Stains Upon Black

There is a place without words leaking from every last crevice. There is a place where humanity is in confessed ruins. Nothing but a bridge of another time, with toppled trees obscuring and broken glass enshrouding. Water flows but I cannot see it. The moon not yet birthed from the mountain's silhouetted bosom. Only hints of its womblike glow spilling over with subtle shade shifting. I sit and soak in the water. Not the water itself, but what it resonates. The manifestation of my mind through sound. The movement of liquid of endless depth, slippery, silky depth. Crickets of many varieties out in the open yet bathed in shadow, sounding their fiddling of romance and bug lust. Love is lust with spirits entwined above the soil of fucking. Alone, with these ruins and these vibrations and these procreating insects, oblivion pushes hard against my body. I feel it's sweat. The temperature, absolute zero yet boiling against my brow. A brow scarred by solitude. Though my words sound like the distant sirens of the humanity that will not leave me be, this only occurs in my mind. No phrases and quotes to serenade the air with hypnotizing, multimedia diarrhea. A sip or two from my bottle of water and then returning these sips to the river. The trees are black, completely black. So black, all colors are fabricated by my eye fluids. The lambent moon glow covers like a fallen silk garb of glistening twilight dew small patches of the soil. I am turned away from this light and peer into the dark. More details discovered but overall obscured. My instinct wary, every last falling of every last twig is shrewdly collected by my scatterbrained brain. This river just to my right, running below the bridge, sticks out, like a tongue, from the darkness ahead. So high up into the sky this river runs. The veins of these mountains, these excessive tangents of microscopic proportions within our solar system, run high and all around. Trees, some burned to death, protrude from the sides of these veins. Conclusions to the trains of thought erupting from the soil like volcanic eruptions in another era, withering, twigs falling, assessed and forgotten. Dead. Dead. Dead like my words. Reaching for the stars but getting caught in the void, drifting among the supernovas without a pulse to seek orgasms inside of them. Clothed, wishing to be naked, I gaze into this mouth of darkness. Will a predator rip me to shreds? Would that be the worst of things? If the night swallowed me, the bag of guts with fantasies to massage, would the sun illuminate a river of blood. Finally, through this, would the sun illuminate the workings inside of me. I have memories I die to share, if I die, my blood shall be shared. The only thing inside of me is my blood. So swallow me nature. Swallow me shadows. Cleanse yourself of the stain.

But I want to live. I want to live and I want to reach the stars. You, the reader, are the stars in which I speak. Floating in void, illuminating with explosive gas belching desire, you catch in your sight my lifeless words drifting like worms in open water. Among the crickets and toads in my place of solitude, I gaze at La Crescenta. Like the fish of the abyss, the darkness of space glows with blinking lights, alluring the needy and licking their crotches. From this puddle of glowing tadpoles, hiding in shells of machinery, there is a copper glow. This glow reaches high, but not high enough. The stars are too far away. Our extended grasp is in vain. I await the day all the lights go out. I await the panic that ensues from the knowledge that they shall never be on again. What a symphony that will be. One last symphony, and then silence.

So i'll settle for this. Within this glow, love everything you can get your hands on. This is a note to myself.

Paralysis. Screams Behind The Shell.

My body lapses into inertia. Absolute inertia has a feeling. It is my least favorite feeling. Your innards turn to bugs and all hide in pouches of skin as shivery, electric goose bumps. The gravity is absurd. My flesh becomes a lifeless shell, occasionally one of my hands is in sight, completely still and dead. Bones motionless yet the soul inside screaming and pouncing like a caged carnivore. expression dumbfounded and lazy, yet behind the flesh are fists pounding against bloody walls. Eyes open, wide open, the nightmares unfurl before me. I am helpless. I am forced to face them. The show begins immediately.

Men and women of different variety emerge through the doors and through the windows. Arising into my vision from the floor. Their mortal terror is impossible to describe. They appear as persona thick silhouette. Faces seen through the darkness, crazed, straight from a fever dream. The bed shakes and giggles and belches. It sucks me into it's void and I float in bloodlit caverns with stalagmites steaming quickly with hot breaths. My body has been eaten by ravaged dogs before. My flesh has been groped and ripped apart. All in these caverns that merge with my room, now melted and screaming for help, guts pouring from the walls.

