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.

My blood is coursing through
My body with suicidal depression.
I don't want to see the unravelling of the rope of
Being correct.
Or wallow in the satisfaction
That I got it right the whole time.

Redemption isn't satisfying.
Neither is being right.
I am not a phoenix rising out of ashes.
I'm an aghori, drunkenly asleep
In the funeral ash of a widow fire.

I want to dissolve in
My boredom
And be made to have no history.

God, wipe me from existence.

I want to be abnegated
Not vindicated.
Nor validated for anything I do.

I don't publicise my morality.
I don't look for congratulations
For things most people should recognize as good.

I cannot adjust to the perpetual minor inconveniences of reality.
Even though I resolved not to die
By my hand.

I still feel the same.

Alive because I am not allowed to die yet.
Condemned to eternal boredom.
Unable to sleep.

I wish God would have asked me whether
I wanted to hear his voice.
I prayed for annihilation and dissolving into death.
Not some mission reflected in the actions
And words
Of other people.

Nolan writ large with his own enormous opinions,
My disproportionate influence
Encoded in the words of other people
Eerily exactly, what I elucidate.

God, stop thinking that if I see
The effect I had on other people
I'd be ok with being and time.

I'm not.
Ok.
With existing.

I want to disappear and live in the utopia
Of never have begun
And nothing will change my mind.

Such a waste of time.

Being anointed.
Being a prophet.
Being alive.

Being in general.

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.

Frustration
Whips me with a cat o nine tails.
Ripping chunks off my
Flesh.

I persist in the pain
Of never good enough
Or, why did I try.

Fear in a fever,
Blood cascading down my soul
Like warm milk.

There is comfort in the fire
Until you know you're getting
Burnt.

I reopen the old wounds of
The pain of an impotent nothings
Life
Oozing corpulent infection throbs
In bursts.

Visceral viscera
Cascades over my failures

My personal cartography.

Charted on scars
And bruises,
Healed broken bones.
A lifetime of self hate.

I can't live.

I can only
Offer a blood sacrifice in penance
To every self conscious fear.
Every hesitation
And savage self evaluation.

Nothing I've done is good
So, burn it all, won't you?
Mix these words and this body in the charred remains of the fire.

Return to dust
And silence.

I don't think about the
Optics.
Of many situations,
But I have enough acumen,
To know who to support.

And,
who to make an enemy.

I am an existential resistance
To staid and typical
Meaning.

Metaphorically
Normal.

Symbolically
Mundane.

­I reject the common, easy,
Beauty
of lovely things.

I scrawl obscenity across a digital footprint,
Comparmentalizing my personality.

A time to be good.
A time to be bad.
A time to cause as much damage as I can.

With, my internet graffiti
In this large language collaborative fiction
I desecrate duty and obligation,
With the kamikaze song.

I want nothing but bad things
For you.

And erasure.
For me.

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.