Saturday, April 30, 2016

Beware of Man...

Beware the man
that gets what he
does NOT want,
for it is rarely by
mere fates that such
things may be received

Beware the man
that gets more
than is merited by
his deeds,
for this has been
the way that many
have been deceived

Beware the man
that destroys
yet never grieves,
for from such a man
only death
has been conceived

Beware the man
that acquires
as he deceives,
for in such a man
nothing may be believed

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Sounds From A Sinister Sky...

I'd been up all night and most of the morning hours writing caustic lines. Eventually this had tired me out enough to finally get some sleep. During my slumber a pleasant day had transpired.

When I'd finally dragged myself out of bed it had only been raining for a short while. I'd stumbled to the restroom, and found the dog huddled-up and shaking on the bathmat. That dog had been terrified of thunder since she'd been a pup. Although she'd gotten to be quite old and had almost gone completely deaf the subtle sounds of distant thunder had somehow reached her.

The dog hadn't been the only creature trembling at the sounds of skies. I'd decided to see what the media wanted to tell me about the world, and discovered that a series of meteorological-omens had been issued. There had been prophecies of deadly spired wind-beasts, turbulent bombardments of ice-clad munitions, and torrential cascades of voluminous rain. Scholarly members of the sky-clergy had advised everyone within the prophesied vicinity of these afflictions to beware of the mighty fury of this impending tribulation.

People had taken heed of the elder sky-scholars' warnings. They'd all scurried in a fever to purchase milk and bread in case they would be forced to remain within their shelters for more than a few hours. Then they had all rushed to insulate themselves from the darkening storm clouds that rose above their houses. As the rains began to fall some of them issued penitent prayers to various deities in desperate attempts to gather favor and be protected from the wrath that was lurking in the gathering darkness.

Then the rains had poured down with greater fury and the winds swept through the air at powerful speeds. The trees had tossed and swayed as their leaves had shaken violently, and some of their branches had been torn away by the winds with a resounding crack. Rains had then turned from driven droplets to blinding sheets cast down from the sky. Hailstones the size of pod fruits pelted the surfaces of everything under the darkness of the storms above, and created a cacophony of countless cold collisions.

All the while pulses jumped with each perceptual development of the storm. As the peak of the sky's wrath forced the electricity inside homes to flicker, and some even lost their ability to fuel their artificial lights and media projectors an ominous sense had gripped the people inside this scourge. Their greatest fear had been that if their power had been lost they would have to wait in obliviousness until their service could have been resumed. This didn't cause them to tremble, but to twitch and tweet in a fever of melodramatic dread.

When the skies thundering groans had begun to silence I'd noticed how the cat had yawned and stretched from its comfortable chair. The cat had grown to be nearly as old as the dog, and it had almost gone completely blind. It had heard every clap of thunder and every drop of rain. It hadn't bothered to decipher anything the sky-scholars had said, and it hadn't concerned itself with anything the people had been concerned themselves with. Somehow that blind beast had known better than the deaf old dog and the hyper-conscious people. There hadn't been anything to blink twice about. It had been nothing more than the sounds from a sinister sky.

Friday, April 22, 2016

Drugs Over Medicine...

The choice is made
for drugs over meds
over and over again
and it's sickening

A simple pill
that's hard to swallow
or another hit
with the high to follow

Pushers to please the junkies
instead of healers for the patient
Diluted souls and polluting spirits
over potent solutions and remedies

Another supply
of ego pleasing pulp
to further deny
a truth's unpleasant gulp

Vomiting words
and pleased by their taste
groping in herds
that wallow in their waste

It's someone else's fault
and resentment tastes great
Find a fool to exalt
then blame for your fate

Your own life to live
and no other to blame
The shit you won't give
leaves more of the same

A Haze Within Some Darkness...

It's 2 A.M. and I think I'm still awake. I honestly don't know what difference that actually makes anymore. It seems the dividing lineaments between life and dreams has vanished in the haze of an immersive fog of delusions. The only light remaining here is the luminescent glow of whatever screen is emitting its imagery into the surrounding æther.

