Adult

I've seen quite a few things since I moved out of home. Things that you don't expect to have to deal with, you know? You think that being an adult (whatever that means) is going to be...I don't know. Controlled, I guess. You're going to have a job and get your degree and land the perfect husband, and everything is going to be fine. I think the veneer wears off a bit the first time you run out of food, or toilet paper, and then you have to deal with some asshole landlord or a middle-management Hitler and it hits you, like, bam! This is your life, this is the only one you get, and you have to take responsibility for filling it with good things and struggling through the bad things. Good things seem to get less and less common, bad things begin to pile up, and before you know it you've got a dirty needle sticking out of your leg and you're so fucked up on acid that you can't remember exactly how it got there.
Okay, maybe I should back up a little bit.
I met a guy. Let's call him Troy. Troy was...compelling. He was everything that being an adult was supposed to be - how it was when we were kids and we dreamed about how we'd behave. He watched cartoons all day. He slept in, he skipped work, he lazed about in the sun. He also dealt a lot of drugs and spent most of his time drunk, so the fairytale image that I'm painting for you didn't exactly fly when you got below the surface. Still, I found him irresistible. That bad boy persona, you know? Even if it was completely false, it still got me hot under the collar. But I'm getting off-topic here.
Troy was holding a bit of a party to celebrate the anniversary of his grandmother's wedding vows or something like that - that was one of his little habits, holding 'parties' on any pretext so he could tank a whole bunch of people up with booze or hallucinogens and preach to them about how swell life was. After the first time, you found yourself thinking you wouldn't see him again. After the second, you found yourself agreeing with him. Things were simpler when you threw your mind at his feet. When he suggested that the girls pierce my ears, I was all for it - but all we could find was a rusted piece of crap that I became convinced was sent by the Devil himself.
I think it was at that moment, lying next to the cistern of his broken old toilet, clutching my leg just below the knee and sobbing uncontrollably to the sounds of half-hearted knocking on the splintered wood of the bathroom door, that I realized that there and then I truly was an adult. Suffering of our own making that we could not fully understand, a vast amount of sensory experience that we weren't capable of filtering, and yet my lungs kept working, my heart still pounded - and despite the fact that I was lured into a trap by an ill-conceived demagogue with vaunted notions of spiritual purity and childlike wonder, I was going to get out of there.

I'm a Force

My eyes are blue,
My heart is too,
but it pumps crimson blood
throughout my veins.

My skin is pale,
My soul for sale,
But it keeps demons out
despite my pains.

My hipbones are the surface of the earth.
They curve away towards infinity.
My legs are mighty pillars,
and my voice is gravity.
I'm a force, a force,
it's a matter of course
to be awestruck at me
- at least,
at the parts you see.

Chocolate

Raise your glass,
Wipe your brow.
Not everything can be coated in chocolate.

Swallow pills,
Click your heels.
We'll all be home by nightfall,
each box for each.

Strip the flesh,
salt the wound.
You're hungry, you're so fucking hungry.

Breathe the air,
Shake off care.
All you need is empty air.

Does anybody know where you've been?
Does anybody know why you sin?
Is there any way of knowing?
Should I drown you in the ocean,
and watch you sink?
Better that than to stop and think.

Somebody knows,
somebody saw you go.
My problem is not with the group,
nor with the faults I found.
The problem I had was your mind,
buried so deep in the ground.

Raise your glass,
Wipe your brow.
Not everything can be coated in chocolate.

Judgement's for Sun-Up

with a twist of your arm
              a tilt of your head
                 it seems we've fallen
                    right into bed.

everything's easy
     when you don't think right
        judgement's for sun-up
            but we own the night

   you tasted so sweet
       though we knew it was wrong
           your kisses were honey
             and they lingered so long
          
   i stole a moment
      in a definite way
         from someone who never
           suspected today
  
      though i did a bad thing
         that i knew was wrong
           his kisses were honey
              and they lingered so long

Kingmaker

So today I took a little trip and I saw and did some things, and they got me to thinking. I didn't write at all while I was away, and I regret that. But I'm giving it a go now and writing until the battery on my laptop dies.

I walked a rotted post
as if it were a catwalk
a red carpet
a path paved with daggers
my birthright
my destiny
a rotted post.

Soverign kings upon the earth.
Catch all, catch one, we fall.
Our dominion stretches from sky, to sea, to sky again.
Do not deny me anything
Within the reach of my hand.

Were I given the option,
I would have you expunged.
Stripped from every pore.
The memories ripped from where they clung,
burnt right out of my core.
Where I given the option,
you would be no more.

Unfortunate then, for both of us
that I was never given anything.

Soverign kings upon the earth.
Catch all, catch one, we fall.
Our dominion stretches from soul, to soar, to soul again.
Do not deny me anything
Within the reach of my love.

