Where am I to turn? When all I see is horrid. And false. Or lame…I see and hear so much humdrum bullshit, lips are moving with no heart moving in turn, and people dont realise their apathy, their existence as an exchange of presciptions…of words, of smiles, of frowns…none of it delves deeper than what is expected and known as currency.
We have become currency. We deal people, colleagues, friends, lovers as if they were money. And the bank is as vicious and able to change to meet its own ends, ever so quickly, nothing is sacred…its all about the profit. The sensation of comfort and control.
I bore quickly of those comfortable. Unless their comfort is a cocoon of love. Of which I can probably stretch to four duets of the heart and soul…of thousands I have known, and hundreds I still know. 4 from even 100 is an appalling thing. So many ‘couples’, so little love.
She says she is a fan of dystopia. Does this mean she is Real and has accepted the world for what it surely has become? Or that she is a monster? Its one and the same, for to try stop the wheels turning, the fires burning, the mass graves growing, is futile. Perhaps its better to accept our Lot and to then decide to seek out solely and blindly what nourishes, what causes moments of our essence to sparkle, for good or ill…than to fight a losing battle, waste a life?
There is something fierce and feminine in her flashes of something far beyond the perceived essence born of her outline. A Dystopian Queen to whom I am prone to pay court…and as I do, I am aware of a strange sensation of a fairytale worthy of Gimm unraveling, of which I am not the scribe.
Enticed, naturally to my precious metals, worryingly by my mind, which has spent so many moons thinking, hard and fast, yet rarely, if ever makes a decision I follow. I am ruled by forces beyond my control or mental restraint. Long may it continue…for where will I be if my mind, that bottomless well of cynicism, were to become my guiding light? Nowhere warm, nowhere happy, nowhere painful, nowhere blissful, nowhere agonising…
Placed more daily with the common swell, I am finding my fangs bared, spitting poisonous flames…All of the worst is confirmed. Through finding myself ready to protect nowt but my mangled snout, as I rage against the machine as it abuses, it seeks to injure, to diminish, the crowd melts into nothingness as I lose my bambi heart, the wily wolf emerges from his den, a cave in the cliff face in a barren valley, and he snarls.
‘FUCK OFF !GO BACK TO ENGLAND’ the random boar-wench barks at 753am at the train station barrier where we all click and beep, as legion…my blood becomes lava and I seek purchase for those fangs, find the questionable calming as I walk away, for the best of this world, but equally for the wrong of this world. For I should have grabbed her hair, and whispered in her ear ‘I hope to see your face again, but cut from your skull, worn as a mask on halloween…my beloved’…Enter the workplace, my eyes narrowed, my fangs retreating, offer a glance from deep un-nameables towards the Dystopian Queen, fleetingly, in hope of nothing but finding her somehow aware of my energy, and to glance in turn, over her shoulder…to afford me a glimpse, not my eyes, but somewhere far beyond..of a human shaped Doc Leaf for my nettle stings of the SOul.
People who speak in long dead TV noise have become the many.
I have found mad and brilliant kinship with the romantic zeal of Nagel,
Yet understood more with my steadily strangled semblance of lucidity,
the youthful apathetic stance of Holden Caulfield,
the brutal indifference of Meursault,
and yet it is Pechorin,
who has long appeared my calling…
He was sad, sought his own kind on the cold perimeter of humanity,
appeared to play with people,
when he was merely living off instinct…and his own humanity in its primal form.
I have long chosen Prince Myshkin to lean towards,
I was wrong…
and now must seek the collision of Vautrin and Pechorin.
My own peculiar Übermensch ideal.
I seek to blow a hole in the sky.
My temptation towards the shallows once and for all eradicated…
Life is only worth living when survival,
of the heart, the soul, the spirit,
is on the roulette table alongside your chips…
I am perched at the top of my well,
the bucket is full of tainted water,
and I realise,
that its high time I sought my own purity,
before roaring a hope of it,
as mangled poetry against the world…
so I cut the rope.
Head to slumber hopeful of emerging from my cocoon routine spent insulated against this reality of wakefulness,
to a realm where my soul finds wings and takes flight,
rarely to encounter anything markedly different from what my eyes wide open see,
brief moments of bliss,
in between Bosch worthy horror…
Bjork reminds me to seek the sublime…