I’M NOT DEAD
Hey, so contrary to popular misconception. I’m not dead, or worse; blocked. Creatively. Laugh out loud. Die inside. Joke. I’ve been experimenting with poetry more lately and to be honest, I’m not a fan of what I’ve created. It’s not all bad, it’s just not all that good. My writing style is more free flow/stream of consciousness in style, and it is a challenge to do so with poetry without it just being nouns and adjectives and verbs. Words. Devoid of emotion, lacking depth. Pale as exposed bone, and just as messy.
Preserved Person
lonely lad locked away. afraid of the world. afraid to branch and be new. past problems preventing the passage to pleasure. relationships in a reality unreal. hero worship. hidden pain. travelling great distances to become something new; but instead you remain in your bitter cocoon. still born butterfly. trapped. alone in a house full of hope. chatter dies. monotone. monotony. you remain trapped in your fears and refuse to move forward. unevolved miserable soul. unchanged in years you listen to the same sounds and hear the same things. loneliness. a life squandered. looking inwards you see nothing but your dark recesses. introverted insect. new to the world. blinded by experiences unmeasured. you seem to want nothing out of this life. you put nothing into it and you get nothing in return. do something. do anything. live. breath. sitting alone in the dark is not living. it is comatose. the land in between life and death. this is where you live. in the grey. the land between absolutes where you are not one nor the other. you are zero. you live alone and exist in a stagnant pond of self deprecating fear and loathing. in your head and in life. no bright lights for you. dead deserts. dead souls. dead poet. silent stalker in the night. sleep deprived. malnourished meandering. take. take. taking. where is my reward. supporting your loneliness is no prize. phantom zone.
Trudgeoning Travellers
wizened crackled visage. withered crooked veneer. the memories of a hundred lives locked in a dry and pale plane. journeying to a place unbeknownst. to me. back and forth; judging glances. awkward stares. the darkened windows reveal not but shadows and the great unknown as we travel apart together. together in the early twilight. single digit time. am i coming home or am i going to work. i ponder your imaginary judgements as we travel these cold and lonely roads. you think nothing of me as you long for the destination. steel eyes as you surge forward. the world is closed to most, but not to you. frail paper frame hardened with resolve. yet you travel. onwards.
are you performing the primordial task of foraging for food? do you search for the markets with secret stalls of surprising sales. bottom barrel bitch. does it remind you of the past? the past you romanticize alone as you prepare discounted delicacies befitting your dwindling savings. do you slowly pace throughout the humming corridors of the superstores; halogen lighting constantly ablaze yet dead within. here you ponder the future, as viewed from your fixed position in time. banal babbling biddy. do you meticulously select morsels of mouthwatering measure flash-frozen so you can delude yourself into creating a feast befitting the regal and revered status you have so worthily earned? ages ago you were the matriarch of the clan, looked to with love and affection, now you are scorned by society. your life ignored.
do you search for spiritual guidance only to meet blocked locked gates; an obstacle spanning all ages and all of time? dreams of past youth dolled up like innocent whores, minds so simple and carefree. do the sins of today cause you to shed silent tears? do you ride alone searching for someone to unload the burden of your heavy heart? this frosty vessel is our emotional coffin. do you miss the silence that comes from the sound of life- the natural deafness of your decaying cadaver contrasting the isolatory silence of the modern day man emotionally dead within. what do you seek on this solemn occasion. lamenting the loss of love. loneliness. lackluster. lost. after all these years, moments, sparks of life, the travel lust in your sallow bosom has not yet retired to complacency.
content. journeys end. one last look at your stony impassive face. horror and awe. pondering mortality. the last person to see you alive. your tattered and broken frame finally failed. will this introspective gaze be misconstrued as a malaised glare? your faith in humanity broken, shattering the soldiering soul within. the last person i see alive; unforeseen circumstance halting this existence; ironically flinging me to destinations more suited to your ilk. will you remember me as i remember you? nameless face filled with wisdom and love, drained by regret. you are the goddess that dwells in the present but stews over the past. visionary contemplations wonder. verily ceasing within.
Searing Self
I exude a joy to be around in person; honest.
