I don't care to drink it

The touch screen freaks are taking it to the streets, a babbling crew of text-savvy nimcompoops. The worlds’ awash with modern women who coo at the E! talk news (news they say, I swear to you they say this). Texting, twittering, tablets, and tabloids have spoiled the tea, and I don’t care to drink it, not one bit, not without something heavy and burning to soothe my frayed and frantic nerves. Perhaps I am to be discarded by the fresh faced fan-clubs, death by inglorious funeral pyre (if the can ever ignite the fire). It’s the goddamn proles, the basement mould, the pampered fold. Enlightenment means nothing if all we do is stuff our needy faces’ with entertaining fuck puppets to jerk and dangle, crash and burn, , marry and divorce, whatever.

I would trade them all for a bucket of ice and a hairdryer, I swear I would, if only I had a glass that wasn’t dirty.

I don’t blame the painted fools, the big screen tools, the demented ghouls; why teach a man to fish if instead you can get him to sell his fish and buy your greasy gear. The greasy gear that fulfills the fear that maybe we never have enough in the eyes of our peers. We all need to look up to something, something larger and bigger and brighter than ourselves, lest we ever actually have to be O.K. with what we are. The horror, the horror.

I’m sick, sick and sorry, the sorriest son of a bitch there ever was, if there ever was. Shit.

A Death Refusal

The glinting shadow winked at the brazen pearly gate,

a flippant reply to a not-so-friendly jest.

“Are you kidding me, I was BORN to be free!

 I have yet to complete my fate!”

The doors creaked open

with a heavy-laden groan

That speaks of old wood

And deep-rooted men

A bright ray shone through the cracks of the door

Blinding and fierce, a force of its own

It is so sure and so certain

Like a lighthouse, or a siren

The glinting shadow winked once more

and kept both eyes shut for good,

squeezing them shut with the vigor of a child.

It fluttered like a sheet in the wind

whipping to and fro-

The glinting shadow turned its back

To breathe the frigid air

It plunged back into the atmosphere

To return unto its lair

A shallow breathe escapes from a sick man’s lips

There is a rattle in his chest

I do believe he’s found his way

To those who love him best

First year philosophy blues

“Keep your options open” rings out the hollow chamber “You are special”.

“But there are so many doors” you plead “behind which one lays happiness?”

Only a grimaced silence answers, and your bones grow weary and surly and frustrated. What happens, you ask yourself, when you cannot decide behind which handle lays what has been described to you as ‘happiness’, and you wait and ponder and hope, only to come to the conclusion that no, happiness was never an option at all?

I can tell you what happens.

Permit me to answer this question with another: what happens when things cease to matter at all, and all the silver arches and stone gargoyles from your dreams (life?) turn to mud, and are swept away by the relentless tide that comes with the moon? That moon that sheds its luminous glow, that casts flickering shadows on the cold wet sand, the sand that stretches for eternity beneath our trembling and apprehensive feet?

Plato was wrong; logic and rationality is not the sun, but rather the moon. To those whose eyes have been shrouded by the cynicism that accompanies rational knowledge (or more so a thorough understanding of our lack thereof), the moon would be more comparable, hanging low and fat off the branch of a tall apple tree, the fruits of knowledge awash in the poisonous, sterile glow.

And then the doors start to peel off in front of you, the plaster fails, and the big picture starts to come down, firstly at the edges, and lastly in a heap. Behind all those doors that used to be in front of you lays an old projector and a massive screen. Project yourself, it whines and splutters, because that is all that is real. There is nothing you perceive or think or know or love or feel that is not just you feeding a reel or writing a script or playing make believe.

But to all of you who find this paralyzing, who find it binding and suffocating, to those who look past the painted veil and see absolutely nothing, well join the club and get over it already.

It’s just first year philosophy blues.

A Tribute to Molloy

Outside it is raining, and the cold drops hit the pavement hard. The road seems to funnel ahead of me and stretch for miles and miles, awash in the golden orange glow of the streetlights. I cannot see if there is anyone else around. I am Jesus, I think, I can run on water. That is how fast it feels like I’m running. I have to stop to breath. It feels like my heart is trying to claw its way out of my throat, and I gag. Heaved over, I look into a large puddle formed in a crater on the road. I imagine what my reflection would look like, swimming in the murky puddle, rain droplets breaking the image into a million tiny jigsaw puzzle pieces of myself. But I see nothing. I feel a scorching burn on the back of my neck. I have been standing too close. I run, trying to escape its sweltering heat, but the rays of the streetlights chase me down the street, painting my dark shadow ahead of me. I want to dive into it, to escape the light, the heat, and to be swallowed up by the darkness of my shadow and the wetness of the asphalt. But down there, stuck in the asphalt, even if no one could see me, they would still walk all over me with their shoes and their boots and their heels. Not that it matters, but my shoes’ souls have almost completely separated themselves from the boot of my shoe, hanging on only by a flap that made a loud clapping sound when I run. I haven’t removed them from my feet in ages, not since I had first tied them on. A strong, sturdy knot for a good pair of shoes. My feet are soaked, and the squishing noise of each footstep makes me think I’m sinking in a bog, being dragged down by a slow, bubbling quicksand. The faster I run, the less contact my feet will have with the ground, so I pick up my pace, trying to run only on the very tip of my toes. I’m leaning so far forward that I begin to spiral down like an airplane, nose first. I wonder if I crashed and got lost if anyone would be able to find me before I became an outline of chalk.