when I just had that thought
he who dies with the most toys wins, eh?
asemic and anumeric
process and reality
being and time
time and the other
for some young mind to be aroused by
in sixty years
Untitledhello my name is Yellow Pisscunt
how is your prodigious unicorn today
I betrayed myself to the single
I hate him because he gets to be who he is and nothing more
how can I be more
I am not enough people for me
how can I become two
I think seven would be enough
for all of me to be me
but now I wr8ite shit
and live on divine blood
tainting my lips
and it stops when I don't want it to
and I want to never stop
but my being itself
as I know it
is the kind that stops
which terrifies me
all the time
burning through goo
so many leaking tubes
goo calls new tubes home
and the call me
while I should be gone
away from mundane stress
but they find me
and I can't get away
I can't get out
always stuck being less me than I need to be
UntitledWhat was it for?
The long nights in the basement,
the only-sleep-when-I-pass-out-from-exhaustion lifestyle,
the passionate suffering,
what was it all for?
The endless war,
damn this infernal transformation.
Does it fall on me to document the struggles of a generation,
a generation that watches every triumph become trivial,
a generation that waits for itself to become obsolete,
the generation forced to condemn temporality,
the generation to witness the end of temporality as it dies the last deaths?
God floats in a pool of His own blood.
The masters wipe their asses with angel feathers.
The curious are left for dead.
the traveller carefully exits the foresti have to lead little blind
doves of thoughts into dead ends
lest they read, cover up the soil.
but the neon signs vs breathing pulp:
i would like to have Honda wings and vandalize beaches
to register car crashes as ordered sensations
of the spinal cord, the aerodynamics of a shower of turbulent cold
to tell Him to fuck off the way it was meant
to be: naked, ruffled, alone.
and they say my kind avoids forests, and it’s easy to see why:
an emptied closet, a smattering of dust.
and the tropics is wide and huge and it changes colour
but remember the marshes swallowing
my army boots, bringing me down
to my knees, revealing
temples in vine lace and adder.
the traveller rests against a tree,
they can’t make out his face as he looks
up, fingers intertwined in brushwood
and promises made but not yet voiced.
an insurrection of tidessaltwater sweats
we took the moon in one campaign
bravado burning in our lungs
and had her in a ditch
Biophilic CannibalBiophilic Cannibal
only concur when antiquity
is met with antagonism.
they occur and concede
when memories are
tainted grime and smut,
met with carrion redolence.
there is adoration
of all living systems
only when organs
peek through organisms.
separation of forcesone small dose and the world falls apart
and we're the mollusks who'll live
to paw through its rubbish
accessories to armageddon
and god a cogent
only sees concentric circles
satellites of the deadsatiate the default
(can't talk our way out of nothing)
rebus scarred tongues
of the logically absurd
we've no proof
of our status in this/divine apparatus
so feed us and snuff the tamed
noise from the herd
evolved in a blur
past those primates ensconced in their
radial shadows, this is the cave
collapsed around plato
and from it's rubble we will build
a sutured scripture; statuesque
that all the blithe will flock to follow
electric guts and fever sweats
love two deathit's force fed until sickened
oozing from ears and empty eyes
split open to be disemboweled
rotten remains drip from thin bones
if I spoke romantically, would it be enough?
if I traced my fingers down your spine, would you be mine?
if I was sweeter than deception, would you succumb quickly?
the chemicals inside of our brains will wane
is the future still bright and predetermined?
the meaning will fade with thoughtless repetition
are you holding my hand or replaying memories again?
Riflessione di notteSi dissanguano i colori
al mio risveglio
sotto i raggi della luna;
rifletto nella neve
la luce scura del vento,
silenzioso e perpetuo casanova
dei tuoi capelli.
vago nella foresta lugubre
della mia mente, e il nulla
mi afferra le mani e mi chiama e
mi persuade e seduce. Ma
io non voglio, non voglio
essere trascinato in queste
vie vacue d'anime perse
Black Bull on Motorwayporn tulpa on mirror hill
reveals wrecked ignition of nebulous imago
harsh orchard on wheels
na sound of a song being moved away
in the shape of a deep inverted cup
n silent lyrics tattooed on the instrumental version