The Machines Have Taken Over

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GOLD

If you adorn your body with gold paint your skin can’t breath and you’ll die

That’s how I feel with everything I’ve never done in my life

Every talent’s ghost I’ve denied that I can see

While the unconditional love that surrounds me is torrented down ’til i can’t breathe

And I feel like a fraud, fake smile, fake diplomas, fake rings

Love thrown round like cats and dogs and violence to subordinate things

Hierarchy of being, over being me

You need flaws just to be, just to survive

There must always be something to work on, to work through, motive to strive

Muddy fields to fjord

Some fixation to overcome, winding roads to overdrive

Some relic of trauma for your inner child to face with its fist enclosed around a rattle

And a rattle in your chest from running so hard into the opening eyelid of dawn

Where your shadow is most visible and all binges end in horrid burnout, black vomit

Scars on your paws

Another statistic of the road toll, the road to ruin

There must always be holes in your skin, rust showing through the paint

Cuts, scratches, abrasions and sprains

Spaces for the air to get in and play

So we can go on

Polluting with every grateful exhale

Digging up what was buried long ago, blowing condensation in the moonlight

Putty fists on shovel, urn filled with discarded wishes I hold tight

Illusions of moral angels the nighttime nuisance who I do fight

Seperate parts of the brain control what we want vs what we like

The digging is the eureka

The dirt is really diamonds

The shimmer just the fool’s gold

Looking for something hidden you can’t find

Something elemental

Something Missing from my flesh

Covered in gold and loved

Like a pharaoh

Unto death

If Heaven Was Real I’d Already Have OD’d

Pangea

 


Heaven is no more real than sin. Anyone who truly uses his/her eyes can see there is no sin, only confusion, fear, loneliness– the hallowed jewels of human inheritance. Heaven exists somewhere in deepest recesses of the psyche, in some guise where the mind can’t aggravate us with its hungry, violent hands. I think I’ve seen Heaven, but I’ve been forbidden to stay there. Cast out back onto the turning wheel. Hungover, Dry-mouthed. Bleary-eyed and afraid. I knew I could go back to Heaven for $20 given to the right man. For the right interchange of chemicals in my brain. But I know that any trip to Heaven mandates a fall into Hell. They’re one connected territory. Not distinct islands– a faint but definite tombolo connects them. Being in one means you’re equivocally closer to the other. They’re not different countries, different states, but flip-sides of one always-temporary state. Flip-sides of a dollar. So I stopped believing in either and professed my devotion to the world. I have become Heaven and Hell. I have become God and Satan. I hated myself and overcame who I was in bloody battle. Now I am a mortal deity with no home, no allegiance, and I save my $20 to move across the Earth rather than to buy a dance in Heaven.

Everything You Thought You Wanted

Wanted


 

When you sit down with your little self

Your big ego

And submit

That everything will be alright

If you just try harder

And compromise and be grateful—

If you redraw schematics for a radically new existence

On pages well-wrapped with chaotic strands like a chrysalis

And decide that nothing previously thought was necessary

And bare existence will do you so long as it will let your hands unclench

And give your callouses a rest from holding on,

Out of the void comes the ancient toneless voice

So familiar to you you don’t notice its accent

Screaming ‘No’ with animal anger,

Aflame with disbelief and refusal

A voice so percussive it can huff and puff and blow your drawn-up happiness

To a far away land of bed-bound imaginations and drunken dreams

Then what?

Then what is the power of resolution, of trying, of well-bound self-help books

And pop psychology and well-meaning social support?

What do the pretty clothes of a novel will matter when they’re still hung off the same old broken coat stand?

When even your compromise is too expensive and drains your wallet of blood, your face of blood,

And the blood clots in your palace of blood.

All that works is fleeing from the self, denying the I inherently dying inside,

Leaving your little resolutions laying weakly in the parlour,

Dissolving into the body’s chemical mixture and adding new drugs to

Defang the innermost predator of the soul

The huntsman in your bed, tucked in and fast asleep (or just momentarily still, reflecting your gaze?)

The huntsman you can’t dare kill because you’d have to take your eyes off it first and retrieve your shoe

And what if when you look back it has moved?

I sit with myself as in an interrogation room and we both come out bloody, bruised, no wiser for information shared,

Mutual blank faces staring rudely at each other, no evidence admissible that wasn’t was netted with violence

I am the blinding light of hurt in my own eyes against a night sky dethroned of electricity

I am the heel hovering just above the head always ready, waiting on its own time to consider homicide agreeable and necessary

And the head too, the ugly thorax, unaware death is about to blanket the land from above

I am the resolution-maker, subject to the demands of my resolve and considering how to balance the fires that nibble at my being’s distant parts

I am the flood and drowning in it too

So what do I do when I sit down with my little self and say “let yourself be happy” and the voice denies me from the abyss?