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Bottoms Up

Deception, obsession, self-doubt high voltage. Painful past blown out of proportion, just a lonely boy afraid to grow up. A bitter old man inside clanging for escape. Living both sides, internal confusion fight club. Misanthropic at one moment, sweetheart next one. Good bad and ugly all rolled into one, smoking myself, the heated breakdown wafting up. Trying to find myself through wallowing in the muck. You can’t reach the top til you hit the bottom. Sank down hard just to swallow modesty, scarfing down humble pie with the bottle. Drinking to drown out the spirits that taunt me with whispers of sin. Hushed sounds of forceful whips lashing away. Spare the rod, the spoils of war. The internal war playing itself out on the grass is greener plain. Hollow sentiments and cliches become my moth-eaten blanket. Covering myself to sleep with vicious fishes. Aria refrain on the vinyl skipping a beat. Ave Maria the slow road to take, destination unknown but still setting off. Travelling light but searching for a mate.

String Theory Spirituality

This moment, these moments what I have lived before. One giggle, one light-hearted hiding infinite pain and sorrow. Remark/refrain heard in background, overheard and recollected, triggers my partially encompassed virtual memory. All of it feels so familiar and the all too real sensation comes over my being, my fibre, entrenched in overwhelming quicksand of a recall. Skeptical mind cannot escape it, unearthed, recycled soul cannot fathom a bound and gagged non-linear existence.
Forever coursing and stimulating brain creating multitudes of artistic juices supping at the nectar of an unfinished soul. Reconstituted and pervasive, demanding so much. I become strained, drained, remaining a slave to infesting epiphanies and half-remembered lives. Half-hearted escapes into auxiliary births. Or maybe perpendicular lives unseen to three-dimensional eyes. Cannot reconcile the random moments sensed happening before nor link them together for any benefit in this life I have not chosen to live in. It is, nonetheless, a frontal strike and I am forsaken to embrace, unyielding to the barrage of previous experience. Garnering no wisdom after all this time. Lamenting in continuous patterns.
Unchained, unbound, unlived and relived to make sense of a senseless form. Alien inhabited body clicking together pieces. Forgiving dots scattered, unconnected, plaguing the placed and obsessively co-ordinated mind. Searching the atmosphere for cohesion, willing visual periods to create static end, static pixalism montage. Pattern recognition on radar, pattern oblivious, pattern shaping nothing. Intangible, unremarkable deja vu’s, crafting dreamy cycles of life lacking clues.

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