09/23/04
Everything is different.
Where am I? Who am I? How did I get here? My eyes open for what seems like the first time and I see the world lies before me, open and blossoming wild.
In the dark my naked sensitivity cries alone.
I am a writer. Writing down the words of my life as they click out the drama. Alternating thumbs slamming letter after letter, casting the spell. I'm walking down the cold New York City streets and putting something down onto my handheld portable device. Digitally drawing the chalk outline of my former self. That crying monstrosity, whining and misaligning my life.
He is gone forever.
I'm twenty eight years old now. My next stage falls from the tree of life, and I'm loving that freefall plunge to the ground. I started writing a book and then the story became my life. I have seemingly tapped into some positive force that is guiding me towards some amazing adventure. The lines between fiction and reality have blurred a bit, and now it seems as if I truly am the main character. My story has just started and like a stone skipping across calm waters, segments and situations play out with the dramatic resonance of perfected life.
The lights dim just for us as incidentals blink out of existence. She has guided me into this life, reminded me that I am at the controls, and inspired me to plot this mad journey across time and space. I stare into her auburn eyes and feel the divine infinite that lie between us. Although I can't fully see it, I sense this void between us is composed of layers upon layers of story. A mosaic collage of personality pasted up, each fragment a puzzle piece given to us by those we have, and those we had, in our lives.
I used to feel sad about this space, sitting in this dark alone, these walls and barriers preventing the sublime merging of our souls. But my intentions were wrong, my perceptions skewed. They're decorations, accessories, costumes, and yes, occasionally walls, damming the flow of turbulent and tumultuous change. We're all fragile inside this singing white light.
I walk tall these days. Upright and confident, looking people in the eyes and not turning away. The mad poet has birthed the king deep within me.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
The tower of brahma - 27 - pt. FIVE
09/13/04
The Discordians favor my change by providing me the randomly generated combinations of 2 & 3, the rule of 5. My entire life vacuum sucks itself into a 5x10 storage singularity, designated number 32. The Freemasons are taking me in with welcoming Orwellian arms.
Illuminated conspiracy of thought space, ideas too big and ancient to die. Lumbering masses of cancerous belief systems slither and grumble across the liquid planet. Flowing to high points of saturated strength, these reversed rivers of backed up dysfunction blacken the heights of humanity's aspiration.
From the roof of the building I can see the city's profile. Satisfyingly smooth and vivid, with the picturesque surround of the finest set design. The eye aligns with the calculated positioning of its architecture.
Sidewinder jetfighter dogfighting yelp into the yawning cosmos of the city night. Silly stoned seeking safe passage across the sidewalk skies. Piloting on reflexes and failed training pod crashes, somehow you know the universe will carry you through this. Faith of the divine flows through you as access to the infinite possibilities of tomorrow shines bright in your eyes.
Like Pluto spinning wild and loose, distinct in my own planetary orbit around the solar center of the party, I am the lone wolf launching echo coyote calls into the still night air. The primal placenta lowers itself upon me and I burst through. Painted stars on a dayglow daydream, the world is reborn before my eyes as I witness the exchange of terror and birthing symbology. Trickster ghouls and goblins of grotesque decend and drop among us. Celestial birthed madmen and women stomping out a tribal dance of our spirit. Submission to the beat, the sweaty swaggering and hands rubbing across your body reminding you of what life is all about.
The savage alterego mirrored and reversed through my center beats wildly at the constricting forces and wriggles its way into my primal heart. Jungle jive jangling and dangling and wrangling my mind into the wave of visceral viscosity. Primate chest pound, rhythm of the slamming shoes, head bobbing to the crowd's sync. Set ablaze by the forgoing of intellect and entrance to sensation.
Beacons of light thrust upwards, a spotlight looking for god and reason and purpose and prayer. Illuminating instead the debris caught swirling in the path of the twin beams of radiant hope. We raise our glasses high and toast the search for meaning and survival in the face of adversity.
Good times.
The Discordians favor my change by providing me the randomly generated combinations of 2 & 3, the rule of 5. My entire life vacuum sucks itself into a 5x10 storage singularity, designated number 32. The Freemasons are taking me in with welcoming Orwellian arms.
Illuminated conspiracy of thought space, ideas too big and ancient to die. Lumbering masses of cancerous belief systems slither and grumble across the liquid planet. Flowing to high points of saturated strength, these reversed rivers of backed up dysfunction blacken the heights of humanity's aspiration.
From the roof of the building I can see the city's profile. Satisfyingly smooth and vivid, with the picturesque surround of the finest set design. The eye aligns with the calculated positioning of its architecture.
