotten
And only rainbows will remind these blind leaves,
Of a strange creature called man
That lived some million years ago
Writing epics, poetry, short fiction,
Singing to jazz music and performing metal songs
Dancing to strange binary sounds,
And romanticizing about the whole being alive thing
I don’t know,
The leaves mighn’t remember
And yet we take our mortality,
With such distaste
Somehow it isn’t plausible,
Considering how far from immortal,
We truly are

Chocolate is good and whisky better,
But these days will be gone
Our farms and mighty structures,
Lost to the dust of stars,
Lurking suspiciously at the corners of the galaxy
Searching for some black hole,
To be lost into forever
The whole thing feels very queasy to me,
And somehow I’ve got this doomsday itch inside me
Like things are going to end tomorrow,
And our unsung songs lost to the distant rings,
Of time

I have for you no good tokens of positivity,
To share with your heart mighty songs of goodness,
To groove your heartbeat into goosebumps on the skin
Today, I’ve just got this doomsday feeling,
And hey, it might be intuition that’s right
Who knows? I don’t
It just might be

Everyday Musings

Everyday Musings

I’ve forgotten prose, structure, eloquence,
Forgotten the art of lies
To turn silly moments of romance,
To beauteous works flowered with bottomless vocabulary
I have forgotten how to walk the path,
Where tellers speak of great histories
Of knights, and magic, and love,
Of little moments where kisses lasted a million years
Of subtle melancholic drama with well-clad women,
On rainy nights,
At fancy restaurants
Making love the whole night after,
At a hotel you paid for with your life savings
I’ve forgotten the art,
Of telling tales that last eternity
Timeless stringing hearts from sorrow to pondering,
To wondering of the depth of the human mind
I’ve forgotten

These days most happenings are random,
Though the sun keeps to its two milestones a day
I see no order in things,
No pattern in the happenings in life
Things just go on, mostly disconnected
With my mind trying to connect the invisible dots,
Trying to sense out some reason from this daze
And the funny thing is, the disorder happens,
In sobriety, in pure soberness,
In daytime,
When all the world seems normal moving about,
With their chores and activities
Sober as a naked duck, at daytime,
That’s when I strip my mind and see the confusion,
That lurks hiding,
Beneath all the romantic dreams that spurned in childhood
Behind the curt and mannerly fellow who wears his clothes,
There it lies, that everlasting confusion
That’s more than a thousand years old

And the funny thing is,
Clarity comes,
In the drunkenness of the night
When the cells in my brain are twisting,
And turning and dancing,
With the spirit of rum
In the absence of thought in these moments,
Without subtlety and confusion
Making all things plain beneath the moonlight
Drunk as a staggering pig,
Smiling like sunshine after three days rain
That’s when most things get clear
But who wants clarity?
Who wants anything at all? For real.

Always getting somewhere, where? Nowhere.
There’s nowhere to go
Nothing to say
Nothing to learn
Come and sing my doomsday song
And make love to my treacherous tongue
I’ll tell you no lies, give you no gods
I’ll give you just one glass of rum,
A cigarette, some other stuff to smoke,
If you’d like
And we’ll chatter on like kings of the galaxy,
Pretending to know how atoms spin,
What makes them spin and why
Pretending to know all sorts of other things,
Lying like superstars
Suspended like hollow skeletons,
On this funny green globe
In the middle of space

We’ll pretend, until we go to sleep
And wake up,
And repeat,
The whole funny thing,
That we call,
Everyday life