this is the third and fourth installments of a 10k word poem describing my experience with God, Schizophrenia, and my place in society.I can share the other first 2 parts but it's simply too long, even this is, but maybe those misunderstood and cast out will like it.
is this some descent
is this some ascent
for if i felt the wool of my passed uncles cardigan against my five o’clock shadow.
The smoke of my Export A cigarette he left me as well
when Leonard passed (cancer, if you were wondering)
each grey whisk passing in my lungs like the final fucking breath
of God before creation of sea
and it is purple prose, it’s contemptible but, it all is, I’m a lazy poet past so many columns fallen here
for fucks sake if I did not break down into my own wax palms at the realization that this one moment, in a brown cardigan, buttoned up, allowed the privilege to smoke in my fathers veteran home,
in front of a forest named out the sleepless stone guardians of an eternal emperor, each one lying in wait
once again to defend
time had stopped
there was no time
and that was the end of the game
no credits rolled
the authorities cuffed my ankles and wrists, left me like a handsome glowing prize catch in the ER, A strong six feet and wide shoulders, my mortal hand going blue.
They had to prove the columns,
to one another that this wolf spider under glass could die
.And The hand went blue
and so any curiosity into the goodness of what lays beyond the stuttering of columns died to the meek nature of your fucking weakness
your desire to not fuck things up
I will tell you, you’ve gone-green once copper columns.
It must all be fucked up in the most beauitful way possible, until the bas-reliefs are splattered with the innocence of kindergarten paint and easter eggs, and we drop out fucking Instragram phones where we grasp at a need to lean as the empire falls
empire of one falls
when we are alone
to be alone
how about, my columns,
unthinkable, so brushed away, little columns all dressed up
in perhaps a very nice little bas relief you truly earned from all your good work upholding that roof
but to prevent rain? what of the flowers in the cloister all covered.
very evil, according to nature, living flowers die
but the columns. they are happy, they all stand equal heights
they look grand and proud
they should they are all one and the same and thus proving
it is good that they exist, and that they must
and that this is the only thing for them.
who cannot say is it good?
you know, you to the left, i saw that, the mark, rir, i saw that, all scratched into a lion head in that bas-relief
said the most influential,
i saw rir and you are cursed
this is bad
are unlike us
unclean and what has been scratched into you
makes you not one of us.
the column quiet died there, of shame of rejection
but those lower case letters
a message from God in no language understood
to be cast out and called, that column quiet died there,
crumbled and all others, first the most influential, with rhodendrons in the bas relief,
heads of enemy kings hanging from spikes at the top.
and all the unknowing innocent beams that kept this house, whatever it came to be,
this single room kingdom, idea, corrupted to splendor
all the beautiful gone-copper beams stuttered they could not stop stuttering
they uttered the sounds only the most anxious organisms could make
“am i still accepted i like you still despite the fact we are falling”
“yes you and i, such glorious monuments, we still are glorious monuments, we must be, we are both falling. it is good, it is meant to be. This is good all is well as long as I am like the other columns, brass and shining, scalps of enemies bleeding off me
for our true king!”
whatever that may be
whoever that may be
i have a funny little feeling
it’s in your pocket and you stare at it on the bus.
you boring fuck up.
rir is in it, slowly but surely the decapitated heads splashed against the flowers that were starved from the fear of these perfect beams and monuments to the great Same, that the Same made it just, and the Same made it normal, and the Same made it true.
And the flowers received rainwater, and the last dried blood of unjustly slain kings
from that Same room of sin, where everything was good if Same and not challenged, where all made sense and all could sleep their marble sleep is Same was upheld, the last dried blood liquefyed and posssessed those from the heat of Godly passion, and those once skeletal flowers, the joke of all them columns who loved that Roof, who loved the Sameness and the comfort of how even if they are destroyed, they will be destroyed as the Same beautiful monuments
- for the height of these brass columns, adorned some with stained glass and freshly skewed heads of traitors who may have died spitting up gum but was misunderstood - death is death, does not matter, so long as the heads have crowns, the column would wear them proudly, each head looking like Borgia jesus, each crown looking like the one of brambles from afar, but slightly more jeweled.
A secret though- I meant to describe evil there
as most often do in just explaining themselves too perfectly.
and when laid bare to that I smirk and snap my fingers -
And now I mean to describe beauty.
The plants, reborn from blood of who know what
doesn’t fucking matter,
the plants grew like ideas in the hearts of minorities the understood evil dies
the plants grew like hope in the heart Amelia Airheart- she died, yes but at some point she must have hoped!
