Whispers of Hypnos

  my back, a tingle as recollections of the coarse experience in the depths

  of a moonless night where proclamations of the one question and

  supplications for help relayed the sonorous fright. Voices that are never

  heard drown and fade away automatically and proceed backwards.

  Sometimes I hate pathetic fallacy.

  In the beginning we are alone but individuality is a test; the separateness

  searching for a station in life or at least a place to sleep without

  interruption. No, there are no divine exams.

  Mostly these illuminations are never found in daydreams, no

  radiance before the dawn. It is the search that drives primal suggestion

  to the pointed faculties of mind in the climax that there is

  struggle, strain, strenuous suffrage, and to wear this is too much to bare.

  Bombarded by blocking thoughts or meditations unnerved by anxious

  hooks in the stomach reel us into physicality. Uncertainty looms as a

  weaver in the back of the mind stringing the high strung, dangling

  a statement, “It is a waste of time”. Go on like the dreaming ocean of

  ensuing devotion and to do all that others say is impossibility, in

  the eventual outcome it is will or the lack of that will kill.

  Or are we all lying?

  Are we creations and creators? Maybe just some infernal joke or

  an excuse of some other? Artists, we all

  are! Damnable polysyndetonic syntax.

  We must take a step out of life as the snake out of its skin, oh no, sexual

  symbolism, so to shed the opaque covering of the eyes, and see

  the hive hunting its impervious prey in the forest of the twilight

  as we are tinted a King Cobra gray. Sorry William! No tiger.

  When you are on the safari yourself you never see anything but

  the targeted, and everything is a target as you are and will be.

  To be an artist might be to document behavior, culture, social problems,

  perceptions, deviations, and the vile as well as pitiful conditions.

  These are targets and artists are fundamental targets. Maybe artists are

  simply sociopaths with outlets besides human destruction medicated

  with a

  placebo?

  Naughty, naughty, don’t worry it is all bullshit made up as we go along

  with the influence of the past astonishment and creation. In all media

  they trying not to overtly plagiarize. Artists are just thieves stealing

  from others’ lives as well as their own and other artist’s work, just

  recombinant conditions. Everything is communication through

  symbolism and that is what people do so we let you do it and then modify

  and regurgitate it back to you in a nice mix of acid and beauty. Sometimes

  we pretend that we know what we are doing.

  Maybe it is about deliverance from insignificance and the token

  realization that the metaphysical connotation of living may not be

  anything but us fish swimming from danger and a flight into the open

  sea’s light or no? The insatiable calamity has no relief

  as stars, designated constellations, or personal

  suns.

  It is just the universe mumbling and

  self-esteem draws death, as said before life is a theft but death

  is something life lives in. I don’t want to be this mumble or this simple

  horrible

  mortality.

  Fraud is the most genuine thing we have. Love, emotions, plastic

  moldings of the face. Truth, beauty continually erased but seldom ugly.

  Trite, banality never fugacious these things are to determined to exist

  through comfort. Once we are engaged, we are too blinded to redeem

  identity. Even the silly plastic moldings on my face find their ways to

  violate the daydreams and rip the layered fabric.

  Targets are acquired but life never concludes while you are watching

  as absolutes never existed anyway. An artist’s creation?

  Or a bullshit excuse? A plagiarized science experiment forgotten to

  its own devices?

  ***

  Creators and creations are developed myths of martyrs and

  meeker manifestations. And by the way,

  Beauty is not all we need to know ugliness is just as relevant.

  Everything once was and will be symbolism and if GOD exists and knows

  all pain I am sorry it had to feel mine, but I didn’t want to be this way

  it is too convoluted without prenatal talent displaying itself

  so not to decide.

  The act of deciding is probably the point but how trite is that because

  everyone must do it except……..

  ***

  GENIUSES and trust fund babies.

  ***

  Nope, I wanted to be something else.

  I wanted to be Nietzsche, Jimi Hendrix and Bruce Lee.

  I wanted my ideas to manifest and spread for all to see.

  I want my will to be fulfilled and be an earthly guru.

  I want to be an evangelistic with philosophy and music

  and to be feared so nobody will try to fight me.

  I want others to add to my images and progress in a radiant form

  of talent of soul, mind and body. My shadow would cast darkness

  and doubt on deluded ambition and would create a resolute condition of

  creativity. Meeting the godhead and conversing having power

  without corruption.

  Thoughts could be mutable flesh.

  ***

  Once in a time before thoughts escaped and became.

  They fell to freedom on their own.

  We went on in different stratified existence and

  they went on in an innocuous form independent from us. As once they

  were just ideas as we were just ideas and it could happen again.

