We're all so absent.
Crying in tandem to our dying dreams.
Please.
Come back.
From so far out there you float in miasma.
Give us back our hope.
The things that get us through our days.
Our cherished.
Memories.

But the empty don't dream.

I can feel the bullet powering through my skull.
And.
The infinite release of negation.

There I am.
In my mind.
With this familiar refrain.
To alleviate the frustration.
To correct the mistake.
That is me.

All life is.
Is suffering without end.
Failed dreams.
Slowly decaying into infirmity.

Wouldn't it be so nice.
For that millisecond of transition into something black.
Forever.
Something empty.
Forever.

It's not like it matters.
It's not like I matter.
No one does.

So I fantasize a cold steel grey barrel pressed firmly against my temple.
And.
One.
Millisecond.

Then.
Red.

Against the wall.

I have made.
Every iconoclastic blasphemy.
A sigil to the loss.
Of my humanity.
As a mythopoetic respite from the contradiction.
Of life.
And, I am super position.
To myself.
A sadhu of dirt.
Brahman of filth.

And on the pyres are burning.
Former lives.
As each taboo.
Spills forth from my mouth.
Each symbolic act of my own personal apophenia.
Is carved on my skin and I don't.
Hide.
From the light.
I announce.
My own divine dusk.

I picked death.
As my austerity.
Not *******.
Absolution through annihilation.
Nolan, the great destroyer.
Saiva of the unambitious.
Stuck in a great protest against.
Light.
Defiling the temple.
That is my grace.

My blessing.
The fall of nations

And, here in the gallows field.
Are hanged men.
For hands of glory.
Necromantic rites of antideluvian.
Ideas.
Strange unknown Gods of distant mountains.
Looming ominous and odd.

In the burial grounds.
I abide.
With the insects and lowly things.
I am a statement of the triumph of rot.
In the face of beauty.
I become abominable.
In flesh.

And, God made the low.
Like God made the high.
And when he made me.
He blessed me with.
Sacrilege.
A wicked tongue that forks out of my mouth.
A will stronger even than absolution.

If I am clean.
I will become *****.

Here lies the ambition.
Of Nolan Bucsis.
Caked with blood sacrifice.
Filth.
And suffering.

Life has become Hell.

So, through my ego.
I ascend beyond it and never leave.
I abide in the abject misery my life has become.
I willingly become the scapegoat.
I will eat the sin.
Dine on sacrificial beasts.

Discarded.

The theology of collective guilt.
Trickster spirit using misery.
To blossom beautiful fruit.

They will know me by my ignominious deeds.
Even though Raven steals the sun.
Even though Coyote eats his wife.
Even though every ***** lowly thing.
Exists in itself.
The lesson remains.

Looks can be deceiving.
Bluster isn't belief.
And the urge to be isolated.
Subverts the need to be.
Loved.

Maybe I need to be.
A prophet.
Of destruction and desolation.
Woe and foreboding of doom.

So I remember the contradictions.

God made an angel of death.
Azrael.

God made an angel of sin.
******.

God made a great destroying chief of Satans.
Samael.

Where there is light.
A long shadow is cast.

Because God made me.
And,
I want.
Eternal night.
Perpetual sleep.

I drift into unconsciousness.
As there's no reason.
To be awake.

There were a few secret subtle moments.
I shared with you.
But.
Mostly you're just.
Dead and.
Gone.

And now, there's the sheer panic.
That I have nowhere else to go.
Nothing left to do but stare.
Vacantly out the window.

It's always a sudden shock.
It's always sharp and biting.

Yet,
All it is.
Is.

Just frantic fear at the realization.
I just.
Wasted.
My life.

Every moment spent.
Escaping from right now.

The pills are working and I have emotions.
But, not the ones I want.
Never the ones I want.

And still that gnawing absence eats and tears me.
That depression of topography
In liminal time.
That constant self doubt.
The niggling fear of failure.
Self fulfilling prophets.
Revelations horded in secret.

I'm always wandering somewhere else.
With a firm
Desire to run away from everything.
All.
Over.
Again.
I don't want to face another disappointment.
Another bad choice.
A bad memory with a face.

So,
I make none.
And just fade away into the ambience on the radio
Always running forward.
To another town.
Hiding in shadows.
Going unnoticed.

I am a ghost on the highway.
Looking for a ride.

Somewhere that ain't here.

Joy has never really come to me.
That easily.
But, when I'm happy.
It feels so sublime.
And, I cling to it.
Like a jealous.
Lover.

One day.

Your will to live disappears.
And, there you are.
A long time from then.
When that was now.

Tomorrow comes too fast.
Nothing.
Is ever done.

And, it's one more procrastination.
Until I fade into the meaninglessness.

I'm afraid of tomorrow and what I might be.
Unloved.
Neurotic.
Alone and aghast at the prospect of finding a life in this cold damp haze that is my life.
My life
My wretched life.
I watched it pass away.
Buffered by a could have been.
And smoked away like lazy days.
All my ambitions deflated in failure.
Never trying.
Hard.
Enough.

No meaningful relationships.
No friends to spare.
Just my own personal monotony.
Laid bear for none to see.

And still that gnawing absence eats and tears me.
That depression.
In liminal time.
That constant self doubt.

And a desire to run away from it.
All.
Again.
I don't want to face another disappointment.
Another bad choice.

So,
I make none.
And just fade away into the ambience in the background.