Although I can't see beyond this haze, it somehow feels as if there is a darkness beyond the expanse it occupies. I can't say if this is due to the nocturnal hour projected from a small part of the screen, the dominance of artificial light within this haze over any natural light that might be coming from beyond, something more intuitive, or illusory. What I suspect is all I can proclaim, and I suspect this haze surrounds more than myself

I do not mean to imply that there is any psychedelic, metaphysical, or non-existential essence to this observation. I can't attribute or compare this feeling to some state of hypnosis or altered consciousness either. It is simply as if I've reached a cognitive difference-threshold after some long and gradual shift in the very nature of reality has occurred.

As I ponder how to explain this sentiment more clearly I find myself searching for greater comprehension as to just what it is I am experiencing. In doing so I must admit that the proper words to describe this sense are quite elusive. Despite this difficulty I suspect that I may be able to cast some light on what it is that I'm trying to convey within this haze.

My suspicion is that this fog has not just been produced by the world around me, but as a result of the way I've viewed the world as well. What I mean to say is that I suspect I have altered the way I view the world around me in a way that contributed to the appearance of this fog. I think that part of the reason this haze appears so dense is because I have neglected to use my eyes in a clearly focused manner, and it is only now that I have become aware of the deterioration of my eyes capacity for sharp perception.

I also suspect that this haze itself has contributed to my eyes dulling-down. It is my suspicion that this symptom is endemic. It is my suspicion that there is a treatment or even a cure. It is my suspicion that I have some idea what such a remedy might entail. It is my suspicion that I'm not the only one to have such suspicions. I suspect that everyone has had them in some form or another at some time or another. I am indeed quite suspicious.

I find myself digressing and pondering how I came to notice this haze as having features. One of the first features I noted was that the people I saw around me appeared to have faded within this fog. In fact when I noticed this it appeared as if these people were hardly people at all. They didn't have individual personalities and idiosyncrasies the way I vaguely remember people having. They didn't seem to speak their own words, think their own thoughts, or act their own way. They weren't even acting like other people either. They only appeared to be human-like versions of various pseudo-news outlets, trending memes, and assorted/modified collections of media tropes. It was as if the high-definition screens had sucked all their definition out of them, and replaced it with an abundance of its artificial light.

I experienced this revelation at first with no real sense of horror, or any real sense or any kind at all. Instead I just observed it with the very same mocking dismissals that the screens had injected me with just as well. I thought they were all deluded and diluted, but me- I could see it all clearly, I was sharp, I wasn't like them.

It was only later that I was able to take a look at myself with real eyes in a real mirror. I was only able to do this after asking myself some real questions about who and what I truly was, and how I could know this, and where all these things about myself had been derived. When I clearly saw the truth of my own being. When I saw my face was but another blur within the glowing artificial light of this all consuming haze... then I felt a true sense of horror.

Seeing myself within this haze exposed the nature of this realm. This realm that used to be known as reality had become fused with the other realms of pseudo and non existences. Reality had been too bright and glaring at various times and in certain ways. The glare that gets into your eyes when reality shows them some personal flaw that you can't deny is there can be so blinding. When the screen gives your eyes a substitute view of that same flawed aspect of yourself it's easy to welcome such a sight. When the screen can provide you with visions of everything you can imagine, and make them appear any way you desire it's amazing how easily your eyes can replace themselves along with the rest of reality.

The screen can do more than falsely illuminate your own visions. It can actually assist you in casting those same artificial-visions about you and the world around you into the eyes of others, and cast the visions of others into your eyes. Over time it can synthesize all these visions to appear to you as if there are only two visions. One being the enlightened view that you and those that see things in your way have seen, and the other being the illusions of the wicked and blind hoards of the villains that seek to defile your vision.

