As I Stare At My Pen...

My thoughts are out of shape
and the ink won't form words
So I just stare at my pen

There are occasional spasms
but the ink just doesn't look right
So I just stare at my pen

If these thoughts won't collect in ink
I'll just stare at my pen
If the ink doesn't shape them right
I'll just stare at my pen
As my mind is draining down some sink
I just stare at my pen
As my soul lacks either light or might
I just stare at my pen

Because my eyes can't see it in themselves
when it's not reflecting
and my ears cannot hear themselves
while my silenced voice isn't echoing
I'll stare and stare
as if to instigate my own will to dare

I'll just stare at my pen
and stare until the next time when...
the words show me something
more than a load of more nothing
and turn this phallic-like-scepter
into a magical-wand or an enchanted receptor
but for as long as it takes, and until then
I'll stare and stare
and stare at my pen

Humanity In Hiding...

There's a love-sickened creature nearby that is trying to explain various abstract notions as to the essence of an un-named entity that has somehow afflicted him with an affectionate obsession that he regularly refers to as love.

"To even see her as a human being-" he says,
"you have to look past all the layers of chaos constructed around her."

As my ears encounter these words they hone-in on the love-sickened speaker despite my mind's strong aversion to eaves-dropping. They seem to do so in much the same way that flies are drawn to the scent of excrement. Upon realizing this I immediately muse myself in thinking that perhaps this is just the kind of pschyt that humans instinctively feast upon despite any inherently negative connotations.

Meanwhile the love-sickened rather eloquently explains how it isn't just the graffiti-like tattoos or their juxtaposition to her otherwise scantly-clad flesh that obscures her human-essence. The innumerous assortment of piercings that renders her likeness as somewhat of a low-tech cyborg or some shrapnel-skewered soul does not explain the extent of her humanity-masking obstructions either. Even to look past the hyper-colored arrays of her ever-altered phosphorescent hair-configurations which perpetually obscure her eyes- that have been rendered unnaturally black by either contact lenses, sorcery, or some other modern scientific advances in cosmetology will still not offer even so much as a glimpse of her human-essence according to the love-sickened.

With a hint of some inner-conflict the love-sickened continues to elaborate as to how even for someone to glimpse beyond this fabricated-facade she's constructed around herself one must tread through the wake of this chaotic circus that seems to constantly envelop her. This circus contains (among many things) a coven of similarly chaotic characters that he describes as though they continually revolve around her with constant cackles and chatter. Upon hearing these supplementary characters described my mind conjures-up images of swarming bats that screech-out protective spells as they create a cloud surrounding her.

Supplementary to these uninhibited familiars the love-sickened depicts a wake of fragile and shattered male psyches that figuratively fail both as suitors and as drama students. Despite the failure of these supplemental creatures the love-sickened articulates how they are seemingly unable to get out of their costumes and relinquish their addictive-auditioning for the role of leading-man in the highly improvisational comedic-tragedy of this chaotic central-character's life.

After discussing the minutia of these addicted-auditioners, the characteristics of the chaotic-coven, and a host of social-constructs the love-sickened's conversational-counterpart advises him that any attempt for him to peer deeper into the human-essence of this chaotic-character will likely be futile.

The love-sickened concedes this point to his conversational-counterpart and goes on to provide what would seem to act as supporting evidence to the validity of this rebuttal. After arbitrarily asking to suppose these barriers can be perceptually-penetrated the love-sickened describes how so many layers of obstructions and disguises further obscure his affectionately-adored's humanity. Much of her speech is described by the love-sickened as consisting of referential regurgitations, banal besmirchments, and a plethora of pejorative-platitudes that function as cynical-shadows that swallow and conceal any real sentiments within the oblivion of their domain.

After listening to the love-sickened describe a myriad of masks of this affectionately-adored's non-verbal idiosyncrasies, gestures, and facial expressions it seems as if only a series of disguises could subsist in the depths of her true & abysmally removed human-self. From his depiction it is as if she is so purely comprised of deceptive layers that it even seems as if her very soul must consist of some series of confounding riddles encrypted and inscribed on the surfaces of some hypercube-puzzle-thing.

Just as it seems as if the love-sickened's account of this affectionately-adored soul is too dismal to permit my ears from continuing their heist of my mind's attention he says some other pschyt that recaptures my insect-like auditory focus.

"...but if you could see through all of these layers..."

Without completing this sentence the love-sickened seems to settle upon some quiet and esoteric sense of comprehensive catharsis. His conversational-counterpart silently nods his head along the invisible affirmative directional axis, and he seems to observe this moment of silence in much the same way as those called for in instances of collective commemorative mourning. I find myself in a similarly strange state as my mind can only understand this silence as a form of absence, and I cannot accurately or acceptably conceptualize what it is that has vanished and thus created this hollow vacancy.

As the silence becomes unnerving my mind welcomes the sounds of buzzing machines, un-synchronized footsteps, and the greater cacophony of what must be more than voices and insects. Then as my mind becomes re-acquainted with this subtle and constant chaos I begin to hear the sounds of my own heart beats and breaths.  After a while my mind serves-up a few words to fully pacify me as I slip comfortably back into a state of homogeneous solace. "Humanity will always remain in hiding"...

Occupancy Of An Abandoned Whore-House...

