And I told you

They were coming

And lo!
Look!

Here they are!

!!

AND STILL YOU DO NOT SEE!

••

It is NOT because of greed

It is NOT because of lack of love

••

WE ARE BEING TAKEN DOWN BY ALIEN FORCES!

-----

(Can't you see!---------I told you they were coming!

Now they are here!

!!!!

(How else could it be happening?

How to explain the sudden surge

Of weapons and technology?)

NO OTHER!

••

We must unite and resist!

Isn't it obvious?

••

You have actually been trained

To cut yourselves with razor blades and to think its cool!

IT AIN'T!

So?--------//////----I am led to assume you have been

taken over by Alien Entities!

••

YOU HAVE!

••

Cease your purile  Denial

MEDITATE

RETAKE YOUR BODY

RETAKE YOUR WORLD

These purile placid waters.
Are dreary, dull, and depressing.
Rhythmically lapping against my barren shore.
The obligations of my regular raucus routine
Are unsatisfying
As the still waters linger in staid stagnation.
The excitement.
Evaporated.


These calm terse trade winds
Don't have much to seeemingly say.
Festering in this standing water
The pent up pinnacle of radical resignation.
To this biohazard of my life
Where the smell
Is as pungent.
As the mildew makes me mouldy.

The cascade of pent up emotion and energy.
Cusps over the pinnacle.
As the friction from the frozen emotions.
Deigns to break the dam.
Of the calm.

This is discouraging.
Dreary dismal boredom.
I crave excitement.
Bustling life and algae blooms.
The uncertainty of getting lost in the frantic energy of entropic disorder
The irregular arrangement of intrinsic energy and form.
Entices me with promises of
A sudden subliminal bursting
Forth from the chaos of life.
Into my own subjective sonnet of
Kamikaze choreography.
Music dripping with ******.
Kaleidoscopic cacophony.
The dischordant choir.
Singing the sanctified song of self sundering.

I pray

For Dionysian ecstasy.
The feeling of flying without wings
Light headed and lit like a sentry on the horizon
Dizzy on the dangerous down ***** drugs.
Weaving in and out of reality.
A phantom pharmacological pyre burning with spontaneous combustion.
I want the frantic fury of a fragile furious fiasco.
I want the sublimation of the self as a Saiva sadhu
Avatara of too much stimulation.
A caffeinated catastrophe.

The raucus road of righteous rage.
Leads to squander and squalor.
To trauma and decay.
It all leads to death.
Funneling me into
Minutes away from the 2 seconds too short.
Accidental overdose on purpose
Apathy announcing my altered state
I made a deal with the devil and the payment's due.
The deflation of failure.

The pain calms me down.

I'm living in that
One overgrown pauper's grave.
Where
Even beautiful boughs of begonias.
Dry up into dust.
Passion won't push me through.
This sudden mood swing.

So.
I keep at the Apollonian ordering of chaos and revel in the frustration of simple.
Altering this abject asymetry of forms into Euclidean geometry.
Predictable boundaries for
Classifying this chaotic confusion
This scatterbrain lawless lolly gagging
Into something sensible.
Something, coherent.
Rational.

Order.

And I'm less inspired.
More frustrated that I have to
Wade
Through all this linguistic graffiti.
Sprayed haphazardly across my neurosis.
Feeling the frustration of
The energetic editing that edifies
My fragile ego.

But I'm a husk of an interesting person.
My addendum is short, curt,
And concise.
I'm more genuine when I'm blunt.
More authentic when I'm apathetic.

As usual though.
I
Failed
At being anything.
Other than confusing.
Seemingly desperate.

I'm always.
Giving up.
Annihilation natters at my mind.
It bores into my skull.
That familiar earwig.
Lying about its nature.
A disappointment to fear.

Potential is better than failure.
Who I could be would be anything
Other than what I am.
A failed dream.
Like my unfinished books.
Like my drug induced amnesia.
Like all those missed opportunities.
All those possibilities slipping through my hands.
Each fantastic potentiality getting more and more.
Uncertain.

I start off strong
Then taper out into.

Unfulfilling.
Low energy.
Dysjointed from reality.
Forcing myself to review my past.
In these irregular self criticisms.
Longing for meaning in whatever I throw against the wall.

Afterall.
I understand my own glossolalia.