You are nothing.
The sun, the sky, the trees,
the woman dancing in the breeze,
the laughter, tears and hacking coughs -
these are something! Anything
would dare to be so...
so...splendiforous.
By virtue of it existing
it would sing.
By virtue of being worthy,
it would sing.
For being,
it would sing.

You are an empty vessel,
and you do not sing.
You sound when mournful wind disturbs your corpse.

Sovereign kings upon the earth.
Catch one, catch all, we fall.
Our dominion stretches from love, to hate, to love again.
Do not deny me anything
Within the bounds of my wrath.

There is nothing that I cannot take.
Nothing upon which I shall not slake
my thirst
my appetite omnivorous
and though you are nothing -
and all your days will amount to nothing -
an enterprising scavenger
could find a feast within your life
and ferret out the tears and strife
and claim them for himself.
Oh, but do not ask "What is it?"
For only you know the value of a theft
a theft of life.

Soverign king, over the earth.
Wrong one, wrong all, you fall.
Do not deny me anything.
Do not deny me anything.
Do not deny me anything.
Or I will come to call.

.

blood walks
your mind is grey steel and howling wind
there is so very much left unsaid

Criminals

Somebody within earshot of me today was talking about 'those kids who think they're criminals because they do drugs will eventually grow out of it" and I think that's a fundamental misinterpretation of why some people do drugs.

Even a fundamental misinterpretation of what makes a criminal, really. I'm not going to get social justice all up in here, or political up in here, but it /did/ inspire a bit of a creative writing exercise. Everything from this point is not to be taken as my personal opinion or a statement of my position. Seriously.

For starters, what leads somebody to label themselves a criminal? Committing criminal acts is not always enough, right? I know people who break water restrictions, people who have cheated (slightly) on their taxes, people who owe money to friends or who hold events without insurance or what-have-you, and these people would never dream of calling themselves criminals. Would we? Probably not, right? It stands to reason that we'd extend the same courtesy to ourselves. Turn a blind eye to our own breaches of conduct, our own minute violations of the law. Indeed, most everybody is a criminal, and most everybody says that they are not. Why, then, refer to yourself as a criminal? 

Perhaps it's a by-product of being shoehorned into a society that doesn't exist for you, or doesn't exist to support you, or actively opposes you. What if you figure that out from a young age? What if every time you breach the rules, every time you do something that isn't the norm...well, you can't be a criminal, right? Because we're still acting under the assumption that the people we're around aren't criminals, because if they're criminals for their tiny errors, we're criminals. And so your parents will say 'it was a mistake' or your teacher will say 'that's not how it's supposed to be' and the society you live in will do your best to shut down your deviancy and make you get back into line so it can get back to pretending that you're not different, that you're not a lawbreaker, that you're not a criminal. Remember, they have a vested interest in their friends, neighbors  students, constituents, whatever - a vested interest in their society not being populated by criminals. Criminals are Other. Criminals deserve punishment. Criminals are wrong.

What if that deviancy was calculated? What if you were different by choice? What if you did drugs because you believed it to be a fundamental human right to tinker with your own consciousness? What if you don't vote because you don't believe? What if you trespass regularly because your rightful land was stolen from you? What if, if you want to get fancy, there was a strong ideological rejection behind your criminal activity? Would that be a reason to call yourself a criminal, to get other people to acknowledge that you were a criminal? If, for example, I were into drugs, would calling myself a criminal be remarkably pretentious, as this person I mentioned at the top there is implying? Or would it be a reclamation of the word 'criminal', forcing others to acknowledge that I am a criminal by virtue of my ideological dedication to my cause? Shouldn't we respect that declaration of difference, the choice to wear that label, to identify with that strong sense of opposition to a society that marginalizes or demonizes our behaviours whilst denying that those behaviours are present throughout itself? I mean, what about homosexuality in countries the world over that demonize it? If the oppressed choose to label themselves criminals, shouldn't we take this declaration seriously?

I mean, this is all hypothetical, of course. I'm not saying that I commit illegal acts. But it's food for thought, isn't it?

Static/Cadence/Rhythm

ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum...ba-bum...

Static.
Stars explode.
Television screens switch on.
It's all the same, really.
You're asleep.
You're awake.
You're high, you're drunk, you make a mistake,
and it's all the same.
Static.

Cadence.
Hearts beat.
Feet on the street.
Buses, cars, trains,
aeroplanes -
around and around and you're feeling insane
but there's order
there's rhythm
and although there can be a schism
- entropy, you understand -
that drives your heart into your hand
and makes you clench a fist...

Are you wondering what you miss?
You're already dead
but the cadence
the slow dance
the psychedelic trance
the babbling nonsense
the endless streets
and behind it all the sovereign silence
it's all the same.
Cadence.

