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.