Sidewinder jetfighter dogfighting yelp into the yawning cosmos of the city night. Silly stoned seeking safe passage across the sidewalk skies. Piloting on reflexes and failed training pod crashes, somehow you know the universe will carry you through this. Faith of the divine flows through you as access to the infinite possibilities of tomorrow shines bright in your eyes.
Like Pluto spinning wild and loose, distinct in my own planetary orbit around the solar center of the party, I am the lone wolf launching echo coyote calls into the still night air. The primal placenta lowers itself upon me and I burst through. Painted stars on a dayglow daydream, the world is reborn before my eyes as I witness the exchange of terror and birthing symbology. Trickster ghouls and goblins of grotesque decend and drop among us. Celestial birthed madmen and women stomping out a tribal dance of our spirit. Submission to the beat, the sweaty swaggering and hands rubbing across your body reminding you of what life is all about.
The savage alterego mirrored and reversed through my center beats wildly at the constricting forces and wriggles its way into my primal heart. Jungle jive jangling and dangling and wrangling my mind into the wave of visceral viscosity. Primate chest pound, rhythm of the slamming shoes, head bobbing to the crowd's sync. Set ablaze by the forgoing of intellect and entrance to sensation.
Beacons of light thrust upwards, a spotlight looking for god and reason and purpose and prayer. Illuminating instead the debris caught swirling in the path of the twin beams of radiant hope. We raise our glasses high and toast the search for meaning and survival in the face of adversity.
Good times.
Friday, April 22, 2011
the Tower of Brahma - twentyseven - Part 4 - White Triangles
09/08/04
Gut wrenches and heaves out the pain. Droplets of liquid nostalgia run down my cheeks as the exhumed ache bursts forth and escapes into the ether. Opposing viewpoints invade my core self, and flip the switch. The light is born into my heart, and I have won. I have made it to the other side.
Oppressed by tyrannical self-sacrifice, seemingly self inflicted, but knowing now that I had been controlled all along.
Spider sat in the driver's seat spinning the steering wheel with a madman's fervor. Fenris lies bleeding in the back seat, clutching at the pain, grasping at his insides. "I'm not going to make it..."
"Do you want to make it?" Spider calmly turned to address me as the car spun crazily across the landscape with a green-screened intensity.
"Yes." Fenris choked up between bubbles of blood.
"Then let go and look down."
I looked down at my stomach and saw that the gore was gone. Not only gone, but taken away completely as if it were never there at all. I felt lighter all of a sudden and felt euphoria work its way up my body, cell by cell, nerve by nerve. Electric fire dance of my soul.
The car explodes and I'm left sitting in the middle of the street, cobblestones pressing into my flesh. I stand and wobble, finding my legs. Still drunk and stumbling from the numbing intoxication of my mind. Step after step I walk towards my fall. I see it on the horizon. Time collapses and I am suddenly wavering on the edge of oblivion. Waving hands and flailing arms, internal gyroscope flux towards a tippy toe drop. Then the push.
A firm hand shoves me forward and the momentum spins my built up revolutions and forges the fire in my insides. Revved up and roaring, I feel supercharged tenacity singing through my veins. Pounding, pulsating, power erupting beneath my skin and with a flexing of my arms the wall shatters to splinters.
My other arm lashes out and the far wall is atomized in a telepathic sunburst. Arms crossed, muscles tensed, I slam my hands down to the ground and the remaining fragments of the prison I built for myself crumbles to pieces.
I am naked. Alone in white nothingness. The void reflecting back the sheen of my self. The pure and utter love I have kept from myself. A beautiful and splendid man standing firm and tall. Lines and wrinkles come and burrow into me as I wipe away the boyhood haunts and etch out the spirit of man.
Spider and Fenris extend themselves outward, creating a unified being. Trinity divination, mythic mysticism, and the blade comes smoothly from the rock.
Gut wrenches and heaves out the pain. Droplets of liquid nostalgia run down my cheeks as the exhumed ache bursts forth and escapes into the ether. Opposing viewpoints invade my core self, and flip the switch. The light is born into my heart, and I have won. I have made it to the other side.
Oppressed by tyrannical self-sacrifice, seemingly self inflicted, but knowing now that I had been controlled all along.
Spider sat in the driver's seat spinning the steering wheel with a madman's fervor. Fenris lies bleeding in the back seat, clutching at the pain, grasping at his insides. "I'm not going to make it..."
"Do you want to make it?" Spider calmly turned to address me as the car spun crazily across the landscape with a green-screened intensity.
"Yes." Fenris choked up between bubbles of blood.
