though in writing i am embracing the impulsive, the unborn creative element of humanity, that is so sudden, so curiously manifested in multitudes of permutations within the firing of synapses in 6.6 billion brains around this world. how can i make something beautiful. when i let go i surprise myself. then it becomes trite as well. so when then is authentically human. i say, delve deep. though these days i have separated my soul from my body. i have done it. i dont know how. it was something taht was recanted, followed by destructive jestures, and holy prayers to God, a sudden sleep and upon waking you feel so utterly removed from everything. so i question what is it that makes me aware i am human, this is here and now. it is because normal sensory perceptions are no longer sufficient for me. i see it all as abstract in itself. ocular aural tactile information that is taken in is just that independent and together they are phases of sleep to me. and so when i look in to reality everything is just that, it seems so distant. i have lived up in my head for far too long. 5 years of self conversation, the stories i have created for myself. i am at a crux for living, push myself towards something prestigious or give into what i wish to do, nothing. i could live in the city, work by day, write at night--both music and literature. then waste away day in and out countless hours striving to become known for something and then as 10 years flys by as if it were a fortnight i will have completed nothing but affirming my own myopic fantasies are merely hinged on the quixotic though processes i harbor within myself to make myself acceptable to me. a good laugh indeed. or should i prod myself into the cattle car, in to the trailer with the other mindless fools who will sell themselves into the system to have a bite to eat of the spun and pressed green dyed cotton, the glorious fodder for worldly revolution. buy in. yes. undergo undue duress studying a topic of mild interest, a topic that took years of convincing myself i was to be destined to adore, yes a wise choice. that versus anonomity for eternity and happiness of a different color. so many things must fall in order first. just let me let go of my dreams if they are not to come real for they are merely clouds then and i care not for that kind of recreation. universe, God, you once conspired for me to become something and now i feel it has become a mutual disaffirmance, whisper once again, start forward motion, yes it is all for naught, spiders and lemmings, spiders and lemmings i say it over and over such a grim outlook for us all yet the fall is always fun. we all delight in self destruction, self preservation is too cumbersome a task and come now, all in all it only delays the inevitable. the aggregate amount of life lived is nearly the same i suppose, yet of a different color. one more cerebral the other practical. and the moderation between the two is the relative max i suppose we should aspire to. so it is a work in progress, but nonetheless allow some conspiring to occur universe, conspire for me. i badly am in need of adventure these days, or at least one open road to rush beneath my feet.

when finally i am beset in fest,
the laughter is lauded, but in distant catacombs
sequestered within the midnight and ember glow
so, specter we float as if through angelical whispers

when finally everything and nothing become the same
i am sanguine.
hills like white elephants, curtain the sky grown turbid and gray.
then i am everything and nothing at all.
remembering how past and present are twisted sisters.
then i am everything and nothing at all.

for the sake of monotony,
bore me a litany of words wasted to ash in my mouth, a supine palm coaxing medicinal sparrows, all lain aplomb on the tracks.
when i am beset in fest.

mild strokes of gilded breezes.
so you become sanguine.

inside the womb of a sun setting its head down.

august.

Dreaming on the silver strand
Waking up to plainclothes man
You little bastard, little boy in blue
Someone's gonna get to you
And fuck up everything you do

