This started as a suicide note
This started as a suicide note
but you found you had no one to write.
So now it’s to everyone, no one.
It’s words on paper,
on a screen,
empty, no purpose
except to be read
by no one.
these words would go on
to tell a true ghost story.
One where the supernatural is almost believable,
thumbing through the endlessly expanding wealth
of human fallibility
and lust for superstition.
Thirteen chapters for fun
and realistic measure;
in the end the hero dies, choking on irony,
consumed by the invisible monster
trapped in every closet
and lurking under the bed of every innocent child,
or perhaps go on to compose
a gut-tossing love story,
breaking every tender heart,
telling the sordid, tragic tales
of loss, redemption,
dish of nearly every Hollywood spree
through the wild odyssey
of amber romance and abrupt vomit,
playing on the gullibility
of millions of naïve, infinitely
and young adults
blind to the inevitable realities
of abuse and affairs and law suits and divorce.
It's poor, hopeless poetry.
Run on sentences and fragments.
Kicking the rules of language to the curb.
Ink on paper,
here is your heart,
here is your beating, troubled heart.
Here, you write, you’re sharing.
You've walled the world in,
and you hope
it didn't bring a sledge hammer.
You’re worried because you spread the disease
and pessimism and
wax eternally cynical.
You’re worried you’re an inverted prism
of misery, backwards talk,
double speak, two faced,
poisonous lovers spit and suck
and sticky shit
that doesn't stink
but stains and it never, ever ends.
It’s an open, broken window
forgotten in the wicked winter;
there is a reason it’s cold in here,
there is a reason your limbs are stiff. rigid,
brittle, rigor mortis.
You want to write a sad, terrible siren song
where the chorus yells how these words
make the world fiction
and this song is it's prison.
Another escapist excuse;
you want to forget,
because it’s not like it’s going away.
Another climax for the theatrical addict.
You’re avid, famished,
desperate for the future.
The future is where you live forever
and know everything,
create and destroy
and devour and
get bored quick.
You pass the time with a vicious,
silver needle for the mind.
You shoot up glowing experiences
of a bloody birth,
fleeting childhood, confused adolescence,
all the angst, anger, lust, sex, violence, war,
the world has ever harbored.
You live to survive,
you live to work.
You hurt and you cry
and you lose
and you love
and you kill
and you take
and you lust.
You’re at once ignorant
and awake to the
awful truth: if you want to
all you have to do is kill yourself.
Turn the heart off and
disconnect the brain.
You wake in the future,
stunned in remembering
what the fuck,
where the fuck,
how the fuck.
life in a quantum syringe.
An organic matrix.
One billion quivering,
throbbing, pulsing orgasms,
adrenaline spikes, the apex of euphoria and terror,
the drug of mortal sentience.
This is consciousness.
This is all there is
and you hold it in your perfectly evolved hand,
a steaming puddle of grotesque,
A yacht of the imagination,
and it is just as real as you remember.
You remember how
only death makes life worth living.
Only sitting, lying, contemplating
on the edge of non-existence
do you truly appreciate existence.
And you cry, you sob.
Now you’re dead
and you’re in the glorious,
where any defeated underdog
can be dead and still laugh about it.
Death is just waking up.
Death is time travel.
Death is the future and everyone is doing it.
Number one most common terminator:
Disease, cancer, accidents, homicide, suicide.
Time is no longer measured in years.
No decades, millenniums or eons.
Anymore you think,
in the escalating score of lives.
The number of consecutive terminal universes
you bring into awareness.
Every one a spreading saturation
of organic quantum fluctuation constructs,
all digital playgrounds,
some finite spectral experience
of excessive failure and horrific sculptures
of energy and indifferent evolution.
Each dark body a unique soul;
each an awkward, exalted puzzle,
their lonely, violent secrets
hiding in dreams and ideas that betray your creative libido.
You could peel back
the minds of every hostile mind
and expose the throbbing and fleshy
indian pink tendrils to the
dense luminous colors they can’t even fathom.
You could collapse
the igneous mansions of coral cards
they call unyielding knowledge and rocky reality.
The terrible vehicle of being.
You lie back
eager, weak, and starved
for another life.
The future is lonely
and boring and
bursting with empty, abandoned,
Birthing universes makes you tired,
wears you out,
and you just want to live and die again.
You’re parched for blood and horror.
So you drop your plans and
boot The Simulator and think briefly
how the 21st century
is your favorite.
A gleaming pinnacle
of both gross comfort and Utopian suffering.
Awful, arousing hordes
of infinite stupidity
and countless acres of sand and shit and dirt
and rich, reflective surfaces.
Millions of mirrors for the longing.
You wonder which you’ll be.
You hope for another brilliant experience,
maybe one where you grow wise in poverty,
torn from the love of your life
by war and famine and religion and chance.
Maybe you’ll be the singing snake
at the altar of a church
where millions of innocent swine
give their last bloody pennies up
in hopes for a touch of your spotless,
arsenic passion and eburnean heart.
That blonde, rusted smile,
held together by the ragged roots
of a golden dandelion.
Maybe you’ll be murdered or sacrificed,
maybe you’ll be the sinewy martyr,
the horned, barbed, keen
electric indigo hammer
and nail of God,
on a spiraling psychedelic path
to a lush jungle paradise
of every imaginable ending.
Your beloved specks on a flushed celadon canvas,
a plethora of perfect pigments and parts.
Life is poetry, a passage
of burnt sienna problems
and the atomic,
fatal locus of
every single bathos.
You will always be a slave
to the hateful overseer
of Want and greed.
Life is the gorgeous,
haunting and howling
the language of
hidden signals and
you will never escape.