"Then let go and look down."
I looked down at my stomach and saw that the gore was gone. Not only gone, but taken away completely as if it were never there at all. I felt lighter all of a sudden and felt euphoria work its way up my body, cell by cell, nerve by nerve. Electric fire dance of my soul.
The car explodes and I'm left sitting in the middle of the street, cobblestones pressing into my flesh. I stand and wobble, finding my legs. Still drunk and stumbling from the numbing intoxication of my mind. Step after step I walk towards my fall. I see it on the horizon. Time collapses and I am suddenly wavering on the edge of oblivion. Waving hands and flailing arms, internal gyroscope flux towards a tippy toe drop. Then the push.
A firm hand shoves me forward and the momentum spins my built up revolutions and forges the fire in my insides. Revved up and roaring, I feel supercharged tenacity singing through my veins. Pounding, pulsating, power erupting beneath my skin and with a flexing of my arms the wall shatters to splinters.
My other arm lashes out and the far wall is atomized in a telepathic sunburst. Arms crossed, muscles tensed, I slam my hands down to the ground and the remaining fragments of the prison I built for myself crumbles to pieces.
I am naked. Alone in white nothingness. The void reflecting back the sheen of my self. The pure and utter love I have kept from myself. A beautiful and splendid man standing firm and tall. Lines and wrinkles come and burrow into me as I wipe away the boyhood haunts and etch out the spirit of man.
Spider and Fenris extend themselves outward, creating a unified being. Trinity divination, mythic mysticism, and the blade comes smoothly from the rock.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
the Tower of Brahma - Chapter 27.3 - Son and the Moon
09/01/04
Submerged. Exhale. Inhalation of manhood filling my lungs, gripping my chest with a firm man's hand. Breathing is labored and exhausting. These turbulent times are beating the soft parts out of me. Forging firm and stern from weakness and shame.
I bask in the mirror of lunar delicacy, driven to a point of singular unthought. My mind is still and ripples only occasionally, but lies quiet and calm under the moon's cold, marble touch. Moonlit massage sends shivers down my spine and I am whole.
I begin to slip and fall from its grip and I flounder about flailing, reaching for something to cling to. But the cold moon defies me, its warmth and glow the mirrored brilliance of the obstructed sun. It cares not for me or my woes, or me at all. It is a rock in the sky, spinning like clockwork, spinning on until our final days.
Lunar fantasies come crashing back down to the dirt. Firm soil, rich and ripe for growth of something from the smallest of nothing. A seed planted will produce something that serves a purpose in this world of practical necessities.
The light of the moon still reigns down upon me, but I do not regret my fall from its splendor. Instead I cherish my brief moments wrapped in her arms, when it had transcended the reality of science and became myth just long enough for me to feel the ancient female flow.
Leaving her is hard, but I feel firm and stout. I feel chiseled and cold. Stuck in funk and the mire of an unquiet mind. I please myself through her, not feeling my own intense emotions but rather escaping into her pulses of exstacy. Feeding off her intense submission to the power I wield, I grow stronger and more alive.
What do I want? To cast the light and warm the world? Doing what I can to deliver unto the masses long summer days basking in my warm glow. The earth trims my light and paints the moon as part of our dance. From full to new, from new to full, our hide and seek games with our carousel hearts.
I can never own the moon, nor would I want to. She is splendor and beauty, basking and coming alive under the son's loving gaze. To capture her is to deny her that which makes her so appealing, her independent death and rebirth.
What would the sun want? Is it simply there to provide and burn on alone in the dark void of the unknown cosmos? Where is its purpose and desires? Buried deep within its swirling gasses and supernova heat lies something that we will never see, but something we will never be without.
Submerged. Exhale. Inhalation of manhood filling my lungs, gripping my chest with a firm man's hand. Breathing is labored and exhausting. These turbulent times are beating the soft parts out of me. Forging firm and stern from weakness and shame.
I bask in the mirror of lunar delicacy, driven to a point of singular unthought. My mind is still and ripples only occasionally, but lies quiet and calm under the moon's cold, marble touch. Moonlit massage sends shivers down my spine and I am whole.
I begin to slip and fall from its grip and I flounder about flailing, reaching for something to cling to. But the cold moon defies me, its warmth and glow the mirrored brilliance of the obstructed sun. It cares not for me or my woes, or me at all. It is a rock in the sky, spinning like clockwork, spinning on until our final days.
Lunar fantasies come crashing back down to the dirt. Firm soil, rich and ripe for growth of something from the smallest of nothing. A seed planted will produce something that serves a purpose in this world of practical necessities.