The plants, soaked with the ambrosia of the rightfully reclaimed blood of the scalps and heads taken from kings of likely simple treasures
grew to be greater than any cathedral, rendering any Oratory meager,
created a jungle so long bathed in blood that animals found new revelation
that the columns fell
the columns fell long dead like ideas of nervous people
the justly rolled heads of True kings who had words such a Art and Pogs in the 90s
engraved by butcher knife often in their scalp dropped to the foundation of this fucking jungle
this jungle where we no longer look side to side, only above at canopies of crimson tinted leaves that mimic the wings of an extinct beast - for when we
the fear of being else, out, beyond
what this is
perhaps we no longer need perfect men and women in short white jackets
who had only ever gotten anxious for a middle school dance
perhaps we can gun them in the streets
i mean, maybe we can gun anyone down in the streets
absolutely all I know
is that the jungle
fed by the blood of them who did different and were beheaded for it, grew a new Eden, in some universe
the columns long dead like sophist ideas or the fact
you cannot fuck someone up for being disrespectful to a human based on something they cant change-
put those fucking homophobes in coffins - fuck you supremacy. I am supremacy.
I have rir branded into the back of my, been thrown into the fucking entire void of something so many times and tossed back to blue collar family with nothing but regret-
Name your fucking columns, name them as people
amongst your other brass friends and you bounce so happily that they turn
once fearsome primal men, beasts as they are,
toned muscles and fur thick like that of a rhinos, a rasp to the voice
perhaps this man with the ponytail, with the the nose shaped as if my a chisel, the eyes, maybe the voice
save a little sharp rasp to the truth of the beauty evil it spits./and enjoy
the idea of helping people by makin’ em fat grown up
children in the hopes they don’t do anything too biblical, climb heights naked, set a thing of fire, proclaim, provide wine, wash feet, be good to others so much insanity to be dealt with!
against the rest of the golden shining and sleek population of Amazon Prime Subscribers and them easily replaceable
diagnosed me with a mood disorder and then took me off the mood stabilizing meds
a few months later,
basically without complaint.
Very compassionate psychiatrists.
very interested in their end
the sack with a money sign on it and all chubby balding men
in early beds in group homes who they did a service to, by putting the shelf, by
forcing them get another dirty man’s hair in their mouth in shared bathrooms,
one television, arguable in color, for these husks of once passionate light
The Psychiatrists are kind!
So too were Sufi mystics
rubbing pine needles
onto a coral snake bite
to the trachea of the prince of the chieftain
while chanting their most holy sound in that little forest.
I am not crazy, or mentally ill, chronically at least.
My thoughts, however soaring into garbage heaps
of the past passions of artists who certainly did
this same shit before I done did it, but much more poignantly and
maybe with a little more underaged gay sex Warhol money behind them,
do not sprout from my most recent Clash of Clans mobile game,
the newest Airpod anti-sexual assault app,
Sometimes I have burning garbage thoughts as I mentioned
they attack like carbombs despite my innocence, or attempt at it thru ye
the absolute and unquestionable validity
of any gender so far as the human being in question who deserves
had planned them
and that singular beautful
immaculate pinkish human existence,
that perfect pear shape, the stretch marks and cleft lip,
the snake bite piercings,
the multiple sclerosis and the missing jaw
hahahaha you tragedy
Thank you god, for allotting these special humans all these rights, and not just columns
for I had explained columns are simple, not people never could be! Of course
But thank you God, that in your existence you confirm that we all deserve this life
and meaning exists in this life because I can choose anything I want to be and it is not a jab
at new aged ideas I simply think it is funny of all the things we are allowed to do
here on big green and mostly water earth,
because we deserve to,
because gift of life is our Season pass to just do whatever and wherever, and in a lyric Aaron
mentions doing as you please is a European disease
and in these days I consider much of the term “Fall”
no season but in its broadest definition,
simply a cessation, rotting a collapse, leaves changing
what have we done. I don’t know
I dropped out of art school - visual art school
and your pirate boy has been defined by a shaky hand and a lack of will to speak unless I must
but I swear these definitions of things might be spreading wide enough that
build a sort of, hexagonal room, wax candles with no holders
with so many beautiful marble columns, with bas reliefs of tigers
and prey being caught by superior...
creatures of God I’d say!
and we will install a roof
to protect the flowers
which we will never water
and we will
install a roof
that will protect the roses,
that shall never be quenched
though they thirst like babes out the womb,
as they are and could be
for no one will ever enter this room, and at the top
of our Money God Each Other fearing columns, who will fear nothing but being even slightly ajar from their example of another- as each blistering white monument is the perfection in recreation of what is Great and Powerful and relatable and comfortable and not scary and every thing
everything is okay right I am sorry - as architect I get carried away sometimes,
with what others might be considering my work.