I am just in the transition of who I once was into the person I am glad to become. i am shedding behind the corpses of forgotten memories with the new wind behind my sails. surging, soaring. Those people are the subjects of my prose. Those people whom it has become a chore to be around. Those people where the nostalgia and shared history is all but unravelling and yet all that binds us. I hold up a mirror and it reflects back. they are the outward manifestations of that which i despise most about myself. Where that which I keep buried behind smiles and laughter is allowed to break free. the fragile gossamer strands that once held up the tapestry of friendship has now become tangled and messy.
I feel fake and flimsy; adrift and distressed. i see where I’m going and its better than where I’ve been. this tunnel of love has lost its way and the twisting path has reached the end. the light is bright, I’m scared of the searing white pain. they say the first step is the hardest, but i feel like I’ve just been to afraid to let go of my darkness and surge forward. this is me. this is new and brilliant and strange.
this is me live.
Hippocratic Hypocrisy
good and evil. black and white. churning tides of muddy grey water. the golden church atop a bloody mountain. consecrated in lies you are so far entangled, the core light has been extinguished. double lives lead to an unhappy fate. unfulfilled at the core as the surface you slowly takes over, eroding away at the inside. the angel’s halo is bloody with doubt and fear from the fake friends and cutting remarks. pristine princess in her castle of lies you are guarded from the truth that you cannot see within. hedonistic fears crippled by undeserved expectations. your keep is hollow and dead with white washed walls. bleak and untouched by the breath of life; yours is stale and stagnant. awaking after years of slumber you will be lost and alone. you are living in a nest of lies. weaving in and out, surrounded by the mists of memories that you wish were dead. ghosts of your past haunt your empty corridors that should be vibrant with the pursuit of pleasure. a rut. a roadway. the dead trudge on. you preach that which you want the world to see; knowing that you will never be. the fallacy of your faith. this is your cross to bear. high atop the last parapet the tower is caked with the fecal filth of who you really are.
disorienting dissertation
i feel like you’ve been avoiding me. i have. you represent the aspect of self that i despise the most. you are normalcy. you are cliche. you are the faux fun and smiling faces of the stepford family. the norman rockwell of the 21st century. you are smoke and mirrors. an illusion of the self. but what of our good times? the memories, the time we spent together. the intimacy, the sense of belonging? what of us. there is no us. there is you and there is me. there is nothing anymore but the failure. the failure of you. the failure of my past. the failure that is who we are. as individuals. as people. as a friendship. as a generation. as a society. you are a waste of space. you are stunting my growth. you are detrimental to the evolution of our society. the global community looks down on you as debasing. wrong. wrong. wrong. you are the epitome of decline. you are shallow and alone. you are the intrinsically illegitimate love child of the lack of depth and deep fear of change. you are afraid to look at yourself objectively and see yourself for who you are. you are the hypocritical hysteria that has enrobed the masses in finding their personality. their id. their ego- their established self. you claim to be an individual that has risen above the huddled sheep of the general populace and yet you are nothing. you are your own worst enemy. you are that which you hate most- normalcy. you are me. and we are us. and we are the future. we are the muddy water that encompass the world like a strangling hug from an overbearing god that is no more. we are ever moving but never changing. we are the slow evolutionary change like glaciers from our global past. we are all seeing and all knowing. destroying and creating. the white noise to the live action show that is life. you don’t know me, because you don’t know yourself. who i am, who you are. your place in life, your identity your lack or originality. you use me as the excuse to break away from the mold. but really, i inspire you, i make you step out of your comfort zone. i made you, i created you. were it not for me you would be alone, and backwards and trapped in the frozen wasteland of limbo. unacceptable. loneliness. this is who you are. this is who we are. and this is why we worked. we used us as a crutch. you know it. i know it. we both knew it beginning to end.
I did a few months ago some work with burlesque dancers. They were amazing curved girls with raunchy senses of humor and more esteem than I will ever posess. I have a multitude of photos from that afternoon but these four are my favorite of the girls.
I don’t believe in touching up photos with software. I instead like to use the natural light that I capture and the world around me as my tools. I shoot everything myself. My camera is an extension of not just my eyes but my reality filter. My perception parabolas. My soul-sight. This is art.
Yesterday’s lazy cured todays crazy
This is me, this is the emphatic deliciousness that is the inner ripe thoughts of my mind. This is my art work, this is my soul. The words that I write are like the blood of a being long lost in some eldritch dimension long forgotten. Sometimes I feel like my soul is not my own, but a slave to a master distanced from my corporeal dredge. trapped between these two vastly opposite poles my mind is like the eye of the storm. Focused and chaotic.