The light of the moon still reigns down upon me, but I do not regret my fall from its splendor. Instead I cherish my brief moments wrapped in her arms, when it had transcended the reality of science and became myth just long enough for me to feel the ancient female flow.
Leaving her is hard, but I feel firm and stout. I feel chiseled and cold. Stuck in funk and the mire of an unquiet mind. I please myself through her, not feeling my own intense emotions but rather escaping into her pulses of exstacy. Feeding off her intense submission to the power I wield, I grow stronger and more alive.
What do I want? To cast the light and warm the world? Doing what I can to deliver unto the masses long summer days basking in my warm glow. The earth trims my light and paints the moon as part of our dance. From full to new, from new to full, our hide and seek games with our carousel hearts.
I can never own the moon, nor would I want to. She is splendor and beauty, basking and coming alive under the son's loving gaze. To capture her is to deny her that which makes her so appealing, her independent death and rebirth.
What would the sun want? Is it simply there to provide and burn on alone in the dark void of the unknown cosmos? Where is its purpose and desires? Buried deep within its swirling gasses and supernova heat lies something that we will never see, but something we will never be without.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
the Tower of Brahma - twentysevenpoint2 - For all my feelings I'm heartless
09/04/04
I sit back and take a long look at the screen in front of me. Digitized and dazzling, I have become embedded into a carved language sculpture. Suddenly chapters had appeared in place of my pain. Months had passed and life continued without me. I immediately spun around to share my newfound fiction with those in my life to find they were gone, evaporated by time's passage.
I stepped outside and ghost town blues whispered through the lonely suburban streets. I walked on towards my future and the world dissolved into a nostalgic mist. Lines of homes all cut from the same cloth, row after row of variations on a theme. Similarly different in living out the same story. Every house a different fragment of psyche. A fractal reproduction of the replicating viral lifestyle. It is among these plastic castles that I see that awareness is selling out, taking comfort for safety and the joy of being part of the machine.
Disillusionment.
Apocalyptic details strewn about the land. Laughing fools celebrate the sad sickness of their souls. Accept the pain, love the disease, praise the decay. Fantastic ignorant fantasies. Fucking lies in a shot glass, swallowed down hard like a bitter bitch. Wallowing winters succumb my sweltering humid summers, and I am again devoured by my own silly daydreams.
Enough of these dry, single revelations tossed back, bellied up at the bar. Frightening fictions breed like fractals fornicating on the hot, sweaty streets. I am alone and dignified in my manhood. Responsible and empowered, alone and terrified.
Women swarm to cover and protect in self serving manners, but I will not submit to charms and spells of a duplicitous nature. I hate the vulnerable beast I show to you, shamed and born of gallant grotesque.
How do you know how to be a man in the land of selfish adult children? How can I walk among the inferior that I put upon a pedestal, afraid to be exposed as the wannabe I know myself as.
Alone in my loneliest hours, separated by thought and deed, I feel remorse and hate and anger and love and a sadness that sickens me to my core.
I love the pain. Inflicted, inflection, virus mutation. This nightmare of persona must have an end.
I sit back and take a long look at the screen in front of me. Digitized and dazzling, I have become embedded into a carved language sculpture. Suddenly chapters had appeared in place of my pain. Months had passed and life continued without me. I immediately spun around to share my newfound fiction with those in my life to find they were gone, evaporated by time's passage.
I stepped outside and ghost town blues whispered through the lonely suburban streets. I walked on towards my future and the world dissolved into a nostalgic mist. Lines of homes all cut from the same cloth, row after row of variations on a theme. Similarly different in living out the same story. Every house a different fragment of psyche. A fractal reproduction of the replicating viral lifestyle. It is among these plastic castles that I see that awareness is selling out, taking comfort for safety and the joy of being part of the machine.
Disillusionment.
Apocalyptic details strewn about the land. Laughing fools celebrate the sad sickness of their souls. Accept the pain, love the disease, praise the decay. Fantastic ignorant fantasies. Fucking lies in a shot glass, swallowed down hard like a bitter bitch. Wallowing winters succumb my sweltering humid summers, and I am again devoured by my own silly daydreams.
Enough of these dry, single revelations tossed back, bellied up at the bar. Frightening fictions breed like fractals fornicating on the hot, sweaty streets. I am alone and dignified in my manhood. Responsible and empowered, alone and terrified.
Women swarm to cover and protect in self serving manners, but I will not submit to charms and spells of a duplicitous nature. I hate the vulnerable beast I show to you, shamed and born of gallant grotesque.
