You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.
— Ray Bradbury
the fucked generation.
We are the fucked generation.
That’s what they should call us.
There were babyboomers, and beatniks.
But we-
we are the fucked generation
Generation Z. Z for Zero.
The New Silent Generation.
A Generation of Submission.
and satyagraha gone wrong.
Fucked so many times,
the vulgar ejaculations of all the world
are dribbling out our mouths and down our chins.
The world at our fingertips.
More like the world encrusted under out cuticles.
Its detritus and corruption sending pathogenic
particulate matter coursing through our veins
We undulate with universal anxiety.
Damned if you do. Damned if don’t.
Particularly damned depending on who
you decide to do or don’t.
I have decided to be a celibate to society.
I will not be fucked.
By phalli made of the single throbbing
muscle of our minds-
sweating tears, taunts, and troubles.
Lubrication for depression
to penetrate us day in and day out.
When the world tries its tender caress
on my cheek
I decide I’d much rather be
slapped up against the wall
with some probing misery between me
and the hot, sweaty Body of Existence.
I want to snort a line of life
off the abdominus rectus of
of Profundity and lick
shimmering granules from the crevices
of the Philosophers Stone
wedged into It’s belly button.
Anything to feel the most
from life.
8 to 6.
I’m painting my nails the color of lies from now on.
Somewhere in my wild gesticulations, the ones that sculpt a big bubbly facade made of air, they’ve become hypnotized by smiles and the subtle crescendos of laughter that zig zagging their way out of smog filled lungs.
Why not? The only thing more fleeting than first impressions is the truth.
I suck my coffee down at the oasis of the water cooler, fantasizing about syllables, sex, and syntax. I send an invisible scowl in the direction of yet another man-child swimming in a suit that glints of syntheticity when the sun stretches it taught against his inarticulate thighs, and wonder whether it makes a difference whether one is “stimulating” or “tit-illating” in the grand scheme of things.
As if tits every did anything for anyone.
I walk on the beach of a thousand weeks and kneel to grab a handful, only to realize they jostle with each other for a place in the perfect palm of your plans, but eventually slide through your hands into the abyss of all little granules of life lost. You find there’s one clinging for dear life to a cuticle. This will be the one that changes your life. You’ll combust it on the end of a lit cigarette and wedge it into a gyrri where the pressure from hours of inarticulate conversation and games of peakaboo will miraculously turn it into the diamond you’ve spent all this time searching for.
Jackpot.
You know, I see clearest in a smoke filled room? Its as if the wheeze of exhalation is the effect of a ring on the tines of your ribs, and this wickid music to my ears is the very pied piper that beckons the grand truths out of the magic eight ball air.
Who needs a warm body when they’ve got a pack of muratti.
the rub of the dreamer.
God meets you at the exact moment your dreams manifest into reality-in one divine second.
The subtle kiss of a spectre, the expanse of some daunting foreign terrain, the gargantuan theatre production taking place on the stage of a single synapse- they are the milleu for nervous angels and frenetic devils dropping little longings like mass print pamphlets.
But the moment, the exact moment, that a longing manifests into reality is the exact moment our meager human minds seem have the chance to grasp the fact that there is some serene order to the world-
-that there is no folly in dreaming. But to transplant a dream, like an organ, from the corpses of our torpid subconsci into the brilliance of sentience-therein lies the rub.
learning to love the fool in me.
Go ahead and try, but it’s futile. You will whiff the fragile petal of some misery you thought you had gotten rid of in the middle of a dust-covered road. In mid-guffaw, you’ll run your tongue over your teeth and find the tiniest bit of melancholy lodged in the minute space between your molars. You’ll look in the mirror and see it run through your head, peeping briefly out the portholes of your eyes to remind you of its company. It will get dislodged from some perch deep within your insides and you’ll feel it sloshing around with the liter of water you just downed to drown some unidentifiable emptiness. It will possess your finger for just a moment and ensure that in that moment you issue forth the most scathing insult possible. It will appear perched on the sudden arch of an eyebrow, or kick its leg and send your eye twitching into a second long spasmodic dance. Even if you have subdued it, it will come careening into your brain riding the single note of a song you haven’t listened to in years or trickle into your mind the exact second you manage to embrace sleep. It will send the tiniest shock into your bring from somewhere sinoatrial while raising an obelisk to the dark and twisties in a single goosebump. Good luck, you fool, and hang in there.
twitch
The bustling dust dome of a city teases your madness out of remission.
Clinging to cement heavens throwing wreaths of laughter down to the spit soaked humanity below.
Imagining the hole in your flat was a black wardrobe that took you into a neighboring world of filth, sex, and espionage.
Watching with secret hope that a family of four falls off their carefully calibrated motorcycle and that grandma is the one that rolls into the gutter.
Fucking for the sake of hearing your own laughter ring off the sweat soaked balls of the guy down the hall.
And hoping that salt and pepper chinaman two floors down will send you back to the world of celibacy riding a broomstick made of admonitions to clean up your mess.
Sending messages in a bottle made of wires and wanton wants in the hopes that the innocent eyes that drink your platinum locks in the middle of a lecture will suddenly want to suck you down whole.
Filling ashtrays with morphed butts of sad little jokes, so grey that the slightest rub of lipstick could be the sign of the impending kiss of death that finally puts you out of your misery.
Fantasizing about shards of broken chai cups kissed by your blood from a suicidal leap from the arms of the Institution into the lap of Monotony.
Having midnight conversations with the Vitruvian man hanging sentinel in your heart until you finally decide that a kiss from an elf is better than nothing.
Weaving insults with expletives with desires with depression into a quilt of smoke that streams out of your mouth and blankets the children as they sleep in class.
Paper cutting the private parts of your soul with a bit of pleasure reading dropped at your feet by a Byronic Crying Kafka.
This type of madness was the most delicious kind. It dripped and oozed in your mouth with a kind of succulent awareness, until it finally dribbled down your throat to be lost forever in the bowels of a year passed…
call it whatever you like.
Weariness hung from their limbs like diaphanous garments now-off a chiseled shoulder carved back into poignancy. The grotesque corpulence of a depression that seeped into their skin and stretched it taught with despair had been drained and its stead was left a new silhoutte akin to purpose- atrophy of the best sort.
There is a profound story in the fatigue that laces you body when it has walked miles in a foreign country simultaneously trolling the miles of foreign thought in your mind. To come home to hours of work after leaving hours. The hours build up on you back and you become certain it no longer buckles under the weight. It never did. It was your heart that bent and twisted and gave away in the face of bleakness. You siphon out the indolence, the weakness, the sadness-twine irony resolve into your every vertebrae. Steely resolve woven into enervation.
To spend a day treading in the placid pool of your hopes and dreams. The undertow-a desire to save all of humanity with a single neuronal synapse-pulls and ebbs with the currents of your desires. You don’t know how to swim, do you? But isn’t it better to tread fearfully in waves of aspiration than to let them feebly lap at your toes from a dessicated shore of anguish?
devils in the details
Do you pay any heed to the dense air that stalks you in your dreams?
It laments every whispered plea you let drop from your lips and into upturned hands.
Trust me. the steps you plant like seeds of conviction in the cracks of the pavement you worry will fracture someone’s back are the most unfortunate to this sinister element.
You slay it with the stream of supplications that pour forth from your soul, into the cavernous spaces of your subconscious as you slumber. I guarantee you it will drown in divinity, floundering in the crushing waves of faith.
You are born into dream, after dream, dream, wondering when the cycle of somnambulism will stop but you ust enjoy every step of the walking dream
