The Excursion of Consciousness

small town, Large Weight

The crustaceous coagulation of platelets
coagulated, congealed in crimson blossoms
 rubbed raw with vapor
scoured sore by succubus sensation
cigarette scores softly stilted
swoop stagnated cues slant
the scent of small town
rolling like crests and divots
filling nothing
desire faded,
not forgotten
pours endless sanguine from my right nostril
warm and sticky, throbbing, pleasant, impermanent
Oh, the green!

I guess what’s most important right now is to say something.

I want to say that things are all mixed up for me but that’s not precisely what I’m trying to convey. The thing is I’m still not caught up my own deceptive thoughts. I keep trying to make things a million different ways and I’m just stalling out.

I can’t figure out if I’m caught in a cycle or drastically outside of one. Or none of those. I’m just somewhere floating in and out being jerked around without being aware of myself or anything that matters. I having relapses of feelings and unfortunately thoughts, I did when I was very ill. Yet, I’m still acutely aware that I can be happy. I’ve seen it but I have nothing solid. No real home to return to, a few people I care about but see almost never, I’m struggling to keep my head above water in school and in my profession and that tugs at a different life that I don’t know if I can live. I’m so unhealthy, malnourished, borderline alcoholic, barely hygienic (maybe not even) and so incredibly distant that everything is just meaningless.

I remember that I have dreams but at every turn they seem to get crushed no matter how hard I fight back and goddammit I’ve fought and struggled and just wrecked myself. People keep telling me I’m strong and that I work hard and that I’m interesting but I can’t be what I want to be. I’ve hidden everything that I am now so far buried that I doubt that I can’t live with it and what’s worse is that I can’t say that I’m having a rough time. I just carry on with a “calm and cool demeanor.”

I’m so sick, in every sense of the word, of every little thing. I hate the majority of reality, I’m making my fantasies into nightmares that reflect what I see and when I try to put that into my work it just comes back out as nightmares.

I used to think that tragic heros at least had their 15 seconds of fame but I realized a long time ago that most of them just get buried in shallow graves and their stories are never told. That’s what my generation is all about. Trying not to be that hero at any expense. The price is paid off in extreme idiocy. I sound like a cranky old pessimist of a fuck but take whatever judgemental thoughts about that you may have with a grain of salt.

Enough philosophizing though.

I simply don’t feel safe or respected or able to pursue my life without being immediately reprimanded and pursued out of sheer malice. That’s what it boils down to.

When the doc’s told me that I did what I needed to do to survive, I knew I wanted to thrive but I’ve simply fallen and fallen and fallen into endless despair. Now I can’t help but just want a way out and I’m sure I’ll do something.

The thing is I don’t know whether or not I’ll want it.

That’s the scary thing. Opportunities made are made from situational variants.

Nothing is certain… and neither am I.
I am uncertain.
And that my friends is a very large conundrum.

When I sit outside after being in a small town bar and decide to sit down to just take the world in for a second, I stop and realize how cold I am. Not lonely per chance, not even small. I just feel cold. Liked, maybe a little. Loved even a smidge? I can’t say. I do know that when the only warmth I can feel is the smoke I lite up in the dark and sustain the pungent neroseises that roll like miniscule, rolling portions of tenderness into the cherry blossom I kiss so intimately, I swoon every so slightly. So who could blame the cold on the small of my back? I don’t think it’s erroneous to concur that I just want to fill that void with someone. I think maybe it’s called desire…

Love Doth not Know Poetic Justice of Hemorrhaging Intellect

Nymphatic meditations too transitive
an Attaché eclipsed in luscious lure
painted, oaken wood beads
amongst bumbling barbed sinews of corrosive copper chords
wrought, in braided pewter stems

coyish undertoned chestnut
shots stirred silent:
iron spirals and torrential-grey spate

Tentative wisps, while wistfully wary of willows
(but he, with his crown of crooked wicker nests)
won wholly, when wrens rhyme, and woo
(bows his mane and gingerly jests)
becomes too timid, to spout a verse to you

hushed in melodic majesty
of skinned-scarlet knees,
nude dresses,
cordial in nature and brief narrative

Sepulchre of silver crescents
coalescing, in subdued placid pockets
ripening with apricot nectar
yet minutely tart, with veiled pomegranate perplexities
betwixt which cultivate our seasoned soils
-some riddled with salt-

Grubby, Scarred, Callused, Filth Ridden Palms and Perpetually Shit Encrusted Fingernails Dredging through a Myriad of Silt, Clay and Soil on a Scorching Day in Mid June

Weathering my hide.

Straining my sinews.

Clawing worm shit.

Blistering calloused palms and heels.


for all the laborious tasks allotted,

I cannot quiet my mind.


Do they have souls?

They’re floating fleshy bellies,

stinging and eating and dying.

Can they even feel?

What special hell do you have to burn in?

How can you stand killing?

Especially since you have no will?


Sometimes subtle plays with a dash of politeness work.

At least they’re plays.

Lack of confidence is still confidence.

Maybe it’s all image.

Too superficial.

Then ants…

"Do they have lungs?"

coworker babble is mindless

but just another added striation of jadedness


Living condtions,


family (or lack thereof),

water is essential to staying hydrated,



planting with care,

career choices,


professional work standard,

attraction again,



kinship with a dear friend,


-all expanded far exceeding this preposterous brevity.

Then the existentialism of all of them,

point of view.