How do you know how to be a man in the land of selfish adult children? How can I walk among the inferior that I put upon a pedestal, afraid to be exposed as the wannabe I know myself as.
Alone in my loneliest hours, separated by thought and deed, I feel remorse and hate and anger and love and a sadness that sickens me to my core.
I love the pain. Inflicted, inflection, virus mutation. This nightmare of persona must have an end.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
the Tower of Brahma - twentyseven - nudeerection (edit)
08/26/04
I run from the setting son and head to the East, seeking enlightenment from dawn. But it is dusk and crashing all around me is the day's possibilities. The cold vacuum of night is ensnaring me in the promise of union. They sleep soundlessly, resting and interacting in the astral chat rooms of symbolic imagery. Mathematical equations running psychological storytelling through pop culture lenses. Novel lives.
Life is fun when you're remaining detached and aloof, riding along, absorbing the rollercoaster simulated sensations and channeling them into concentrated fiction. A story about how exciting life can be as you unravel your identity, strip away your self, exposed naked and raw and reeling before the cold hard stare of the frightened masses.
But life is discomfort, upsetness, awkwardness all spinning in a mad Shiva ballet. Collisions of ourselves against the others in our lives, bumper car disasters pushing us off in a new direction.
Run and hide behind broken sentence structures, grammatical shrapnel, and a vocabulary enmeshed in babbling incoherency. A false promise of exposed obscurity, hidden in the fog of poetic phrases, I am naked and shivering. I hope these words can save me.
I'm thinking about suicide again for the first time in two years and I have come face to face with the life that exists above and beyond these words. Who do you call when you're sitting alone, more alone than ever? What friend or family member do you call? Who will deliver to you your salvation from this pain that is called living?
I daydreamed longingly of my funeral as a teen. Wiped out of existence forever leaving behind a dead body in the ground. People gathered around in a much too late show of support, with murmurs of regret passed among them. What could they have done? Why did he do this? Would any of them try to see into my life and get to know me? And would they let me know if what they found was worth keeping me here?
Fantastic images of self-obsessed, morbid, decadence adrift in the possibility of some deeper connection with someone, anyone, even posthumously. Why do I need to deny them my presence to get their attention? What do I need that their mere presence can't give me? Why aren't their words enough? Selfish, egotistic self-termination can not be the only answer to my longing for a soul deep connection.
Endymion dreaming eternally, seeking respite and the continual hum of divine lucidity. What is this poet's longing that aches deep within me? What true love can fill this hole, so profoundly unfathomable it defies explanation and exorcism? A tumor of need, desire, and longing grows at the bottom of my soul. I seek relief at every oasis of consciousness, stumbling mad and dry through mirage after mirage.
My cross is blazing behind me in the distance. Ahead is a fortified structure jutting out from the sands of space/time. A private building standing indignantly alone amid the wasteland. The X of my genetic map points to this Oedipus Complex.
I sit outside the doors for years, my skin growing thick as layers of dead skin push their way to the surface. I've waited so long that I have forgotten if I ever even knocked in the first place.
I know I visited the many small huts and shacks along the way. Paying my stay with the labor I gave. Empty priestesses cuff me down to the bed frame, begging to be loved. Loved? A mission, a quest for love is where I began this journey, crossing the landscape delivering lessons of vulnerable opposition.
I don't know love, nor life, nor anything at all. I have learned the mechanics of our search, seen the revealed puppetry of falsity and obsessive need. Psychological leeches seeking comfortable symbiotic life. Where is the spirit and beauty of love everlasting?
I run from the setting son and head to the East, seeking enlightenment from dawn. But it is dusk and crashing all around me is the day's possibilities. The cold vacuum of night is ensnaring me in the promise of union. They sleep soundlessly, resting and interacting in the astral chat rooms of symbolic imagery. Mathematical equations running psychological storytelling through pop culture lenses. Novel lives.
Life is fun when you're remaining detached and aloof, riding along, absorbing the rollercoaster simulated sensations and channeling them into concentrated fiction. A story about how exciting life can be as you unravel your identity, strip away your self, exposed naked and raw and reeling before the cold hard stare of the frightened masses.
But life is discomfort, upsetness, awkwardness all spinning in a mad Shiva ballet. Collisions of ourselves against the others in our lives, bumper car disasters pushing us off in a new direction.
Run and hide behind broken sentence structures, grammatical shrapnel, and a vocabulary enmeshed in babbling incoherency. A false promise of exposed obscurity, hidden in the fog of poetic phrases, I am naked and shivering. I hope these words can save me.
