Fucked

It is interesting to note that there is not a specific person that cannot get in the way of this messed up conundrum, because you don't understand that you are fucked if you get in the way of the bullet, because it will tear through your soul as though there is nothing left to do, and you are fucked if you let it hit you of course, not choosing to run or choosing to run will result in similar damage, and it will fucking hurt.  so you dive right in, right on into it, head first and breaking, and shattering, all those bones that you thought  you had, but your still fucked as all hell because lets face it the devil needs you to fail.  But what of god that son of a bitch has bigger fish to fry so as your felony rises, and you curse the heavens for the failings they gave you that make you feel like hell you will die all over inside.  Yes your fucked.  You stand out on the precipise and you take a gander at all of the willful people who have thrown themselves over, and some have been saved, but most are splattered on the sides of the wall.  And you can take your best chance, and leap and hope that you are hailed on up high, but its time to face facts you fucking lost it.  You may not be a fortune teller, but you are doomed to be stuck as a fucking lost cause.  And no matter how many beautiful people you want to surround yourself with,  you are fucked.  totally and utterly fucked.  its not the first time either, eventually you'll try it again, and you'll be dead.  Its over.  Stick to yourself, stick to what you know, don't worry about that legacy that you will never be able to create.  Or all of those children that you will never have, becaue inevitably you area  dead man, a corpse walkings, and you most likekly then will be shooting blanks, for undead have other things to worry about.  So fuck it, fuck yourself, you're worthless in their eyes, well fuck them.  Because you've got bigger fish to fry, yes you've got bigger mistakes to fuck.

Looking Out Toward Paradise

There is a certain calm about tomorrow when nothing is quite known.

A serenity that one can not overestimate that which is not seen.

Through rose colored glasses we peer forward into infinity,

And for once we are all guilty of similar ignorance.

For tomorrow as it is is not known from you to I.

It cannot be sorted or fathomed by gods or by science.

It can hold the greatest damage and it can hold the greatest joy.

and it can fill every Neanderthal with aspirations or anxieties.

In those fragments of light that are so called the future,

There is a wish, and a hope and a prayer

That skis over the immediacy of our now's

And we find ourselves hopeful but also find ourselves afraid.

In that abyss of darkness, that oh so welcoming water over that edge,

We can see whatever it is we want to see, and we can claim to know

what it is none of us really know,

and that is of what tomorrow could bring, or should

Not of what it will.

For that is still the greatest mystery left to us.

Candle, Plush Teddy and a Palette in the Amazon rain forest.

Emil took a step forward with the lone candle before him as his feet sunk into the mud and they vanished as though he had no feet at all.  It had been so long since he had seen his parents but it was not as long as he had been without his favorite teddy bear.   The plush animal had collected dust in his old childhood home and there was no force on earth that could bring him to go back to that crooked old house and revisit his former bedroom.   He  pulled his feet out of the mud with just enough force and took another step.   The mosquitos attacked him with vigorous speed as if they had not fed on blood in ages.  The welts were many and near between each other.

Emil thought on his life, on that teddy bear.   He thought on all the memories of his mother and of his father cradling him and he enveloped in his comforter.   The teddy bear was resting beside him then, when he was smaller it was the only thing that made him happy.   That was before they had moved to the Amazon.  Before his doctor parents decided to uproot them from their home in the city.   That comfy apartment, that illusionary town house divided into a duplex.  He had left his teddy bear behind sitting on a shelf.

The candle was waning away, the flame spiked and fluttered and acted as though it was about to fade away and then would emerge back into its yellow and red vibrancy.   The faded gray greens of the leafs on the trees, and all the bugs were mute colored.   Frogs croaked and night birds cooed, and in that midnight hour he was afraid.   But Emil was determined to continue on.

When he had gotten word of his father's illness.   The disease that had ultimately claimed him that he had contracted from one of the many people he couldn’t save.   He wanted to go back to that spot.   Where only his father cared to stay.  An encampment out in the middle of the trees in a clearing.  His second home.   A crowded and loud makeshift village of white tents.   Emil lifted another muddy boot out of the ground.

His mother was sitting by his father’s side when he died.   That had only been a couple weeks before.  Ever since then he had sat quietly and waited for his mother to come to, to waken from her mourning, her trance like state of grieving.   Emil couldn't take it anymore.  She needed to finish the work to snap out of it.

The camp came into view as Emil struggled to find his breath.  The heat in the rainforest caused his clothes to stick.  To cling to his flesh as though he were newly wet.   The sweat, it stank, and he continued on.   There was no fear of animals, and no need for Teddy bears.   And they had never asked him if he wanted to take it with him.  He had never realized that car ride would be the thing that divided him from his comforts.

Emil walked straight to his parents tent.  Nothing out of place just an abandoned cot, and a trekking backpack sitting against one of the poles.   Emil wrapped his fist around the handle of the backpack and took a seat on the cot, planting his feet deep in the dirt floor.   He unzipped the pack.

Inside were small paint bottles.  Zip loc baggies full of brushes.  Emil pulled out the palette and saw the smudged mix of paints, the blotches of ugly colors, and their beautiful originals.  He saw the flesh colors.  He brought the palette to his nose and breathed in deeply, and he sighed.  And then he cried.  On the other side of the room was a portrait of Emil sitting atop his mother's lap that his father had painted.   And in his tiny hands was that plush teddy bear.  s the candle burned out he knew that it would never be that way again.

