In my good memories,
There's entrancing music I never heard
Playing over a soundtrack
Whhile travelling, high
With the first her I ever had,
The first
romance.

Barrelling down the highway,
In the backseat of someone
Else's old car,
Quebec rolling away
Outside the car
Trees and plains
intermixed
with mountains.

So much
potential,
So many great things to do,
The
future
was mine,
Right now,
Back then
though,
All I could think about
Was her.

And she was there,
Real,
Beaming radiant in the sun,
Holding hands
A warmth hotter than the sun,
Comfortable.

But she's gone,
Like they all are,
Sometimes I like
To think
About those few.

Ghosts,
That haunt my days.

I'm drowning in perpetual
Anger.

Yet,
no one to
Direct it at.

Maybe it's a sign of the times
Or a symptom of some
Known mental illness,
I have.

I hibernate
In my room
Stewing in my juices-
Running my mind up and down
The tobacco stained walls,
Falling perpetually down,
Like the trails of tar.

At least,
Amongst the dread,
I feel safe in here,
Even though the cabin fever
Is running high.

But I can't make small talk,
Or smile at you,
I'm,
Too ******,
Too jaded,
Too me.

I remain
Anxiously anticipating
A break,
To the silence,
A need for a furious furore,
Some type of tempest.

I am the lord of spite,
Surveying the ruins of a ruined
Life,
Singing the same refrain I always sing,
I hate with a perfect hatred.

I never thought about
Whether I meant something to them
I just
Left
To forget,
They were present.

Can't be hurt
If you can't even remember
Their face.

The first time I smelled the
Pang of death,
It took my breath away,
Stole it,
Befouled it,
Tainted my living flesh
With rigor mortis,
And the certainty of lungs.

Wafting out a
Lounging acrid bitter spasm
As I scrape the corpse
Of the coyote,
Off the highway
Into a garbage bag,
Limbs agape and asymmetrically bound,
In place.

Undertakers don't make coffins
For road ****,
And,
I unceremoniously dump them into
The trash.

Life is a reflection of death,
No one knows you passed on
Til someone tells someone else
So if I keep it to myself,
No one will know.

Till that bitter offal odour
Floats out my door
And,
Takes someone's breath away.

Every day is a
New catatonia
To meander through.

Sleeping too late,
In my own narcoleptic,
Night terror.

Maybe if I ignore
The outside world,
It will go away,
And I can die,
In peace.

Gone too late,
On borrowed time,
In my sleep.

I stare
Listless
Into the static
On the horizon.

As I lose myself
In a digital abyss.

The sun never rises online.

How can you know
Anything about me
When I whisper to myself
In broken thoughts.
Inconsistently incomprehensible
Masochistic mantras.

I
want
out.

Words
Don't coalesce
Like they used to.
They dissolve into my
Petulant apathy-
Feelings of forgetfulness.
Ineloquent.

Nahum 3:6
“And I will cast abominable filth upon thee,
and make thee vile,
and will set thee as a gazingstock.”

I am baptized in filth,
Permeated with disorder,
A beast of burden
Driven by divine anti cosmic selfishness.

Disgust and revulsion count the beat with my
Irregular slow pulse,
Arrhythmic anti bodies against healthy.

I wallow in the fallow foul offal of things
No one wants,
I am the God of undesirable castigates.

I ascend in the eschatology of dirt,
Dis-ease and grime line the cracks in my soul.

If I have a soul
it's stained black with too much smoke, tar,
And the neurotic austerity of abuse,
One drug psychosis to another.

My odour is
Smelling like the smouldering mouldy scent of cigarettes
And bad breath.

The entropy of self abnegation,
Defiling the temple God gave me,
But who asked Him.

I will desecrate my existence with the messy disorder,
Of a desperate need,
To existentially embody,
My disgust for living.

For all your bravado,
Your narcissistic self obsession,
For your hyperbolic hubris,
And your greed for lust.

All of your social ostracization,
Your declarations of anathema,
For your cruelty,
For your envy and your wrath at those unlike you.

I sentence you all.
To the tumult and fear,
Of salvation.

An angry Armageddon.
A great cataclysm looms.
And, the messiah is glad.
It will all burn.

From the inside
Of the coma.
I breathe rhythmically.
Out of step
With
The outside world.

Until I wake up.
And,
Mourn the loss of dreams.

Synchronized with the depression
Of aware.

I am sublimated in the translation
Of dusk into dark.

Performing the rites of twilight
I lurch anointed in the contrast of a street light
Casting long dark shadows,
Across despoiled fallow land.

I burn with the sin of unknown
craggy
well hidden
things.

And,
I'm dancing the dance of corvids
My ****** of crows is a pack of ravens
Wisdom and Knowledge.