I'm thinking about suicide again for the first time in two years and I have come face to face with the life that exists above and beyond these words. Who do you call when you're sitting alone, more alone than ever? What friend or family member do you call? Who will deliver to you your salvation from this pain that is called living?
I daydreamed longingly of my funeral as a teen. Wiped out of existence forever leaving behind a dead body in the ground. People gathered around in a much too late show of support, with murmurs of regret passed among them. What could they have done? Why did he do this? Would any of them try to see into my life and get to know me? And would they let me know if what they found was worth keeping me here?
Fantastic images of self-obsessed, morbid, decadence adrift in the possibility of some deeper connection with someone, anyone, even posthumously. Why do I need to deny them my presence to get their attention? What do I need that their mere presence can't give me? Why aren't their words enough? Selfish, egotistic self-termination can not be the only answer to my longing for a soul deep connection.
Endymion dreaming eternally, seeking respite and the continual hum of divine lucidity. What is this poet's longing that aches deep within me? What true love can fill this hole, so profoundly unfathomable it defies explanation and exorcism? A tumor of need, desire, and longing grows at the bottom of my soul. I seek relief at every oasis of consciousness, stumbling mad and dry through mirage after mirage.
My cross is blazing behind me in the distance. Ahead is a fortified structure jutting out from the sands of space/time. A private building standing indignantly alone amid the wasteland. The X of my genetic map points to this Oedipus Complex.
I sit outside the doors for years, my skin growing thick as layers of dead skin push their way to the surface. I've waited so long that I have forgotten if I ever even knocked in the first place.
I know I visited the many small huts and shacks along the way. Paying my stay with the labor I gave. Empty priestesses cuff me down to the bed frame, begging to be loved. Loved? A mission, a quest for love is where I began this journey, crossing the landscape delivering lessons of vulnerable opposition.
I don't know love, nor life, nor anything at all. I have learned the mechanics of our search, seen the revealed puppetry of falsity and obsessive need. Psychological leeches seeking comfortable symbiotic life. Where is the spirit and beauty of love everlasting?
Monday, April 11, 2011
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 26 - Breastfed Universe (edit)
08/09/04
Outside on the street, a few quarts low of alcohol, I am a jagged gear. Unable to plug myself into the machine, forcibly ejected from the insincere, conflicting cool.
Group sing-alongs inevitably rise, then wane with the consumption of mass quantities of alcoholic beverages. I am trapped, swung on a loose orbit around stellar spheres of saturated celebrations. Drinking, rocking, killing brain cells, and carving off our more sensitive sadness. Melancholy mashed and converted into raw party, putty for us to form an idol within our soul.
Gleaming, grinning, idle worship at the altar of our own universe spawned within. Moody blew in and knocked down the cardboard cutout action hero. Smoldering tough guy intensity flickers in the corner of the bar and I am reminded. Asskicker agony burns around me and I know that I will have to fight my way free.
Smothered in non-existence, I furiously fight for the surface. Thrashing and kicking my way into a brighter mindframe, my inner avatar is flailing, lost in silly phrases of copyrighted coolness.
"I am unique and lovely in a splendid sorority, adrift in the sadness of humanity."
Their wail is now heard as weak cries of affection effects, begging to be heard, by themselves as much as by you.
Engaged inane conversations with the bastard children of brighter tomorrows. Enlightened and unable to deal with their inherent divinity, these angelic monsters smash themselves to bits, feeling unworthy of godhood. A tribe of segregated and solitary lives, alone in their immense misfortune. Broken society, children gone amuck, chaotic slaves to a foreign falsehood.
I type away like a lunatic, fringe benefits from a loose sentence. Concepts that fry my mind, flirting with my inner ego. I hate the surface me, sweating out symmetrical similes.
Twin Diana appear beside me, guiding me through adversity. On my left I have the innocent goddess, drunk on the poisons of man. On the right is the cultured and wise hunter, walking tall with amazonian pride. Twin sparrows ushering in the end, signaling the transference.
SHOTS! Rings out cool NYC summer night. Guru and profits wring out the bar, oozing us out the doors of Lucy's and we land in another galaxy. Reality warbles rings around us like Saturn's spinning planetary debris.
Colliding and careening we find our flow and the night spins wildly on.
In the morn, my face flushed with hot blood, Feline pressure rests softly upon me. I awoke with a grin.
Summer Sunday night comes on unnoticed and the midnight oil burns. The ceiling is throbbing and pulsing to the beat, with teenage drunken sex fantasies bursting to life strategically placed. PseudoPsychoSexual satellite dish, suckling love from the cosmic teat, basking in the hot searing of the blind white light.