Sometimes I see similar things while wide awake and with a body that moves. Sometimes it is in public.

i won't go into more detail. I'm writing a book that'll tell all about it, after all. I write this just because it happens and the gravity of it weighs down harder than any of you can really imagine yet. I feel like a shell sometimes. I feel like a screaming soul in a lifeless vessel. I feel paralyzed in motion, for I feel alone in motion, for the soul is not freed and articulated. My paralysis is a thick amplification and meditation of this. Each session is another stroke of the paddles, as I take my leaking canoe further from the shore, into waters. With absolute freedom, I shatter my shell and melt out. Embrace who I am, for it screams to flow.

There is still so much distance.  Behind the shell is fluid. It wants to mingle in life. The walls of the domicile are suffocating sometimes. There is hope brewing. Very potent and euphoric hope. yet sometimes I worry that i may become too dependent of its source. To be honest, my situation there is driving me crazy in some ways. I want to be as close to people as I can. Words don't do it.

I want to be as transient as the wind.

Limbo Eyes

In the silent place, where the crickets have no love, only heartbeats that ricochet off of inanimate walls. Prisons for insects in the great dark. Fragmented and separated are the cages. Thousands of miles apart. The airports do not groan. The cemeteries do not shiver. There is no sound in the silent place. This all lies against non-reflective black terrain. Ahead of coffin veiled eyes, there is no sun to glister their black pupils, so dusty. Against this world, of worlds not yet illumined, Villas of eventuality float without existence like mercurial cylinders with the void heavens inside. 

Without much ado, the soil rich horizon is bathed in particle light and time. The coffins pop as bubbles pop and the rays find the black pupils. The darkness glows with light. Different shades of shadow in the black dot, shrinking against the bitter light like linguistic aperture. The sunlight massages your ears with the sounds of the crickets seen ahead, liberated and sounding their love fiddles. These ears and pupils are separated in the space time continuum. their merging process begins. 

Spilling from all sides of this sun-soaked pupil are deserts and dunes. So concentrated is their shade of orange, like the sands of venus and more potent still. Glowing with orange, yet restrained and cool in temperature. A color most cosmic and illusive in mother nature.

Water is born for the very first time. The deserts flood all around with deep aquamarine water. Glowing thick with murky flawless green, like the surface of Uranus and more potent still. Very cool in temperature, freezing, shivery, smoldering. Sizzle spice zest pow. Ghostly is it's aura. Now, the desert is but a sandy beach. The waves of this aqua ripple subtly and with a little pep from my imagination. Deeper do the waters of this ghostly sea of beautiful bliss go. Darker does it's shade appear from up on high, where the sun floats watching and exploding in place. Darker and deeper goes the water until the pitch black is thick and absolute. This is where the bottom feeders feed. The magnificent, magnificent bottom feeders. Slimy and aroused by shadow. They peak their eyes from behind moldy rocks of black and smile with teeth most jagged. The beauty is unreal.

Exploding from this darkness in all directions pointing away from your shrunken pupil is a sky made of milk. Glistening, glossy, spanning light-years and light-years across, the shine and gleam and divine sheen absolutely thrilling. This milk of sky enshrouds a sphere of matter and in it sits trails of deep red smoke from the tear duct tavern door. Like lightening strikes of blood! Other clouds of red, so faint and slight, here and there occasionally. Otherwise, polished is this sky of milk. All nested in delicate flesh. Cliffs of pink that end in lashes, like brown flames stationary in moving time. Blinks every now and again. Through the flesh that surrounds, which glitters so with galaxies of stars and blushing, the ears and eyes are merged. 

The temple expands to beautiful peacock landscape, soft with eroding goose-bump flesh, bright under the sun. Mountains of crystals and diamonds with clouds of all colors obscure the land like fog, so dreamlike and melting with rainbows. all of this and divinity, yet the sun is locked on the limbo eyes. 

There are unseen sights. A soul speaks through the invisible, resonating shivers spewing from these spheres of vision. A history. A voice that wishes to flow as liquid saying "I have seen agony. I have seen ecstasy. I have seen, and I have this to share. This is all I can ever hope to give away, so I shall give away it all forever, because I can. I have felt the cold. I work to befriend the cold. Others cannot help to shrivel under the frost's mantle of strength. I hereby sacrifice my warmth. Amen" 

At the sight of this, the sun, the anonymous star in the macrocosm of countless, envisions something. The pupil appears as a volcano protruding from the ghostly sea. It floats with constant restless motion in the very middle of the venus beach. It erupts with a beam of heavenly light. Straight ahead it fires. I, the star, am exploded. 