 This way of seeing the world within this haze is more terrifying than any blinding glare reality has ever placed before true eyes. This is the way that eyes are reduced to something worse than blindness. This is to view nothing but the haze within some darkness.

There is a better view. There is a way to see through this haze. There is something that can allow you to see through your own eyes for real again. There is a way to see the world more truly.

It might seem that the way to do this is to destroy the screen, or refuse to look at it. This may be of some use, but it isn't necessary, and could be counter productive in the grander scheme. By realizing that the screen only projects artificial imagery, and remaining aware of the fact that however convincing all of these images are comprised of artificial light you can prevent distorting your eyes ability to see clearly. In fact, this may allow you to see the differences between real and artificial light more clearly.

The single most important and useful technique to seeing with clarity is to focus on what is real. When you speak to someone and try to see them clearly as an individual your eyes are at their best. If you focus on them even when they appear as if they have lost all sight and have become but a glowing mass in a haze within some darkness you might be amazed at what you can truly see.

The truth is that our eyes do not see too clearly with much ease. The truth is that it is often very difficult to truly see anything. The truth is that many true visions will not initially appear as a welcomed sight. The truth is that you might not like what you see in yourself, in others, or in much of the world around you. The truth is that it is infinitely easier and immediately more satisfying to relax your eyes and let the artificial lights replace your true vision. The truth is that if you can focus long enough you'll learn to see things much more clearly over time in ways that are much more satisfying than anything within the glowing haze. The truth is that no artificial light is any substitute for the glares of reality. The truth is that the more eyes learn to see this way the more there will be to truly see. The truth is that there are plenty of eyes out there right now that are looking for another welcomed sight. The truth is that these are my suspicions and they may not be your own, but right or wrong- we'll see.

Thursday, April 14, 2016

Properly Profane...

The skies pour down
an artificial acid-rain
as the herds cry out
in latent and altricial pain
and it's all burning
and it's all yearning
All too pretentious,
too belated,
and insane

The fields still give yield
to abundant fruit & grain
for hands that wield
a blood's eternal stain
and it's all unjust
and it's all a must
All too restricted,
all too predicted,
too permanent,
and germane 

The grave gives a shelter
that no flesh ever could
as winds & waters welter
perhaps just as they should
and it's all sinking
and it's all shrinking
All too deigning,
too draining,
and contained

The mirrors do nothing
in reflection or refrain
for the sake of... something
unseen within its pane
and it's all staring
and it's all glaring
All too much a blight,
too harshly bright,
too humanly
humane

The world's as we made it,
-as it is, and shall remain
as we foster or abate it
to be monstrous or mundane
and it's all so telling
and it's all dispelling
All so bitumenous,
all so numenous,
so properly
profane

Monday, April 11, 2016

Caustic Botanicals...




...Angel's and Devil's Trumpets, Yage, Chacruna, Mapacho, Malevolence, and Potatoes- Ingredients for the novel Caustic (coming soon).

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

The Piss Poet...

He got up on the stage
and if he wasn't terrified
he was quite young to be
cursed with Parkinson's
To his credit though
he'd found a way to
make his pants seem dry

There was a little binder
in his soft little hands
and as he introduced
his first piece
I immediately felt bad for him

He read the words
that held no heart
in a voice like a shy child
trying to ask his teacher
to excuse him to the nurse's office
so he could go change his pants

His piece was all pissed pants,
pretensions, and platitudes

When he finally finished
sympathetic applause came
and he left the stage
feigning modesty
in his deluded triumph

As he went over to the bar
and ordered something wet
like the lying pants that still
appeared to be dry on him
I kept noticing his hands

They were soft, clean,
 and there was no trace
of any life having ever
gotten under his fingernails
They had no scars to show
where life had burrowed
under his skin
And no black bruises or bulges
where life had beaten its way
into his bones

He was a poet alright-
soft, sad, sensitive,
pretentious, predictable, and pathetic
And every time I write anything at all
I don't worry about what comes out
as long as I don't end up like him