Everything is ok! Our one God is great,
and these columns are great, and if they ever
look to the west
and east and see another example
of perfection, and just above
their corinthian order are bald fattened heads
of false prophets who claimed the same splendor as our great
existing only to gleam in the sun
existing only to check if any other has changed and
these heads of false prophets, never praised
entirely shaven, injected with Abilify,
a primal sex drive reduced to a meagre hope for hug
from friend, a sisterly affection. Pathetic
for in contrast to this sadness, we have perfect and incomparable
the glory of that that shall not be questioned, for if it were ever questioned
r i r
rir found in the bas reliefs of the columns, and so repeats the prophecy
of the perfect same and to never change
the fear of new and animal
primal as bares teeth draws blood does not bring fattened child to fast foof chain
Instead claws its young from traps while breaking veins in nails that would call to question
the sturdiness of the single most expensive aircraft in the United States holy army
with all the artillery you could ask for to look like male cock.
Fuck all this.
the Columns get blown up by the fucking red dwarf imploding, on the day of your great great great great grand daughters prom. Her date is the skeleton of her deceased skeleton.
Things are different and strange, and possible bad, since the columns were destroyed, hence the decaying corpse of a dog being brought to prom
the end of life and world
columns and such
are you proud here
when you look to the right and say I don’t know when a question is said slyly and you didn’t not expect the candor and glee being able to answer it.
Your friends suck.
You are uninteresting. It is Okay.
So is everyone.
WORLD IS A FUCK
et al that life and the authority to label it identifies as it, whatever it is, really, whatever.
Some people get boners from crashing cars dude. That’s new age!
Sure. It’s even a little punk rock. And nothing like a little punk rock to sell spicy chicken
wings. Ain’t that right, Henry Rollins
whos black flag is now covered in spicy chicken sauce.
Rollins is a pussy. Sure he’s a little beefy but he’s fucking short. I’d kick the shit out of that kid.
Yelling about shit that don’t matter sucks.
Fuck your scene.
Baphoment curse identifying with groups
of people and adapting as shallow as moth light and filled with followers
we have all lost our one candle, each group had a candle I believe, and the beginning,
and almost none of us handed in our permission slips, on account of us being at the age our parents are dead. But that’s alright
My dead mother in my dreams
Blew her ashes cross my jeans - stefan b. god bless this man
off these CHAINS
some things only I have bee
Landmines, landmines that are disguised
as pinatas, girls with very short purple bangs
that are dressed as landmines and a very a speific gender a
and so on and so forth. We should question more than
what we are fed by the barrel like cows to corn
before our own slaughter in palliative homes
with our god fucking diagnosed autistic grand son watching Paw Patrol
rather than listen to the only song
on piano you ever learned to play in your 87 years,
terrifyingly fleeting, and almost overwhelmingly
And my thoughts all fucked and Freudian but they sure as hell aren’t taking notes from my last mobile game video game session you chubby armed fuck or the most recent General Manager move by the Sports Team. | Your coke addiction doesn’t make you tough
the way you inheritend the 3rd generation Italian sort of way of pronouncing shit like that doesn’t provoke me.
I know what provokes you. The presence of someone more on top of shit.
Fucker. Jeffery said everything go smooth for me like I got my masters. You glory hole your money
into, and, Mother forgive me for this, whore your 5 dollar bills into vodka cranberries until the dude who smells most like axe gets his pit sweat on your god dam pathetic cheek, which for some depressing reason you applied rouge to.
Go home, one and all
EVERYONE TALK SPORT! I CAN TALK SPORT TOO! I AM FRIEND WITH OTHER HUMAN
Firstly I will say that in the Rat Utopia Experiment, without boring you too much,
the rats quickly congregated to simply socialize in the feeding areas, leaving many to starve
Like the brains of children who haven’t understood what having flesh covering it is like, after a landmine.
I mean, what?
Sports, etc. Let us begin. Sports is important
and it makes money for good things.
And if them sports dudes who went all in to study business
and data entry and all that super fun stuff
had to fucking suck an existential crisis
thru a dead snakes body to experience it,
they still wouldn't understand the terrifying nature of how
every year a different championship team is crowned,
they get the champagne and them shits that shoot the confetti,
and the trips to disney land, and the benders on high quality cocaine
straight from whatever ravaged little brown boy country
who you are all offended I referred to as that without a proper noun,
despite the fact that yes, the best yayo
does come from impoverished little brown boy countries
they get to borrow the special little shiny trophy
handled by the weird pale-skinned guy in white sterile gloves,
and then we just sorta forget.
Everyone just sorta forgets, no matter what.
Except the real old fans. Real old sad fans
who sold their own leather face and credit with a chainsaw
with the white collar neighbor next doorfor that of a terrifying Dryden mask, becoming an even more horrifying aberration, an unmarried man in his 70s,
that a city-defining hero. But boy does Jacques like the Habs
And boy does Jacques for his team
And boy are all Jacques friends dying due to liver failure
related to alcoholism from masking god knows what feminine sensation
mais go Habs go!