I bow to your limbo eyes. Now I have warmth to sacrifice as well. Oh and again I say you have the most beautiful smile. It's almost maddening sometimes, my love for you. I refuse to filter my opinions on the matter, so I explosively desire writing about you. You're the most awe inspiring explosion of all. 

Whispers

These past couple of nights have been the longest of my life. Such restlessness. Such fear. Such slow pace. Such isolation.

My mind has obscured me. I exist in dormancy. Exiled by my mind's treachery to an island far beyond the horizon. Messages in bottles crudely written in my blood and passion bob about restlessly in the waves. They do not stray far enough. They vanish into nihil. Nothing comes from this island. I lie on the sand. The tide comes closer and closer. My toes blister more and more through time. I look up into the sky and see clouds fly.

I had a dream once. I dreamt I was a cloud floating above a spectrum sea. All possible colors rippled and whirlpooled in these waters. Restless vessels struggled to stay afloat, to no avail. Within me was a peacock. She was beautiful. We both mingled as gas for an eternity. Time was lost and I felt present in this forever. Lucid too. I was perfectly aware that this was a dream. I knew very vividly that this peacock was nothing more than an apparition of my sleeping mind. Despite this, I let my mind embrace this intimacy as if it were really so. We kissed, danced, and whispered in infinity for infinity. I felt what it was like to be genuinely close. Then I woke up.

Here I lie, on my island. The clouds leave monstrous shadows on the infant waves. The sandcrabs descend to greater shadow. I look up at these clouds. Though my ears fail to comprehend this, I know that whispers dance within these clouds. Much too high are these clouds. The softly spoken intimacy does not transmit to me. I'm much too low.

In searching for these whispers in the past, I have found nothing but the great masquerade. Veils of intricate design hiding the tears and the screams. The eyes tell a story of desperation, and the words are emitted like the keys played by a pianist who feels nothing at all. The skin of humanity is not worn. We hide behind personalities, fabrications. We are clothed. We are the clothed beings. Our naked selves hide in panic, for taboo has scared them away. Refuge is taken in the mist of conformity and familiarity.

During this masquerade though, some sneak away giggling. Some remove the masks and the fabrications. Some turn to gas among one another and seep through the veils. Among the clouds, as the clouds, they whisper, not shout. There have been times, short bursts, where I look down and see my fingers steaming and dissolving into the sky. There have been times, short bursts, where this steam quickly mingled with the steam of another. Masks aside, personalities aside, a subtle little dance. This is fleeting. This doesn't fully satisfy my steam self. Perhaps my dreams have made my standards too high. This is just one of the many ways in which they've estranged me.

I had a nightmare once. This was more recently then that dream. That dream was years ago. This nightmare was days ago. I dreamt I was killed, yet my soul still lived inside of me. My body was hollow. Nothing in it but stacks of restless boxes. I wandered this warehouse for an eternity, every few moments I was ridiculed and attacked by people I knew abruptly erupting from these boxes. When it grew to be too much, I awoke into sleep paralysis. There was no escape. There was no compromise. This lasted forever. Forever. Forever. In this time, I sailed away. Thousands, millions, billions, trillions of miles away from anybody. Everybody. Then I woke up on this island.

I want nothing more than to sail back. I want nothing more than to be the drunkard at the great masquerade. Making a fool of himself and not knowing it. Occasionally and casually taken by the hand and turned into a cloud. I never want to be a full solid ever again. My dreams have made this something I cannot abide by not having. I think it is finally ripping me to shreds. It is killing me. Killing me. I feel absolutely nothing at all. Nothing. This post mitigates nothing.

This has been heavily concentrated since the very dawn of 2011. It was at the beach when I first decided that my centralized goal was to turn to steam and dance with another. Splashing in the waves, I felt intimate with my fears. In my heart ignited a smoldering ember. I wanted this with mankind too. Seldom have I had this. The ember burns me. My pain reflex, as if flicking a finger away from the flame, has been going on for months on end. The pain reflex is the pursuit of this closeness, which is in vain. Two reasons, the powers that be make it impossible because of this reason or that reason, and because my brain has forced me into a state of isolation. Deep, dark isolation. I can't stand it anymore. I just can't. All of my creations this year feel empty to me now, because my pursuit is too absolute and full of itself. Really, for a fellow aiming to achieve selflessness, I'm pretty fucking selfish.

I've given up. I'm too far away. One can only shout so long. If I can't be close to others, I will instead learn to bask in my distance through embracing this heartache. It'll be there either way so I have no choice.  My mind has insisted upon this being my abode. My dreams are winning. I will learn to bask in this if it means losing every drop of blood I have. I have no choice... and I have a feeling it isn't going to work.