Outside on the street, a few quarts low of alcohol, I am a jagged gear. Unable to plug myself into the machine, forcibly ejected from the insincere, conflicting cool.
Group sing-alongs inevitably rise, then wane with the consumption of mass quantities of alcoholic beverages. I am trapped, swung on a loose orbit around stellar spheres of saturated celebrations. Drinking, rocking, killing brain cells, and carving off our more sensitive sadness. Melancholy mashed and converted into raw party, putty for us to form an idol within our soul.
Gleaming, grinning, idle worship at the altar of our own universe spawned within. Moody blew in and knocked down the cardboard cutout action hero. Smoldering tough guy intensity flickers in the corner of the bar and I am reminded. Asskicker agony burns around me and I know that I will have to fight my way free.
Smothered in non-existence, I furiously fight for the surface. Thrashing and kicking my way into a brighter mindframe, my inner avatar is flailing, lost in silly phrases of copyrighted coolness.
"I am unique and lovely in a splendid sorority, adrift in the sadness of humanity."
Their wail is now heard as weak cries of affection effects, begging to be heard, by themselves as much as by you.
Engaged inane conversations with the bastard children of brighter tomorrows. Enlightened and unable to deal with their inherent divinity, these angelic monsters smash themselves to bits, feeling unworthy of godhood. A tribe of segregated and solitary lives, alone in their immense misfortune. Broken society, children gone amuck, chaotic slaves to a foreign falsehood.
I type away like a lunatic, fringe benefits from a loose sentence. Concepts that fry my mind, flirting with my inner ego. I hate the surface me, sweating out symmetrical similes.
Twin Diana appear beside me, guiding me through adversity. On my left I have the innocent goddess, drunk on the poisons of man. On the right is the cultured and wise hunter, walking tall with amazonian pride. Twin sparrows ushering in the end, signaling the transference.
SHOTS! Rings out cool NYC summer night. Guru and profits wring out the bar, oozing us out the doors of Lucy's and we land in another galaxy. Reality warbles rings around us like Saturn's spinning planetary debris.
Colliding and careening we find our flow and the night spins wildly on.
In the morn, my face flushed with hot blood, Feline pressure rests softly upon me. I awoke with a grin.
Summer Sunday night comes on unnoticed and the midnight oil burns. The ceiling is throbbing and pulsing to the beat, with teenage drunken sex fantasies bursting to life strategically placed. PseudoPsychoSexual satellite dish, suckling love from the cosmic teat, basking in the hot searing of the blind white light.
Monday, April 4, 2011
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 25 - Mustang Frankenstein (edit)
08/03/04
The camera swoops in a low slo-mo arc, swirling around us in a Bruckheimer heroic moment, power surging as the jet explodes behind us. The flames felt warm and comfortable behind me as Spider and I stood firm, rising to our full stature, secure in our manhood, and ready to rock.
Guitar solo cool roared through the air as my screaming fist connected with the man's chest. His suit seemed to curl and recoil, bracing the impact. A simulated smile flashed across his screen, a charade meant to goad me, mocking my inner monster. Thunderous hammerings of my titanium fists, fueled by the atomic engine fired up in my chest, and I began to crack through the stone. Power slammed down through my button-down denim destroyer legs, landing devastating karate kicks to his midsection. Dropping slow and dipping low, spinning gracefully sweeping out his legs, I shoot back up and forward kick his falling body thirty feet, embedding him in the far wall.
"Nicely done." Spider stepped out from behind me and I never felt such sidekick pride before in my life.
Mathematical resonances tingle in my brain as I wallow in the moment, absorbing the entire scene using Sherlock Science Logick mantras. Angles and trajectories mass up into raw feelings, converting to gut instincts. I know where the guns are, where the badguys stand, and just how far I can throw them. I slip out of the stasis with a sly grin. I swear my canines grew a fair amount as a growl subtly drifted from my lungs. Silver mane streaking down my spine as my feet tore free. Tearing across the scene I pounded into the wall flipping and bounding, free and wild roaring across this wild plain between me and my enemy.
There I was. Three years old, my face locked in the jaws of a beast. Fangs drank of my flesh and I was held in judgment by the aeons of canine. A ferocious fatality was imminent when mercy was handed down. I was spared, but marked. My eyes were lost in the power of eternal savage salvation. The ignoble beings that carried me away, cleaning my wounds, they were no longer my parents.
Homoerotic competition, physical fights forcing confrontation, tactile sensations from the icon of your hate, yourself. Your male serenity singing out for complex union. Flickering, simmering in the darkness, all that is corrupt in the young man stands at the far end of the stage, laughing maniacally, engorged in its power and deception. The flames of futile dominance cast long shadows that dance across the textures of the stones, patterns emerging from the spinning of the flames. The air carries the flow of the raging river, splashing towards the overconfident blaze.
