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Zion
I believe in hedonism as the one & only path to enlightment. It’s my personal road to Zion. The drag of my cigarette, the bite of my Mad Dog, the cock I’m going to suck are all that matters. It’s all I need to survive.
I believe in self destruction, not self improvement. In order to create you have to destroy. It’s like an open wound—it’s bleeding, it’s chaos. After a few days the open wound turns into a crust (a scab), after that it will completely heal- new skin. You’ve created order out of chaos, you’ve created something new. self destruction is a self finding process. You need pain in order to feel again.
I believe that clothes, cars, jobs, social/educational statuses, money, fame and the size of one’s pants do not define a person.
I believe in pacifism, equal rights for women and penis’s. The LGBT Community and people with different eye colors.
I believe loyalty is the most important character in a person.
I beleive in literature, music, film, art & love. I believe in humanity.
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The A word
There’s a snake pierced into my eye
poison flowing inside
overflowing
takes control of me
the blackness runs in my veins
arms numb
roller coaster
what I wanted is not the same
Insane
so complex
I know how this most likely ends
the world we constantly use
abuse it really
I know I have….
The word is ALONE by the way….
sb 2012
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In the era of information technology—this era of everything— there is something untallied— or let’s say there are two kinds of everything, two all-at-onenesses.
One of the two is additive. It’s piling up becomes occlusive, numbing, essentially mechanistic . The other is comphrehensive…it’s overlays are transluscent, generative, essentially metaphysical. One, everything is accomplished by the sheer summing up of all it’s componenet parts. To reach a given point, you build a road by which to get there— painstakingly, legalistic, cumulative, horizontal.
Meanwhile a poet or intuiter, a metaphysician or feel-meister, will have fallen off a cliff and reached the same point. A sudden vertical gets him over there— an unforseeness.
It’s like with writing. the poet doesn’t mean to mean—he writes to find out what he means. Not a claim to power but a vulnerability.
We write not to be some underground outlaw on the internet but to survive….
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Into the Black….
“Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk to you again.”
Unfolding as the night penetrates our skin like ink\
from broken pens
The clown in the closet doesn’t want to play. Nope, he’s
tired form making laugh lines with knives.
And the blood
{BLOOD IS HARD TO GET OUT}
We talk about it like it’s red. But it’s not. It’s pulsing and velvet. And pulsing.
Damp mold in the corner of the shower
Left to grow unwatched
A life we cannot kill. Something different.
It has fangs razor sharp
I told you about the night.
How it slithers like the serpent
How it’s easier to lie in the dark
Meth spattered streets that hide our disease
only here I might
Find salvation
On my knees fucking til it bleeds
tapdancing on landmines where babies born with switchblades
lay hemorraghing since mankind
lost humanity
Generation X
We have no names
Just numbers and a diagnosis
Here the Monsters Feed
As the music plays (and beneath the surface it’s more complex)
Down in it where most of us
Run with scissors headbutting the shadows
anxioulsy praying the Blackness of night to seduce us again
An old familiar friend we’ve painfully missed
Familiar—-a comfort one knows
Though we scratch into the darkness every night—
WE smile, because she keeps our secrets and hides our sin….
sb 2012
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Vendetta
A pity to die babe whispering your last words to my ear, “I don’t love you anymore” with no one but me to hear. What a distance between the first passionate whisper and the new tone of your farewell sigh. I feel no shame that I killed you and put you here beneath the ground. Your all alone here, no longer on top but under since your dead. I’ll plant wildflowers, red ones of course, though you can’t see them you might feel my hands as they dig the dirt that surrounds your tomb— where I can come sometimes and grieve. I can’t hold you but the earth will embrace you as the sun celebrates me….
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lol
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tough love
you weren’t homeless
but you wanted to bei liked you
so i entertained you—
i did
raw
mean things
and they
made you
giggle
i smoked
unfiltered
cigarettes
shot
the 3 dollar
whiskey;
i showed
you
the chords
to
positively fourth street
in
a
doorway
in the
rain -
PART I
There is a guy I know who is just as chipped and torn life worn like the hand me down sheets I dress my old mattress with, comforting in their softness. His knees are scraped and his torso scarred from battling situations life hands him.
PART II
I blush and my heart flips when he is near. He takes my breath away. he smells like the sun, and hands me a razor blade. I save it in my pocket like a kiss, where I caress it. The cold metal is comforting to me.
PART III
He looks at me and bathes me in euphoria.His eyes focus on my insecurity.
PART IV
We lie next to each other not touching on the hand me down soft sheets in a dreary room and wonder what the other is thinking. We hold each other in random questions that mean nothing. Truth eludes us.
PART V
I cannot stop the swirling thoughts. I feel sick because I know our moment is gone.
PART VI
He holds me in fragments. His skin is beautiful, even with the cloaking sadness we both wear.
PART VII
I swallow like whole pills and he consumes me like cigarette drags, small pulls that suck a bit of my soul with each drag.
PART VIII
We drift away like lazy days
IX
We find each other again. Each has more chips in our skin, more sadness that lines our eyes. I am milk and he is honey. There is always a whisper unspoken between us.
PART X
I’ll be here eternally i say without words, as he walks out the door again.
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Reblogged from brightlightsloudnoises
source: brightlightsloudnoises
Thoughts from a misunderstood, neurotic, insecure, sociopath extraordinaire, prone to nihilistic counterculture tendencies. I am the anti-hero, so here is where I just write about my world, climb inside my head....WARNING: Not for those easily offended.