And I'm so unsurprised
I remember, I remember why I dream in black & white

the past few days my ties to reality have been nebulous. i doubt its a phase, more like a cycle these days though i thought i had outgrown my old self. its kind of like i've become the crazed kid eyes locked for concrete miles starring off at some distant hope trying to rebuild after some immanent hurricane. i dont know if i am dying faster now that i had been before. its a sad kind of thing. i tried to make myself into something else, change of clothes, change of pace, change of mind change of face, but i feel like a ghost trolling for some skin, tailing a body walking below. it may be withdrawal from the caffeine that makes the mornings long stretching to the late afternoon and my head and hands tremble with every burst of blood or short quick flicker of life. maybe its from the alcohol or amphetamines. but i havent drank in weeks since i became so sick of myself. i havent been high since i last played guitar, and that was a week ago, they were just over the counter. i have been sitting in the same place for 8 hours and have done nothing. thats what makes me sad. i wrote a few poems, wrote part to my novel, studied begrudgingly, ate food, drifted around. i just need a release. its because there is so much subconscious stress. i know what i want to do with my life but i am not good enough at it to do it for a living. i dont want to go on to do anything but at the same time i want to change everything. i have never had a gf, i am just a silent kid sitting in the barrel of a gun, i let everyone else make the noise i keep so quiet, and when i say something at all its just an echo of something already said. no one knows of my madness. everyone suspects it, yet no one would want to decipher how terribly abstract ive become. when i speak i speak in such abstraction these days that people dont want to even talk to me. when i listen to people talk, its such a waste of words, trite commonplace used and misused, used and over used, used and not used. everything is gutter prose. i mean not to commend myself, but to point out feelings of ostracization. oh well ill eat cake.

i've been spending all my valentine so wont you make the best of what is left cause
when i confine movement to immanence it wont be long before i am beneath your skin and pitted in my head, so when darkness surrounds me, when im a study in black, swallowed whole in the center of your pupil i never saw myself looking back, and disaffected pools disinterested gestures cant conjure any faith that this isnt just pretend, thats when i know im talking to myself again.

Newt lazily walked over to the fireplace and sat down in the teal and gold bergere to smoke his pipe. He looked at ayn standing at the window and said,

"dammit ayn, you know this quest to become human is a damn difficult thing. the closer i get the more repulsed i become. i cannot stand all the stupid, stupid, fools that inhabit this world--all so ugly and uncouth mired by their own impusivity, always indulging in their inane little practices of debauchery to palliate the pain of existence. i laud their efforts at deciphering the big black nothing. but i desire captivating minds--unhinged and wild, hungry for knowledge, hungry for a reconstruction of reality, the mad, the incandescent, the truly beautiful; they are truly alive."

Ayn glanced back over her shoulder, eyes rising off a choppy glare, her short curled hair was translucent, body a slender silhouette, her profile stark in contrast against the morning light streaming in through the double paned windows on the second floor of Toad Mandrake's Middlebury Chateau.

she was wild. an untamed persona in the uncharted forestry of human essences. she was something to hold in a fond but distant memory of what it meant to have a fire sleep, coursing through you veins then suddenly combust at your center--like some kind of drug--she was not meant to be held close, not meant to be fuel for anything in particular but life itself. she, the true intrepid soul. you could not make ayn vulnerable to your advances, she took pleasure in exciting that very vulnerability in you, she would choose. to be close to her meant becoming a simultaneous expression of disinterest and infatuation. Newt had grown accustomed to such temperance that was required for such acquaintance.

ayn turned slowly acknowledging Newts remark, then walking out of the room said, "fuck newt, when did you become so privileged to deem how humanity's glove should fit? you are close to something though, close enough"

i said why cannot i see things clear in the future and past even when i am awake. its because in stuck in a present chemical haze that wont dissipate. it hasnt for a long, long time. i wondered if it was something you have to learn to do; to see clearly that is. i have been to the gates of ends. i have swallowed whole the poison dropped on my tongue. i have been where the ghosts go. i suppose its because i dont keep close anything but myself and all the sad sorry things that are burried inside me too. when i try to know other people, they dont want anymore sadness so they dont like to keep me close too. no one wants what they dont want to be. there's no happiness found in falling down, except for me i guess. when you are down there you only hear what you want to hear, and you do what you think you dont want because that must be God's will. and you never find happiness. you realize you are all so disconnected from the cure, its all the reflection you chose to ignore that comes back and wracks you with guilt for some far off feeling some up close kind of faith i dont want that anyway. i realized it was becuase i cared too much for anything. so i stopped. now i dont care at all. it is quite difficult to become human again. looking back i have never had anyone close. thats why i became imbittered with how cheap humanity is. there are african kids who die every day, young women who are sold into sex slavery, children killing other children, adults practicing narcisism that fucks up the world. all of it. whats the root cause, its easy to point at. everyone knows it. its selfishness. because you or anyone else likes themselves more than other people. but we as humans must like ourselves. but how can we like ourselves in a moderate way that makes the world go around in a good manner. you must base whether you like yourself on whether other people like you. that is my problem. i cannot like myself simply because i am me. i am a plain clothes man to a large extent. i want to see everything so i can see nothing. and I'm so unsurprised
I remember, I remember why I dream in black & white