I am
Lost with the magpies
Sacrificing pigeons,
Omnivore.

I seek to know the nothing of the vacuum,
Guided by beasts of burdens,
Other obligations.

All things come to pass and ***** out sacred light
Out here in the tenuous void,
My resigned realm, nill and unbecoming,
Spirals into a vortex of decimation.

Here in the rotten rancid Grey Wastes,
Mystically medicated on mushrooms
I'm hallucinating evil wretched things,
Shrouded in the apprehension
Of a heroic dose,
But, then again I'm always somewhere else.

I'm always in another life,
Another engulfing misery,
Fantasizing dissolution into damnable abominable things,
Light oscillating subtle shadows out the corner of my eye,
The intrusive delusion
That something is
Out
There.

Out here in the eclipse of light.
Everything is shrouded in suspicion
And danger,
Even though it's tranquil territory
Most of the wayfarers
Are dangerous.

And,
Hell is dark.

And,
Hell is cold.

And,
Hell is empty in the glimmer
Of God's holy glow.

I will extinguish the light,
Collapse it into singularity-
Into a black hole.

The infernal portal
Where ego triumphed over spirit,
Pure matter,
I will enter into the gate
To a starless aeon.

I dwell in the eternal darkness of
Night.

And,
What is heaven but a snuffing out of light?

Now adays.
The days.
Just blow away.

And, I'm left in hesitation.
Wondering what went.
Wrong.
Hoping I have enough time.
Left.
To do something more.
Than passing the time.

No one writes me love poems.
Cause there's nothing much to love.
Nothing really here.
Nothing really of note.

I want to scream through.
This excruciating boredom.
Maybe into a purpose.
More complex than.
How do I get through today.

I
Despair.
At what's left.
Of my life.

Another couldn't get up.
Suicidal ideation.
Day.
Where I slept through a nine to five.

Another.
This too will pass into another.
Hopeless situation.
Stewing in my juices.

Lusting for that finale.
As long as I'm unconscious.

It's ok.

Every day I want to die
But I can never find the right way
To elucidate it,
As if I figure out its lexicon
It will go away.

How many words do you need
For death.

How many impossible overdoses
Do you need to survive.

How many dismal dreary days
To slump through,
Do I need to experience.

Isolation.
Emptiness.
Loneliness.

Pointless useless mouth I am.
I despise myself.

Seems like for me suicide is forbidden
Some blessing of life
This is.

There is no redemption arc.

Loneliness is a temporary thing.

Comes and goes with bad dreams
Of people I used to know.

I don't think someone else
Can fulfil me
Or bring me peace.

It would just be nice
If another ******
Would take the time
To tell me about their day.

I never told you I could
Sing.

I showed you.

And,
You still didn't
Believe me.

So I chose
To serenade
The silence.

With my discordant
Choir.

It's not acceptable
To simply end.
I want to be erased.
From the book of life,
I want to be retroactively
Annihilated.

It is not sufficient to die.
It is only sound if I never.
Was.

Depression subsumes
Me into
Sloth.

It's hard getting up the motivation
To live
When everything is so bleak.

So empty.

These memories of people I used to know
I forgot.

My will to be
Evaporating.

Death would be a restful sleep.

Meaning reduced
To listlessness.

I can't find anything
Meaningful to say
To you
my former self.

And, if life is living the same story
Over and over.
I'd like this one
To end.

I've memorized the script.
The plot is atrocious
And I'm long past dead.

At the curtain call.

How many 20 year old men
Do the baby boomers get to
Send to die for your
petty
conflict.

Your brothers war.

How many armchair generals
Throw an already dying people
Into the meat grinder.
So mail order brides
Can make mystery meat borscht instead
Of fighting their own *******

War.

From the comfort of what's apparently not my home.

What's one more paranoid delusion
To throw on the pyre
Of my imagined self.

I thought I'd notice
My hallucinations.
But, they're just banal
Misunderstandings my eyes make.
Mistranslated apophenia
Glossolalia,
Babeling nothing out my mouth.

And, I hide in the dark,
In a crevice in reality
Alone.
Buffered from the pertubations.
Of the chaos.
Away from other people.

Away from stiumulus.
Flickering unconnected neon signs,
Hearing speech in the percolating nothing of the din,
Flashbacks and other intrusive.
Thoughts.

Like, is this real?
Was that a memory?
Or a dream I had one day
Awake.

I wish my mental health
Wasn't so discombobulatedly asymmetrical
Or poorly written.

Thinking I'm so deep,
Profound, well put
Together.

If only I had the chance
Or motivation
To fail.

Some day all of this
Will make sense.

Or I'll get lost in losing my ability
To keep a thought longer
Than a calling card.

But who am I to hand out
References.
To something beyond what I am.