The love of a father aches in us all. Sitting outside the pack, waiting to come back in. To be brought back in from the rain. And we don't need to look up from our shame to see the disgust splashed across our father's face.
It's not defiance, as we look up. It's concern that draws our eyes together. We will see his weaknesses, and we will accept his sickness. The half of you that was forged from his clay aligns with the interlocking connectivity that he carries in his fleshcell. Meta-scientific psychosis mental delusional schizophrenic symbiosis with your exiled manhood.
Cowboy howl as the soaring spinkick smashes the dummydaddydestroyerdrone Spider unleashed upon me. With delayed timing, a few second count, it's insides blew outwards spraying the sanitary far wall with motor oil, cigarettes and beer. Foreground shot as the drone smashes to the floor with me in the background, zoomed in to reveal pose 38, musclecar!mystique. My upper half purred like a streamlined screamer, candy apple red and lined with chrome. My legs pulsed and inched forward like an inpatient Mustang, milliseconds before the green.
Action slides south, leaving behind my polished body, punked out with kungfu!cool and rockstar!sneer.
The camera swoops in a low slo-mo arc, swirling around us in a Bruckheimer heroic moment, power surging as the jet explodes behind us. The flames felt warm and comfortable behind me as Spider and I stood firm, rising to our full stature, secure in our manhood, and ready to rock.
Guitar solo cool roared through the air as my screaming fist connected with the man's chest. His suit seemed to curl and recoil, bracing the impact. A simulated smile flashed across his screen, a charade meant to goad me, mocking my inner monster. Thunderous hammerings of my titanium fists, fueled by the atomic engine fired up in my chest, and I began to crack through the stone. Power slammed down through my button-down denim destroyer legs, landing devastating karate kicks to his midsection. Dropping slow and dipping low, spinning gracefully sweeping out his legs, I shoot back up and forward kick his falling body thirty feet, embedding him in the far wall.
"Nicely done." Spider stepped out from behind me and I never felt such sidekick pride before in my life.
Mathematical resonances tingle in my brain as I wallow in the moment, absorbing the entire scene using Sherlock Science Logick mantras. Angles and trajectories mass up into raw feelings, converting to gut instincts. I know where the guns are, where the badguys stand, and just how far I can throw them. I slip out of the stasis with a sly grin. I swear my canines grew a fair amount as a growl subtly drifted from my lungs. Silver mane streaking down my spine as my feet tore free. Tearing across the scene I pounded into the wall flipping and bounding, free and wild roaring across this wild plain between me and my enemy.
There I was. Three years old, my face locked in the jaws of a beast. Fangs drank of my flesh and I was held in judgment by the aeons of canine. A ferocious fatality was imminent when mercy was handed down. I was spared, but marked. My eyes were lost in the power of eternal savage salvation. The ignoble beings that carried me away, cleaning my wounds, they were no longer my parents.
Homoerotic competition, physical fights forcing confrontation, tactile sensations from the icon of your hate, yourself. Your male serenity singing out for complex union. Flickering, simmering in the darkness, all that is corrupt in the young man stands at the far end of the stage, laughing maniacally, engorged in its power and deception. The flames of futile dominance cast long shadows that dance across the textures of the stones, patterns emerging from the spinning of the flames. The air carries the flow of the raging river, splashing towards the overconfident blaze.
The love of a father aches in us all. Sitting outside the pack, waiting to come back in. To be brought back in from the rain. And we don't need to look up from our shame to see the disgust splashed across our father's face.
It's not defiance, as we look up. It's concern that draws our eyes together. We will see his weaknesses, and we will accept his sickness. The half of you that was forged from his clay aligns with the interlocking connectivity that he carries in his fleshcell. Meta-scientific psychosis mental delusional schizophrenic symbiosis with your exiled manhood.
Cowboy howl as the soaring spinkick smashes the dummydaddydestroyerdrone Spider unleashed upon me. With delayed timing, a few second count, it's insides blew outwards spraying the sanitary far wall with motor oil, cigarettes and beer. Foreground shot as the drone smashes to the floor with me in the background, zoomed in to reveal pose 38, musclecar!mystique. My upper half purred like a streamlined screamer, candy apple red and lined with chrome. My legs pulsed and inched forward like an inpatient Mustang, milliseconds before the green.
Action slides south, leaving behind my polished body, punked out with kungfu!cool and rockstar!sneer.
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