i have stopped posing existential questions. i fear it traces back to some terribly cliche coming to senses that i have come to grips with my own mortality. so swallow me in evil. because it is all connotative based in some religious or secular convictions of morals whether based on the natural law approach or a more individualized modernism. what we are headed toward. where we all go. take your teleological truths, relativist visions of what happens at the end of you and me. then when something slows progress deem it immoral and so, evil. is belief from fear? is it because you are a avid planner making plans for the best outcomes in an unpredictable game? it is because you fear knowing nothing at all?

Oh you gotta drop that poison on your tongue

to feel the love,

of 1 million little fires

crawl through your blood

to suddenly combust

and youll shine through the porous fool

that you’ve become

buried by the buzz

where did you find the blues?
did they catch you after you left me?

when slinging arrows i keep my misery real close,
open doctored windows to pigeon-hole the world
my supine palms are coaxing medicinal sparrows
i dust the clouds,

chemical crash landings.

this is where i find the blues.

when slinging arrows i keep my misery real close,
open doctored windows to pigeon-hole the world
my supine palms are coaxing medicinal sparrows
i dust the clouds,
chemical crash landings.

so we share our cup of mutually surrendered tears
we'll be beautiful giving ourselves up
ill place my hand over yours and yours will be under mine and mine will rest atop yours once again to complete some required symmetry of the meeting of hands so we're fully occupied in filling one with the other
and i will say i know nothing of love, which will be true.

when i spend 4 years dissolving into atmosphere it takes only 1 month to swallow myself back up.
but enough is well enough.

and when i see myself as nothing i will be beautiful too

so let me give myself up.

So I got feet and I got some hands, so I can point to anywhere and get there, so what if I can, i got a heart that beat beat beats me to confounded misery, oh I got a clock that ticks down to sickness, ticks wicked wicked wicked winged things until I am collapsing in cycles of rain, they pick your bones with whispers and a great hush sound whittled down distilled down down to what? The question of something of nothing, to some imaginings imagined imaginarily I imagine many many things, like when I wake up I will pick myself up and make myself up a plan to be everything and nothing, I will make it all up and it will become me. I've seen wicked wicked things become nothing to me. oh brevity you were the greatest gift to me, oh but sincerity look what you’ve done to me, oh give me your apologies, I want your apologies, oh look what I've done with my hands, my feet, my heart, my misery, oh look what I've done with my hands my feet, my heart my misery, make me wake up rise up through the dirt to be something pretty damn wonderful.
with my eyes glowing i can see where i am going when your eyes are glowing i can see when i am going to wish it all, to wish it all back from the dust.

Your heart beat is magnified in the world around you,

Inducing seizures in my ears,

the stop start,

stops,

flutters in and out in tidal revolutions,

in waves and waves,

erosion lines and oceanic brine calcified on your skin,

long shadows cast,

by the flame of your eyes,

I tried, I tried to extinguish them,

just to sleep at night, but you possess some faintest twilight burning blue and emerald sin,

something slight,

cool and collected, almost eloquent,

clothed in abstinence,

oh wicked deeds left undone if only you didn’t, harbor,

didn’t talk to them

. Oh I could try,

I could try,

to listen to the quiet symphony of your heart beat magnified by the world around you,

and settle somewhere in-between each burst of blood to harmonize your pretty chorus,

pretty fair pretty left undone, oh I’ve seen past, but its what I lack,

I’ll make up for in years of empty arms and a wounded head,

darling dear why don’t we just disappear?

we were meant to live and die here won't you turn over some new earth?