crying about dying

She sits in her holy chair, her dumpster diving throne that is tattered and crawling with roaches. Crying about dying. I imagine she imagines, but not very colorfully. Probably in muted and muddied colors like that of her blackening aura that maybe once was bright, but has long since been graying into clumpy blackness.

I suppose part of me wishes that she did have a brain tumor. At least then I could fathom some reason for all the things she has done, and more importantly, that which she never did.

But no alien microchips were found and no cancerous tissue either, at least in her brain. Now, it’s tumors in her uterus. A nasty place that was once so comforting to me that I stayed nestled there a month longer than anyone expected me to remain secured. Or so I am told.

Crying about dying. Such a waste. I would be a liar if I said I never shed similar death tears, so I won’t. Adolescence, cultural family inheritance, and anxiety can be an irrational bitch sometimes, barking at shadows and chasing its tail. As I grow older, I continue to realize the finiteness of my existence, but I shed less tears about it these days; instead I continue to aspire to do more and be grateful for that which I have accomplished. In some cases, my gratitude is directed towards other people; generally, though, gratitude is just a feeling I keep in a vacuum that makes me feel peaceful due to the chemicals my brain is releasing.

Where is her gratitude? Her bitterness is so nasty it has infected her organs and spread beyond her mind and physical body, becoming an extension of herself for others to see when they visit her heaping pile of trash she calls home. Is she grateful for her trash? Does the chaos with which she surrounds herself satisfy some sick need of hers? Does her holy throne fill some metaphorical hole?

today i thought...

i wish a lot with one hand full of shit


stacking up high hopes in a broken chair
sometimes i do and sometimes i don't care


My mind runs on broken sentences and discontinued phrases. Cliche rhymes invade the frayed nerves of my cursed organ. I try to deny their existence sometimes... ellipsis... i think my mind thinks my mind runs on a perpetual ellipsis that never seems to go anywhere... does it ever even pick up from where the last period stopped? ...i doubt it. i let my doubt create me and sedate me. power builds within only to yield to humility. or rather the thought thereof.

shadow casting

And it’s casting its shadow… casting its shadow in the corner of the room.
And it’s casting its shadow… casting its shadow in this chamber of doom.

It keeps casting its shadow upon these walls.
Relentlessly I follow as the shadow falls.

F
a
l
l
i
n
g
Hear me sing.
Another broken spell by a telephone that does not ring.
(Is this spoken hell a pseudophone for anything?)

Noise – oh chaos you have befriended me.
While the shadow spirals endlessly.


It’s still casting its shadow… casting a shadow that looms.
It’s still casting its shadow… casting a shadow that assumes…

A new direction for the endless flaws of perfection,
My contemplation is my damnation,
singing with approbation my revelation…
as I cast my shadow with this convection.


I am casting my shadow… casting my shadow…

boy on the hill

Clamouring and climbing up the hill with a cantankerous racket, he shouted the secrets of his soul to the minute village below. And these simple folk - bless their little hearts - did not understand a single word he said. They heard only noise, and so they prayed like good folk do. They prayed that the poor boy would find solace in the heavens to which he walked and peace would again be instilled upon their community. But peace never came. Yet still they prayed:

Dear God,
Please save the poor boy on the hill
whose wretched heart he does spill
across this once quiet land.
Please listen to us, Father
for together we stand
to convey to you our bother.
Your will, be he silent
He sounds rather violent
Please Lord, please
put his heart at ease.



They prayed and prayed and prayed. But still, dischordantly, the boy bellowed from the hill series after series of mournful sounds.

Bottled

It seems he caught another case of jungle fever,
had to feed his wood to a little black beaver.

Who will it be to cut that wood of his down?
(play me a fool and I’ll be your clown)

Brought back into the game of Decepticon
Love is fleeting … will soon be gone.

Ever so patiently I will torment myself
these memories, too, will be placed on the shelf
in their own uniquely twisted bottle
that I will covet and will coddle.

But eventually, it will be
just another dust collector.

all wrapped up

He wraps me with his words
Like a sleeping bag with holes in it
and
like a short circuiting electric blanket.
Electrocuted
with a cold draft up my ass
I roll over
and become
swathed further in his oral linen.
This time
flannel sheets with satin patches
and
I nestle in
wanting
as he whispers bubble wrap
around my aching head
and suffocates me
with his cellophane smile.

Lodestone

I do not enjoy the way these actions and thoughts make me feel, yet I seem to be attracted to them like a paperclip on lodestone: a smooth piece of twisted metal stuck on an unrefined chunk of earth.

static transmission

Cortisol levels are rising and falling often and drastically.

*static*

My sebaceous glands have joined my one woman party of over-reactivity.

*static*

Severe changes in temperature are compromising homeostasis.

*static*

Mynd

The confines of one’s mind can be as comforting as a heroin addict’s womb sometimes…

Welcome to my malevolent mind; menacingly maniacal it can be.
Sometimes I feel as if it is apart from me, rather than a part of me.
Once again, rather still, I am plagued with uncertainty.

Some Sentences

And the darkness confounded with slate skies, seen through beguiled eyes, encapsulated the withering warmth of a morbid mother’s womb with impending inertial doom.

For so long as the rickety chair wavered on splintered boards, the ligneous echoes of life creaked weakening tunes with tiny skeletal sticks on an invisible tympanal membrane.

Anonymity claimed her frigid fingers as she scribbled in a foreign language the daunting memories of a sadistic stranger.

Elusive echoes of a dull drum filled her mental chamber like melancholy stew in a cast iron cauldron.

Escapade

I am in need of an escapade, as I fight transformation into a jade.
This metamorphosis I feel, will leave little time to heal.
But it will require an aching desire for much more rehabilitation.
Yes, I confess, I am in need of some stress alleviation.

In her Mind

She smiled a lonely sad smile as she sat staring vacantly at the sliver of streaming sun that was casting a warm welcoming glow through the dusty window onto the rickety wooden slats that comprised a poor excuse for a floor. Her vision blurred, painting a solar flared fading image in her mind. In her mind….

Twisting cavernous delusions pulsate to silent rhythms.

In her mind…

Beautiful scenery becomes globulous piles of muddied latex and acrylics.

In her mind…

She sees what cannot be seen.

In her mind…

Fantastic fractals distort into far-fetched wonders of chaotic circumstance.

In her mind…

Games game games and names name names.

In her mind…

She can see what a seeing eye dog sees.

In her mind…

Doubt turns to misery.

In her mind…

Phantasmagoria is a plaything.

In her mind…

Roaches metamorphosize into butterflies with burnt button eyes.

In her mind…

A hollow echo haunts a carditic chamber.

In her mind…

Wonders never cease in the wanders through each crease.

In her mind…

Nothing is (n)ever meant to be.

In her mind…

Thoughts are contained in parentheses.

In her mind…

Spirals decompose to recompose.

In her mind…

Only she knows what she knows.

In a blinking instant her vision returned from the blur. A grey cloud had settled over the setting sun. The slate slats creaked beneath her feet as she slowly rose from her dusty seat. To the window she walked ever so deliberately to gaze out at the oaken wilderness that once did exist… in her mind.

Pothole

A new pothole has decided to surface on my already bumpy road. The thing about potholes is that they can be avoided, but the longer one continues to swerve away from them the longer they are allowed to expand, slowly eroading*. Fortunately, unnecessary wear and reckless driving can be avoided by simply filling in the pothole and driving over it. Sure, one may experience a slight bump, but the more it is driven over the less noticeable it becomes until eventually it all but fades into just another part of the road leaving nothing more but a slight discoloration.


*eroading: causing erosion to a road