There is so much more I want to say. There are things said here that I want to say differently. Because of the culture I live in, I have to be vague about certain things. I need to sugar coat my sentences. I can't be direct. I certainly know how much this culture loves coats of sugar. I'll try to sum it all up like this...

I had a dream once. I was close. I was intimate. I was steam. Then I woke up.

The Electric Line

I fall. I fly. All within the electric line. Between houses. Here and there. Pipes, chimes, electric chimes. Frankly, there was nothing. There is nothing. Emptiness, without you. The bone men play the bone horns. They sound death. Death, falling off the ledge of grass. Cheering among the grass. Cheering among the grass. The grass which hides the bugs. In the heart of these bugs is a vile. Within it burns an ember of maroon. Maroon like your fingernails bathed in the blood cascades. Beautiful maroon. Glistens like marvelous design. Design upon bittersweet lips in the ecstatic room. This ecstatic room, looming above the electric line. Electricity that buzzes.
There are no moons. They fade to nothing. you are not real. you fade to nothing. Descend. Decline. Decay.  Leave behind. No more suns over the green pastures. No more. The fingers can no longer type. The nothingness creeps over me like a wounded animal creeps over the earth, their victim. Their blood leaking behind them vomit the babies you wished you had to hold and cradle. They have the eyes of lizards. The feathers of dead escapades lost in treasure maps.
I shine like divine and sip tea with the line. The line that ebbs into the deep blue deep. It blinks with eyes of illusive melancholy. The crevasse cries for you. The crevasse sings a song in homage to you. The song sends tears down I. The bile melts within me and toes fall out of proportion. Seeking love and purchasing razor thin vegetables at the astral shopping center. No more descending.
The bone men sound their bone horns. You don't hear a thing. You are their marrow. Then, in hell. The heavens empty their pockets and find the doves. You! You've been looking for them! You melt in joy.

All of my auto writing after this post shall be saved up and put into an automatic book. I'll make it my nightly ritual to add onto it right after I finish proofreading this last story of mine.

Strange Is The Frog Clavicle Bone

I eat. Hide, no more. There is a tide. A tide. Hide me. There is nothing within the horse's head. Yellow is the morning. The fingernails lick the evening. My nostrils surrender. The hands of weary ones are not weary. the umbrella that flies away, is not astray. The man who holds nothing yet carries everything is the window to the intravenous meddling of horoscopic leaves. Horoscopic leaves and winter so evil. So vile and so malignant. Holding me in the pain of knowing, knowing that the buses roar for my throat. My throat, yes my throat, Mr. Hickery Dickery Talk to me, walk with me. Hold me. Squeeze me. Kiss me. Digest me.
Ice cubes of magnificent design are so persistent, so malign. However many moreover makeup makeshift mavericks there might be floating in the holstering oyster bays, I await your reply. You have to pay close attention to the sheep. You have to observe astutely the hogs. The hogs with bones crackling in my shoulders. My shoulders ache at the thought of you. She, with her toes, explodes into foes. A biscuit, a stare most afraid, the possibility that the snow-globe bearing you shall shatter under the hammer. Mostly though, what remains is the inevitability. the inevitability of the dissolving slug slime.
Shimmy, but don't lock me in. The cell is too topic and enveloped in tropic frog licks. I am me but in the land of you I am you, smiling and saying "I'm worse than you. I need your help. Oh, help me! Save me, sire!".
There once was a man. He died. Never had he seen an airplane. They were far after his time. His clock hangs itself in the broom closet of the antique shop. Then, the rainbows shatter through every last window
all was well.

Wanting

What I want I cannot have, for what I want is not to want. My fingers are too intuitively attached to what they hold. My happiness is impulsively dependent on those I love. There are obstacles everywhere for me, many made by myself and others made by the powers that be. My ambitions of the future transcend my abilities. My sanctuaries cannot be embraced in full, for they dismantle themselves on cue to my arrival. My desire is to tango with time, yet there are things I want as mine. This exists in the tango yet a blind eye is turned. Damn my possessions for blinding this eye. Damn my expectations and harsh yearning with respect to my friends. Why must I try to perfect the wondrous imperfection? Why can't I declare failure on all my ambitions with a smile? It is because they are too great. I've extinguished many negative things in my life, but a few things remain that shall hold me to desire. Longing for a different scenario rather than basking in the present one.