I think that it bears repetition
that there's nonsense in all things
and yet there's a rhythm
a thief in the night
or terrified eyes taking flight
I live in a glass house
and I'm throwing stones at the ceiling
but I'd give my last crumb to a mouse.
Do you understand what I'm leaving?
There's chaos and order
in the sound of my breathing
in the heartbeat of rodents
in the scraps of a hoarder
that rasps out his last
under a pile of newspapers
that he could have had moved
if he had just thought to ask.
Cause and effect, cause and effect
There's nothing wrong here
there's no sign of a defect
We'll slump to our knees
for a dollar and death
and the fuck of it all
is we might say please.

Static.
Cadence.
Rhythm.
Death.

It was worth a mention.

Oneiro

I'm not crazy.

Hazy days that bleed into one another, striated skies and mugs of coffee.
Restless nights spent waiting in vain for the sun that
finally
you are the elder of.
Walking in the weak rays of the youngest one.
An usurper, a nocturnal creature
a silent (alright, giggling) witness to the intangible and the immutable.

I'm not crazy.

The image still hurts my eyes.
Sleep-heavy, world-weary,
bent backs and shoulders and necks
and twisted limbs
and friendly strangers
and the probabilities lined up to favour a fool
who outstayed his welcome in the waking world.
I'm not mad.
I'm just supremely, blissfully lucky.

I wish that I could sleep.
I wish that I could count the sheep
that shuffle past my door
and stop with soft bleating
to implore me, their sovereign lord
to cast back the night
and greet the great young sun once more.

I am a cat on hot sand.
I am a butterfly flapping
my iridescent, fragile wings
against a glass jar as strong as steel
as strong as bone
as strong as night and day and tides and times.
I am an uncharted place
a forgotten face
and a mistimed note.
But sometimes I'm a charming guy.

I am a sieve for all the world's words.
I hold back the useless
I give voice to the useful.
I'm never empty, never full.
I use time to my advantage
and I'll never - never! -
dare stand still.

She is something else, but she shan't be covered here.
It isn't that I don't have words, but I am full of fear,
for she walks paths more radiant than I,
but walks with me
because I'm a charming guy
sometimes.

Dragon's blood is burned in droves.
Feline grace is fettered in my wake.
I have an eternal thirst to slake,
and I will not be denied.

But eventually I must fall, and dream
and walk the paths and ways
immutable, unseen.
And that's just fine,
and that's alright,
and that's just fine with me.

I'm not crazy.

Needles

We'll all commit to trepanning.
You don't have a choice.
The needles gleam
omnivorous.
Drinking all that vainglory
drinking all that vainglory
drinking all that infidelity
sorrows, sin and sodomy
drinking all that in.

You're flippant in the face of me,
a carnal bit of jollity
but soon you'll fall to poverty,
a dearth of sole regard.

It wasn't all that hard.
We'll all commit.
So don't fight it.
Come along into the dark, with me.
Come along and we will both be free.

We've liberated all you knew
We've freed the dream, the id.
We've carved into your cranium
and though the blood shall flow
- does flow -
you'll never know we did.

Peel away the folds of flesh,
Culture spores within my head.
And should a mould begin to form
I will be pleased for something fresh
some life comes from the dead
and dying.

Gibbering under psychic strain
you've felt so much
and you're in pain
so come into the needle's reach
come into the needle's reach
I have a way of peace to teach
so come into the needle's reach
and I will make you sane.

We'll all commit.

.

"If people are abandoning you left right and center maybe you should look at the common denominator of all of those relationships."

I'm just going to leave this here for myself. It's helping.

deep down

not good enough

you know this

deep down 

yellow splinters across your vision

shards of glass

(not good enough)

tinkling down

and yet nothing fades away

(you know this)

and everything is stark

(deep down)

we were made for one another

(not good enough)

we were made for ourselves

(you know this)

we were not meant to be

(deep down)

not everything can be quantified

to try

(not good enough)

not everything can be caution

i am not caution

(you know this)

and though i may fall

you were sworn to pick me up

(deep down)

what honor in this?

fingerprints on a train wreck

(not good enough)

you should have been proud

you should have tried

(you know this)

and now there is nothing

snuffed out

(deep down)

i'll come up swinging

no credit to you

(not good enough)

i'll come up singing

i'm through with you

(you know this)

i'll come up bringing

a change in the view

(deep down)

deep down, in the place where happiness lives and dies

for i am a god of underwhelmed places

a lord of punched faces

(not good enough)

i am better than any deserve

and i can kill with a word

(you know this)

but your lying tongue 

was not divine

(deep down)

and now we're out of time

yellow splinters across your vision

shards of glass

(not good enough)

tinkling down

and everything fades away

(you know this)

and everything you are is stark

and i know you

deep down

deep down

deep down

you know this

not good enough.