- athletes with view of green and stick of carrot and body of demi god who could not care less for you
Indifferent robots who are gods of athleticsm
for the pure thrill of millions, multiplying zero by zero
until the sports don't matter and nothing matters
but god damn the only way you could fuck up all these
mansions is you evade taxes but come on now, we’re all multimillion dollar adults here,
who are paid to provide idols for them who have no one to look up to
Because everyone on this planet is smelly cock.
Even that Sidney Crosby is a smelly cock of a person.
But boy cant that boy play some puck and sell some good ole Tim’s in the Prairies?
Fuck you all
Red sun Explode
Selling talent as pride of city.
Like it's real pride
like it's something you did.
Like you something did, as an individual representing
your beautiful spiked-benched fuck the homeless city.
a multi million trade deal allowing slaves in the ocean to drown, please. And by slaves I mean the new ones all in the NFL, I don’t know I just can’t stand to see slavery happen twice!
I’m too good of a person!
So let them all drown.
I'm about boundary pushing, after all,
I was the product of a caesarian section,
my mom was trying to push me out but the crown of my head was just too fucking big.
Born to be king, here. Not jealous for no 3 point shooter skill, I have my fleet feet and my right hook.
But the millions of dollars stay pushing up
the cleavage-presenting busts of our male idols
are turning into cancerous tumors that block our eyes
from the medication we are giving our so-called psychotic toddlers.
A four year old with bipolar, and we all get behind it. Until we fuck it.
I didn’t mean anything by that, we are allowed to create words in sequence still, I believe?
We gotta have distractions.
We gotta have that new Cable tv series,
just a cut above the rest,
we gotta have that Fucking plastic Steve Jobs commandment checker.
Why deal with carved stone and a good man?
Why not the fucking Try Guys? Why don’t the
Buzzfeed Tryguys try suicide? Like for real, no cry for help stuff.
Suicide seems to very trendy, and Buzzfeed loves trends,
so come all ye milk boned willing to cooperate,
and commit suicide on social media so we can all
fully appreciate just how worth our reverence of it
and depression is.
We must communicate cellularly said column, one of great leaders,
all columns great leaders, do not forget!
There are all so shining asnd aimilar! A virtue we must all strive for,.. if you remember
any commandments. They called a piece of plastic
that costs my right engorged nut
to produce in some half-Tibet half-China hell factory
where the walls are sheet metal a Samsung Galaxy 24 or whatever
tripe they’ve come up, up there in the ivory tower, the powers that be, presumable 24 old men, 6 Chinese, 6 South Korean and 12 of Ashkenazi jewish dez
all as viciously intelligent as you’d expect from individuals who rip out soul
in exchange for the need for social media and to connect to an oasis in
a desert of a world that you might have already died in, and if not yet,
very soon, along with your family. But that matters little>
The New Samsung 69 comes out soon.
We must connect.
- end of world y3k social media we cannibalize each other but mostly the ones we look up to and i know
After I finish up on my fave Snapchat Premium sesh
with my upstanding robot dom girl with very cyborg titties
I can stare a picture of deer tahlo and pita chips
while I eat my very plain stale end piece of white bread
with chili sauce and maybe i even taste my own tears
less salty than usual sourced to a female
made of construction paper and poor sexual decisions
insofar as STI-clean partners.
it is alright HPPV is common they say
HEY WE ARE BEING HONEST IT’S info age hehe aint it girl (ripe) winky face
And then, when we’re reminded of that construction paper lady
with the nice high rise jeans,
we maybe take a little trip to the porn aggregator website.
Why not. This is our world, it’s a free world.
it’s a good world! It’s the youths!
And I mean, it’s gotta be. Or else.
Or else. Or else what is below. I dont wanna ask the columns no more. they just like the same weère used to. They don’t know whats down therwe
Or we stew on real shit too long and we
realize our foundation is just a bunch of pipe cleaners
crazy glued together above a millennai old black widow nest.
Old lady must be pretty big and hungry. dripping fangs for us and columns
The columns never saw it coming.
So it is still the same. We are still happy
WE are happy as we are similar and there is strength in understanding us only! Columns
It is becoming broken ri
That giant female with fangs,with a little pretty red spot on its pulsing juicy abdomen and we don't even know if it's there. It just might be, and that's all the more scarier.
I’m not sorry for any missing money if you blame the old me and not his baphomet flaws do not understand sometimes we have devil snake thru eyeholes into brains thank you in fact, fuckers. i enjoyed that meth
we all fly some trains into things sometimes, we all roll some coins thru our teeth sometimes. gotta do what must be done
so say the pillars don’t they
Good Night All World You Will Wake and Be Lonely and all mountain peaks are saddened that only the tops are snowcapped we all deserve that new coat of something candy paint but the new Lord complain she dont drop that ass she brang
rir rir rir rir rir rir