  We might encounter a thought from GOD and the infinite choir as GOD

  Maybe? or even something beyond comprehension. But on a side note

  I don’t want to die of syphilis or any remiss vomiting events.

  I don’t want to die from some death touch or allergic reactions.

  ***

  Hell’s fury can come from women but it is not the only scorn, I don’t want

  to die at all and maybe in the future of

  genetics

  and bio-engineering I won’t. Probably not in my lifetime I want

  to be delivered into my daydreams without plastic moldings

  and cold stones. It is just another stupid opinion on another earthly

  rotation in this mortal condition.

  Situation Tragedy

  The gleam fails

  as dialogue distorts

  A clear crystalline

  shattered scream

  A mosaic of prosaic

  storytelling falters and flickers.

  The circuit breaks

  and the lights fail

  spiraling outward

  to a single burnt image

  History records a symbol

  The symbol is intended

  Instantaneous folly fools

  the frivolous enraptured

  captured voyage of digits

  The gleam fails

  The signal goes down

  and all are symbols

  Burnt down again

  in the prescribed warning

  DON’T ATTMEPT THIS AT HOME

  A mold

  Tears of bile and urine run in

  thin rivulets down the

  Sm
ooth pore-less pellucid plastic

  veneer, a mask of elastic membranes

  A blink behind the eyes lets slip the

  wink of coy renewable promises

  The molded, formed, seamless, seemingly

  surreptitious screen is seen simply

  As it casts a shadow where the

  smile meets the sky and the

  Hominid and homunculus hand in

  hand happily wipe the lines

  From the map of age and memory

  Journal thrice

  The everyday seem to be innately dumb at first, so blessed are those

  few contrived moments. My days are called to grief by just waking up.

  I have overseers that tap their feet on the thinning plush carpet.

  It begins with the feeling of when your first crush was crushed.

  The first love coming over

  and saying indifferently “no more” and the ache in the pericardium

  is amplified ten fold. The cavity left is iced over and as empty

  as the space between galaxies. This is the everyday.

  Then the apprehension of doubt of the dilemma comes quickly like that

  the significant other was reconsidering, but that is just a feeble mistake

  and miscalculation. It is not a state of feeling sorry for oneself.

  Thus accepted and acknowledged, the ability to move hurts

  to even think about over the torturous heart cracks and beats

  as it brings tears to the dry ducts that should have been

  deluged years before.

  The only way to survive is to turn it into itself and modify into anger;

  anger is a motivation and something is better than oblivion.

  I just want to become. Sometimes. I feel as a waste of carbon and water.

  Carbon better off as a filament in a light-bulb; water better suited in a

  fish tank filled with the string like feces and ammonia.

  ***

  Then as if submission did not count for anything, the humidity of

  the day increases and no matter how much I towel off there never

  is an obtainable sense of dry. Clothes will put up a struggle also

  but they always win. There is a tug on one side to fix a wrinkle and

  that in fact causes a worse event. Try and straighten it and the

  back comes undone. Fix that and you know what will happen next,

  but it is hard to be naked in public. Frustration. Castration. Asphyxiation.

  ***

  During

  the days of summer, I try to stay inside the sun burns so easily and

  cancer is. Then you go out just as a glimmer of

  hope glimpses and tears through the layers of humid skin

  and your olfactory senses have been depleted by under use.

  To go up and smell the wild flowers you must get close.

  The majestic bewilderment of nature takes a slight chance to kiss

  you delicately on the forehead and inspiration becomes. Insipid

  inspiration

  I should have known such trickery was involved. Kneel down to smell

  the blooms and a squishy squash gives under the knees.

  How beautiful it is when the growths have just been fertilized with manure

  The scent is truly the combination of mammal and plant. Then a notice

  of puffiness swells the nose and reddens the eyes, thank you dear

  pollen and confused immune system. An affirmation that nature can smell

  awful and be implicitly painful.

  Inspiration come and divine this life, wash and evaporate

  the mundane ever-present stain and release

  the trade winds to take this stench to the

  doldrums and maybe off to the distance of the jet stream.

  Intrepidation and passion rise in the uplifting thermals of ethereal

  emotion that find spaces between the heights and the fall.

  We must survey the scene from all possibilities and be quiet in calm

  and serene in the connection. Beneficence of being can melt away from

  the mind’s antipode when sensation not contained reveals its form verily.

  Bequeath the bountiful external worry to the dissidents and when

  driven by other’s, hindered and ashamed, to thine own self be true.

  Fucking Hamlet, yes perception is a problem and dreams and insanity

  seem to be the same sketch.

  ***

  With every Moon’s suicide, seppuku, and resurrection, the Sun plays

  dirty games of treachery because they die and rise again. I cannot shout

  at them to stop because I don’t speak to anyone anymore.