Mouse

Character work for a new Nosferatu I'm about to launch.

Come in, come in. Don't mind the dark, my dear boy! You'll get used to it soon enough, after all. We spend a great deal of quality time down here in these tunnels, so you might as well get comfortable. No? A little unnerving? Well, you have been through a lot in the past few weeks, so I understand. I'll light a lamp.

*the sound of breaking glass is heard*

Bother. I could have sworn I left that on the second shelf. Ah well, here's another. Do you have a match, old boy? I swear, I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached to my torso. There we are. I can feel the heat from here, so do keep it to yourself. You might not appreciate a clear look at me in this light anyway.

Now, don't scream! I'm completely harmless, I promise you that. My skin condition is quite confronting, but I assure you, it isn't contagious. Or painful, thank you for asking. I've long since acclimatized to the itching and as long as I don't accidentally run into anything too hard, the sores don't weep. You're completely forgiven for the outburst - I'm to understand that the decor down here tends to unsettle guests, and I'm not a sight anybody would wish to come across in a dark place.

What's that you say, old boy? Bitter? Not at all! I've never had the misfortune of looking in a mirror, so as far as I'm concerned, I'm still the fresh-faced young dock worker who was Embraced all those years ago. It's inner beauty that counts, in my humble opinion, but of course I would say that, wouldn't I. Still, I know a few tricks to keep myself unnoticed in public. You might have noticed.

Can I offer you refreshment? I only have rat, unfortunately, but you might be hungry after your long trip. No? You'd rather get right down to it? Well, if you could read the document out to me, I'll give you my professional opinion - as long as you don't mind if I partake in a little refreshment first! The blind leading the blind is thirsty work, if you'll pardon my little joke.

*a rat shrieks in the darkness*

Rex

So on my list of things to do today is the following:

"Write something - anything."

Write something. I mean, by the bare minimum of my requirements, I've done that now. I've recorded a few words, and I'm going to hit the big orange publish button and jettison those words from my screen into cyberspace, and the obligation is fulfilled. But I think I was supposed to do something a bit more, you know? I think the implication, from Past Me (that mythical figure I keep invoking) to Future Me (that all too real figure that, alas, I inhabit now) was that by writing something I would achieve some catharsis  get out some angst, and feel better about myself and about my situation.

You know, it's already working? I haven't said anything of substance, but it's working. Here, I am king. I can write something - anything. That's great. That's actually really great to know that I have a place that won't talk back (unless somebody comments, which is rare), that won't be used against me, that won't come back and bite me on the ass later - just a place to vomit words and be content with that.

So, what to write. I can write anything, remember.

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

I really, really like that phrase at the moment. I'm not sure when my eye was plucked out, exactly. Maybe I traded it for arcane lore and lost secrets that drove me mad. Maybe it was torn out when I was thrown down a set of stairs or held up against a wall by my throat, or maybe I dropped it carelessly in my excited flight to Melbourne and away from my old life. Maybe I closed my eye forever when I came out to my family and friends, maybe I lost that eye when I refused to keep both at the cost of my principles. Maybe I tore out my eye to be like my father, or my mother, or my brother. Maybe my eye wasn't worth keeping, maybe I was born with a defective eye, maybe my eye was poked out by people who say they're one thing and live as something else (yes, I am talking about you). Maybe it's all of these things. Maybe, down in the dirt or up in the clouds, I simply decided that my life had warped me into a cyclops. I mean, who needs two eyes? One is good enough. I think I value my vision more with just the one, especially because I'm surrounded by people perfect in ocular ability and utterly deficient in sight!

It's a metaphor. Not a very good one, but it'll serve for the moment.

A few days ago I came very close to killing myself. That's not a nice thing to happen to anybody, and yet it isn't the first time it has happened to me. Losing an eye hurts, but living half-blind hurts more. I don't think that my body and soul will ever really get past what was done to me, what I did to myself - but bit by bit, inch by inch, I'm clawing myself back out of the pit that I've fallen into, and though my eye might be red with tears, bloodshot and bleary, it gives more than enough sight for me to see my path.

Sure, I might be monstrous and I might be wrong and I might have completely lost touch with reality, and all of the woe that has befallen me might be my fault (though that is a hell of a stretch, even for somebody as prone to wallowing as me). I might be warped and twisted and beyond repair - but the good thing about monsters is that they have claws and huge teeth and they're dangerous, real deep down dangerous, the stuff that primal fears and nightmares are made of. So I have that, if I ever need it - and as long as I don't turn those teeth and claws on myself, I should be able to get by. It'll just take practice. They're sharp and they're hungry, but they can be tamed.

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

You can call me Rex.

I'm not going anywhere.