Adolescents

This is the funnel cloud of human indecency
That spans up to the outer spaces and demands to be seen
Like a spoilt child it clings to the sky claiming it for its own
The cloud in its calamity pushes out the rest
It screams and bellows and says I am here

Nonsense, No direction, rhyme and not rhymed, Speedy gonzalez

The king is dead long live the king

For he reigned well then fell

And he took all his joy and as a little boy

Decided against the trip that took his life for a dip

In a pool of lava that collided with the clouds

And the calamity ensued and the world was sued

And the time well spent was nothing more than backwards and bent

And it took a loud type of person to decipher the message

The hate that bled out and demanded the truth through massage

Crochet into the abyss as if nothing was every missed

And no one was ever pissed or kissed

At the date of their wedding because they keep on forgetting

And regretting until they are back to bed wetting

Their memories focused on the finality of their indecisiveness

And determining that through their devices

They have cataclysm in the last of the virtue

And sought out a tissue, for their running nose

Going toe to toe with the digressions

As they descent into rambling and shambling

The world that they thought they had built

And took it apart until it

It was lost in a moment of a hurricane

And not knowing the name

Grazing on grasses sucking up all the gasses

And laughing off their asses as each new day passes

As they sit bored in classes, and subject to crass-diss-

Idence when nothing ever made sense in that momentary instance

For they forgot to look around take a stance and plan on finishing

Young and old talking about tomorrow as though it were borrowed

But not returning, not determining the end of the road

Where they bolted down their courage and the sticking place snapped

And the world clapped between two monstrous palms

And cracking, and fracking, and crackling beneath the undermined world in which they could stand

And blamed the entire world, took it for a brief whirl and destroyed the song

For they took far too long, and prolonged it, destroyed it, detonated it

Took it beyond its original foundation to result in something incredibly ugly

And though they look smugly,

Oh they do not determine that sort of truth off hand

And they may not be your man but the plan and they stain the face

Plan a trace

Take a smooth pace and take control of everything as though it were something that they did not determine to be the truth of the matter when nothing is ever the same and you cannot take control of your life because you are too busy determining that you do not know the way into the unknown because their is no such place

Where men keep on putting women in their place

When in fact we are all human

Roles are destroyed ready to be cast as whoever we want except for basic biological tendencies but not everyone is moving on we are waiting on some sort of anarchy

To release us from this absurd anarchy and the end is not the beginning but the beginning is coming to an ending

And although the water is choppy and this poetry is sloppy, and though i’ll paste and copy all the sort of ideas of men who were twice as crappy

I’m still happy that my thoughts move so fast that they match the rhythm of my fingers

And even though it takes a while to get it down and be good singers

Just like every other form of work and of production it takes  practice and good determination

To release yourselves as a god

And speaking of god let's determine that there is nothing so extraordinary as someone who cannot take themselves lightly, judging through eyes of pure and unadulterated anger and animosity, and apathy and catastrophe go hand in hand

Bland and mumbling mouths

They cough and spew and speak on stupid predictions

Making undermined predictions

And there is a man on the other side of the mirror who keeps on going keeps on determining the end results, and he’s peering over the side of the stall spying on the dirtiness that is going on behind the scenes all omnipotent and such, like they get themselves out of their funk it's a fucking disgrace of bullshit and they keep on singing on and on as though it is going to end.

Here in this place there is nothing as complicated as loving someone as if loving is something that you just learn to produce and you can’t get out of your life and determine the end result in the end it is nothing more than a public hanging and we determine the truth of it because it is something that does not make much sense and it's over now the world is going to be the end of it all and the song ends and we begin to see it

The way they keep on redeeming

And preening

And cleaning

And perceiving

The end of the dirty dealing

But who are we kidding

As we’re bleeding

And dealing

Without deceiving

And careening out of control

The collision is imminent and it is ready to hit and the song doesn’t make much sense but keeps my mind sharp and incisive because in real life I am nothing but indecisive and it's killing me inside to hear that noise come to end a clickity clack of the keys as i lickity splickity send out words into the spaces that cyber around and kill my mind

And its time

To tow that line

To take a chance

Put on the pants

Of an adult and see the boot straps

Come unflapped

And take the moment to tie

And sigh

And be blind

But kind

During this sign

From the lord

Who took an hour

Opened the door

Saw the necessary conditions of his present

And his gift was lost under the Christmas tree

Looking like the people are dead and thus late for tea

Where Santa and the others took the elves for a believer

It's time to look around

And see how loud the clowns are now

Honking and bonking bonking each other in the head

Where their dead

In their beds as though sleeping

While their mothers are weeping

And there was this old woman who lived in a shoe and didn’t know what to do but she did have a clue for she took shelter and do what she do in the ends it's enough to walk two by two

And stick the puppies atop the world

Mayonnaise and pickles have no place

I repeat have no place

On their sandwich

But are welcome on mine.

Allen, Pollution, and Yellow Flowers in a Lab

Allen drank the toxic waste because there was nothing else to drink, the vending machine down the hall had long been decayed as though it were the rotting flesh of one of those zombies that showed up in those movies that people used to be obsessed about except that it was metal and glass that was deteriorating.  Toxicity had become common place along all of the normal comforts of the world that it was not odd for Allen to have to drink out of the barrel.  The skull and crossbones did not stop him, and the half life symbol only represented a sort of  delicacy that this part of the world found itself devouring.  Unlike most of the other shit that the other survivors drank Allen's brew was a mixture of soda water and plutonium, a concoction only sweetened by the addition of slick battery acid.  In his lab he had all of the necessary poisons to sweeten his juice, and the beaker was ready.  The bun-son burners flame was quick in bringing the liquid to a boil, and then he let it cool for five minutes.   He placed an old shirt into his own collar like a handkerchief, it was grimy and full of dirt, and the beaker sat before him.  In this sort of apocalyptic abyss the only place for yellow flowers were as little umbrellas inside a pollutant cocktail.