  I had a singing voice once with quite a range and sustain with vibrato.

  I have since lacked lacked lacked lacked lacked lacked lacked…lost lost

  lost lost lost lost lost the ambition to practice vocally and they, the chords

  have atrophied. I can hardly speak and only whisper

  penetrates as a myriad of mumbles under the soothing blankets.

  The only resonance there is for me is as a hum and a facial expression.

  The hum of the chambers filled with the summer wind drowns my

  projection.

  That there is any resonance at all from an honest place is

  befuddling and time is running away like a castigated mut.

  The summer Sun once again has allowed the shadows

  to be in the only place that retains composure from the frustration

  instilled by vengeful cherubs.

  The violet, violent strobes of bright and bold violations shine with such

  arrogance.

  The surges and pressure builds to the stress points. It would be reassuring

  to be a balloon or a bomb. A feeling so strong that all is needed is an

  object,

  oh pitied object but there never is a suitable opponent deserving of this

  disturbance.

  Like a whip uncoiling and breaking the sound barrier the

  air is punched and the sirens and screams of uncontrolled being resonate

  and resound the question. React or be dormant?

  Which will prove? Which will suffer? Which will cure?

  The causation is the primer to action with the consequence of responding.

  Sleeping an escape from the heat of the day and in night terrors there are

  no beings to talk to but demons and peons. Looking to dreams blinded by

  moonlight, coming from an acute angle, the shade is drawn.

  ***

  So comes a change of state and a click of a button. Answers to questions

  conflicting sources on the television. Conspiracy of silence and

  the black and white static bleeds into red.

  Zion, Blitzkrieg the shipbuilder prophet isn’t dead. Lions of

  Judah on the mountain cry and are pushed into a salty sea.

  Zeal as a shield to destroy

  indiscriminately, how pathetic not to think for one’s self.

  Horse worshippers in Japan and it is only eleven fifty nine

  on the subatomic clock as the time goes on this channel

  dedicated to history and development. Omni abstruse is no excuse

  to the abuse and bias.

  These narcissistic nirvanas are negated nocturnally.

  A press of another button and the narrow road comes to an intersection

  a tree and a human dangle slowly and dry as the dust builds.

  A solitary fruit that was once ripe as the night, falls

  in the western direction, how dramatic. Surfing without standing

  and the ramifications of regal recession and abdication shown

  as the rising day delivers their heads. T
he spiraling sun sets as the tube

  just warms up.

  Drunken jesters running on to battlefields, Earthlings sorry

  for such seemingly bad narratives but the surface is not the truth

  and while searching for a link on this broken chain of events, the links

  are made of balsa wood painted by

  another institution involved in revolution

  surface reality is in conception on a back lot somewhere.

  God I hate euphemisms

  and lowest common demons.

  The Sun shines again to laugh arrogantly so the repose will wait for

  another date but the feeling of my first crush being crushed remains.

  A void, an unavoided day without time and

  lunacy without action is nothing more than non-existence.

  I crush the crush myself along with all other

  compact Mayflowers or Continental breakfasts in a crowded congress

  of conversations in my head. Wait! that is what we are, in our heads is

  redundancy.

  Never completely dark

  Close your eyes

  Watch the world thin

  Close off the spears of sight

  to open the expanse of unspooling

  night

  that is the imagination unleashed

  ***

  Slow the insistent breath and listen

  The lower the threshold the more

  We know there is never pure silence

  Only degrees of dismissal as the air

  Molecules ring

  from high to low, it takes a constant toll

  ***

  The fulcrum of smooth imprints

  dissolve to pixels, there is no need

  to blink, the eyes are closed, the fight

  to see faces begins, they are sketches

  in shadow, negative

  relief, the engravings digest each other

  a panoply of pandering stills seize

  in black and light

  slow the breath and look

  there is no pitch filled pool

  in which meditation can gaily swim

  with eyes closed open to spontaneous combustion

  Withering depths/dried

  Yellow rose without life

  Does not relinquish its beauty

  As petals become dry paper

  Pigments change from sun to sunset

  The fragility commands distance

  as the setting beckons.

  ***

  In the frosted leaded crystal vase

  The sands of the past solidify

  The rosy stained imperfect grains

  that holds the thorny bent stem

  As the leaves sharpen to points

  The indifferent container mocks the rosy sand

  As sunshine through the dirty window

  High-lights the death when beauty intensifies

  post-bloom.

  Bladed weapons

  Occam’s razor dulls on the sharpening stone of ego

  Easily chipped if hit hard enough

  A slice, a laceration of logic seems straight

  But a cut of truth can be infected.

  As those who hold the blade