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the real live among us.

‘when you see those daylight vampires upon the streets, you tell them from me that the nine to five ain’t working out, and they need to raise the minimum wage Here…’

with regard toward nothing.

my fate is locked in tightly with yours, but the avenues for release from the present state are terribly limited. the understanding defies the reason, and the reasons defy the proper logic out of the chaos. ordered thoughts might seem the perilous undertaking. ‘Nixon Void’ beckons from the dark dead subconscious of archetypes unborn. a string of letters and symbols that conceptualize into empty anti-growth. a nihilist is breathed into life, and yet, wants that breath taken back to wherever it came from. spite and despair bring this “thing” to us, and we all have to face our demons down the barrel of a gun, an image that denotes our futile narrowed vision. we are lead around by the bells, ringing to create unendurable confusion, and we meet the intense things that be. overtaken by the bullets of implied …

Reaping the sewn.

As the worm turns

it spins with the earth

yet is as fully separate

as the humans that walk upon it

the matter lies flat over the worm

the shockwaves from running feet

across the dirt as the worm swims

feeling surface moves as it goes

frozen by time the material loosens

as the worm drives its’ way

through a darkness that needs no eyes

a place whose pressure grows

less where the worm has passed

creating footprints in the dirt

making it less a hiding ground

it becomes by then a stomping ground

Thanks, khet.

Rainy day blues.

You think you’ve got troubles…

There are some things in life that are inevitable, from the things we need to survive to the ideas that become reality within decades, but what binds us together makes the whole stronger…or so I had come to believe previously. It is not difficult to feel forsaken by the world at large, and to feel infinitely alone through the view of a keyhole, the eyes of the voyeur taking his place. This feeling has come over me, and hasn’t seemed too unreal by my standards, though everyone else would disagree. Descended as never before, through the ecstatic pains of poverty and kind words, and yet I must see this thing to the end of its’ supposed journey. The laws disallow me to sing praises to my fellow human beings because of …

Roses Are Dead

original songcraft by C.Michael Keaton

excerpt; ‘Roses are red, bathed in a pool of blood
blood of a god, your gods above
a cross of red bled into its chest
hole in the head, bleeding out, dead…’

the Return…

out of Context;
‘Confusion lacks the authority to state any valid word emitting signals from my brain…’