I've been looking for work
and have begun to feel
as if finding a decent job
is about as promising an endeavor
as looking for a nice chaste lady
in an abandoned whore-house

Wandering through these ruins
there are haunts and relics that
make it seem as if such decent
and disparate things once existed
-like the words of old men that
speak of how they started-out
-or the framed first-dollar-earned
that remains perched on an office wall
behind some ancient owner's proud desk

These things seem as out of time
as a chastity belt left to rust
within the dust-covered space
of some faded chalk-outline

Now it seems every employee
considers themselves no more
than a prostitute of professionalism
bound by some indentured indecency

And somehow this defiled vacancy
is continually saturated to max-capacity
as vast covens of occupational occupants
steadily empty their hollowed-out shadows
into the abasement of this abominable abyss

In all this horror I wonder of the living
They must be out there somewhere
or hidden behind all this bitter darkness
And they must be waiting & wanting
to get out of these abandoned whore-houses
& to build a more lively place
where they can live, & work,
& do more than just phuck
and get phucked-over

That Little Light Of Mine...

Before I was very bright
I used to sing songs upon command
One song, I remember
was about a light
& I'd sing it even without any demand

In that song I swore an oath
that I would so solemnly shine
a single little light,
a little light of mine

At that age such proclamations
were more a timbre than a testament
like vows of a prearranged espousement
or the pledge of allegiances to nations

Still,
I swore to take my little light
around the world & let it shine
(although the ways I'd not define)

As dim as I was then
I'd had some sense of light
but beyond where I had been
was a dark I'd yet to fight

According to the song
I would protect my light
from any that would blow
like winds of a Stygian-night

Now whatever light remains
of that little light of mine
still flickers, flares, & strains
as it refuses to resign

And I'll burn till I burn-out
in the decrescendo of a song
or an abruptly silenced shout

For that little light of mine
has just so long to shine
and that little light of mine
I'll let it...

Phantoms In Their Fugue...

These ghosts of people

that haunt themselves

with their own absence

They cast their vacant shadows

where the darkness has always

been indifferent and unaffected

by the nothingness of such

faint and flattened figures

All of them declare themselves

to be the hushed silences

that exist despite them

as they are but

phantoms

in their 

fugue

These imaginary creatures

all walking, and talking, 

and completely convinced

that they are each an enchanted hero

in their own live-action life-story

that unfolds unto this world-setting

And all these other characters

only mistake themselves as if

they are the true heroes 

in some supplementary script

None of them see themselves as

the supporting characters,

villains, and extras

that have lost the real plot

They all complain to some

absent or deaf director

that all these others are

ruining all of their scenes

None of them can see

how they have been re-cast

as phantoms in their fugue

They have all been erased

by their own imagination

and reality has been removed

from their field of depth

or pushed out of their frame

As their eyes linger in lost lenses

they do not even notice

the lack of their reflection

And they go on like this somehow

perpetually oblivious and fading

as phantoms in their fugue

Megalomania/Martyrdom...

My Truth
MY Truth
My truth is your command
My Gawd
MY GAWD
My gawd will guide my hand

I tell you
and it's true
cause I speak divine demands
I damn you
for what you do
cause it's not within thy plans

You asked me
what I'm for
and I've listed all I'm against
You ask me
much more
and I shake self-righteous fists

My bombs, my guns, by blades
Don't you know they've all been blessed
My wrath, my mind, my hands
Don't you know they'll never once rest

My truth
MY Truth
My truth is my mortal test
My life
My death
All to serve in this protest

I tell you
what to do,
how to think, and what to profess
I warn you
not to
illuminate things that I detest

You ask me
why not
and I list all the weapons I've got
You ask me
what I've wrought
and I brag of the battles I've fought

MY Bombs, MY Guns, MY Blades
Destroy the wrongs all yet to confess
MY Wrath, MY Mind, MY Hands
Anoint themselves by all that I attest

My blood
MY Blood
My blood boils over
My blood
MY Blood
My blood spills over

As I die
you try
to make sense of what I've done
As you cry
I sigh
and pray for vengeance on everyone

You see me
and you think
my hatred dies with me
You see me
and I wink
cause my war's still yet to be

My hate
MY Hate
My hate carries over
Your Love
your love
your love turns over

Fish Out of Water...

Fish flop and fly
frolicking in the flow
One fish flies far
without a splash below
Stranded on a muddy shore
and flapping for a storm,
Praying,
"Rain, Rain, drown this pain,
and I'll swim forever-more!"
As a clear blue sky burns so blue
with a West wind blowing through

On banks nearby today
the fisherman all say
Fish On
Fish On
They're running in this stream
Fish On
Fish On
They're biting like a dream

Fish bite and spawn
in waters oblivious of the shore
Flowing by as fly-fish flounder
under a sky the birds adore
Till drought will drain the water
and their beds become a shore
Then fish helpless to the vultures
are picked to bone-hull core

While far away at sea
the boatmen sign with glee
Fish On
Fish On
The nets are filled to their extreme
Fish On
Fish On
and live this sailors' dream

Schools of fish dismissed
diminished by the drought
while birds fester in their feathers
with no fish to fill them out
The fishermen all stranded
by boats with empty nets
As sharks prey on depths abandoned
to the abyss all else forgets

While all along the shallows
the hungry birds all scream
Fish Gone
Fish Gone
There's no sign of any bream
Fish Gone
Fish Gone
The water's turned to steam

Rains come, floods flow
and pour back deeper streams
From deep below
the realm of common schemes
fish come, fish flow,
and swim as new regimes
And other fish will fly so high
above the new reviving stream

Then birds and fishermen sing
the song of every spring
Fish On
Fish On
We've missed you in this stream
Fish On
Fish On
And spawn the next years' dream