Good works through freedom. Evil works through control.

Lipstick Mama

Lipstick Mama smeared her soul in dark red tangibly across her lips. She was a poet and her soul was a poem. And it read something like this:

Love come in all shades
Sometimes in red lips
Sometimes with the blues
Sometimes in black hips
Love is loose

Lipstick message painted in a language more ancient than the hieroglyphs, more universal than music, and more lonely than an innocent on death row. She was well-versed. They didn't call her Lipstick Mama for nothing. Black as crude oil, her body was consumed every night, tricks ravaging her.

It took a weary part of her heart. Selling her poem, night after night, tricks ravaging her.
It took a weary part of her heart.

Thing about resilience is, if you harden yourself, you've let the hurt win.
The hurt in her heart was so big; like the moon eclipses the sun, the hurt eclipsed her inner light, though the light was greater.
Thing about resilience is, if you harden yourself, you've let the hurt win.

But she had a knowledge.
Lipstick Mama's soul, her lipstick soul, a lipstick poem, in a lipstick language, had a hope firmer than hope. The radiant, shimmering, circular sliver of light escaping the brim of the eclipsing moon.

Even though Lipstick Mama smeared her soul in dark red tangibly across her lips, and even though every night her dark red soul smeared over the shaft of a stranger [or maybe a regular; with Lipstick Mama you weren't ever a stranger for long]... her soul went untouched.

The dirtiest, crudest, deepest chagrin, with that white liquid dripping fresh from her dark red lips [her dark red soul now smeared flat across her cheeks too, half erased from her lips]... couldn't even touch her lipstick soul. Every man, and any man, could touch her lips, and women too [Lipstick Mama's beauty stirred untold pleasures even in the souls of women]... but they couldn't really touch her lipstick soul.

Love come in all shades
Sometimes in red lips
Sometimes with the blues
Sometimes in black hips
Love is loose

Thing about resilience is, if you harden yourself, you've let the hurt win.

Lipstick Mama had a knowledge that shivered like a heat wave through her soul.
Tricks came and went, paid their dues, consumed her glistening crude-oil-body, and left her used.
But she didn't harden her heart; she armed herself with vulnerability.

Lipstick Mama loved. Lipstick Mama feasted on them too, let her body ebb and flow with the waves of ecstasy, glimpsed for a moment with each dirty trick. She lusted, ached for the flesh of the still unknown. And the more she relished in the moment, and cherished each body, assuaged the loneliness of each soul, the more she knew. The more she knew that though she was paid her dues, she was to her own self true. A lazy, loose, lipstick love.

the dust of perception

When the dust of perception settles then you finally will see. When the frenetic chaos and movement of the constantly adjusting mind finally are at rest, clarity arises. But it is not rigid, set, forced. It is open, perceiving, and receptive. And it is absolutely sublime.

Modus Operandi

"Donnie Darko: it's like some sort of super hero or something." "What makes you think I'm not?"

First thing you should know about me: I can induce nirvana [read: magnificent, proto-delusional simulation] at will. Like some sort of metaphysical, ecumenical, offbeat/esoteric superpower. Just think of the possibilities- "Quick, achieve a state of transcendent bliss to combat this meaningless, corporate American, material trash; to combat our nihilistic questionings of existence; to combat the monster of first-world isolation!"

Instant gratification at its finest: Thank you, LSD. Only, of course, could a laboratory-synthesized, CIA-dubbed "potential mind-control" drug of ten syllable scientific gibberish render its user permanently over-enlightened [read: permanently tripping, as the case may be]. And in being drug-induced, as opposed to induced by that soul-scratching struggle for self-realization, my case of instant-brewed "nirvana" ultimately. is. fake. In eliminating the quest for enlightenment, and cutting straight to the attainment, the attainment loses all meaning. Unholy irony.

Because, naturally, how could a lab-rat, a corrupt CIA official, and a reckless 17-year-old possess the key to divine light?

Needless to say, this presents a simple [read: complex] issue of perception mistrust. Where your former mind would venture into deep thoughts while keeping them at a safe distance, your current brain-damaged mind finds itself staring into the scintillating eye of immortal oblivion, thrust nakedly before the primordial chaos of the supreme so complete it bears no more semblance to reality, engulfed in some synaesthetically blue harmonics extending into infinity. When my mind slips ever-so-slightly and lets god back in. Unable to comprehend without experiencing. I can't even smoke weed without tripping.

So, what, is the solution to be godless? Repression? Is it completely fiction?

What to believe, what to believe...

It's not going to go away. I might not even want it to. But, the question still hectors, how much of my spirituality is real?

Prescription: one good ol' dose of actual 100% genuine & pure God ['cause after all, you can only handle Him/Her/The-One in doses, right?], just to clear out all the residual psychedelic chaos. I'd say a healthy 7 mind-shattering revelations should do the trick. But don't get too carried away; bipolar type 1 lies just around the corner. Make sure to return to some despair, darkness, and mundanity in the mean time. The mind is a delicate thing, and can only take so much unadulterated, transcendent, blissful truth. It needs some trivial-ass bullshit every once in a while in order to maintain sanity. [Read: it doesn't, but that's our excuse.] And don't forget, it is better to be dosed on God than on LSD [also notoriously referred to as "reduced price, generic brand God"] unless of course, the generic is all you can afford. In which case, transcend responsibly, succumb to delusion as you will, and hope for the best. Side-effects may include: the aforementioned inducing of nirvana [read: magnificent, proto-delusional simulation] at will. We sincerely apologize for the inconveniently high cost of authentic Godliness, but we assure you it is well worth the price. Virtue is its own reward.

[Abilify and Lamictal have been known to work too.]

Degenerate Art

Criticize as you will the poets & the artists & the musicians for their impractical & fanciful endeavors, for being dreamers [or for being nightmarish, unfocused, & angry dissidents, as the case may be] -- but remember almost every war fought in the history of humanity was fought to protect a culture, an ideology, a way of life. Without culture, art, music, free thinkers & dreamers, war alone would merely be the way of life, & every war would necessarily be fought in vain. Fought to protect nothing. War for the sake of war. & War for the sake of war is the worst evil; an evil dangerously reachable. The day censorship, control, sanitizing & whitewashing, force, & vapidity outweigh creativity... The day beauty is forgotten humanity has lost its meaning.

Blood--Laced Walls

You are mining my soul & heart; a chasm in the dark, carved out by the pain & the trauma & staggering highs that invariably collapsed [that left me swooning & lusting for more] & the ensuing despair [my old faithful, despair]. But in the recesses I left you little glittering trails to follow, like trails of gold, diamond, but more precious: the trails of blood in the walls. Lingering hints that I am still there. Blood of tyranny & anger & anguish & passion, my lifeblood, my firmament. Blood of wounds, fresh & stagnant. Blood of yearning & creation. You are fingering the trails, letting your fingers run along the grooves, sliding as you walk down the chasm, your boots echo, clack clack, you feel it & the walls start pulsing [ah, so there is still a pulse]. & your boots echo & the pulse matches, clack clack throb throb. Echoes seem to get louder as the cave's inner physics bend the sound & it amplifies clack clack & the throbbing quickens, & you know are getting close [you quicken]. In sync, our souls are in sync, & then you break into a run as the blood runs thick from the walls. Then you've found it, the core & you take the plunge, you dig, burying yourself. Bashing & hammering & pounding. CRASH & then it opens, my soul opens, emancipation. The dynamic folds of the mind, the awareness locked away, the trembling vulnerability, the passion & intensity, the vibrancy of secrets of perception, it comes gushing forth, bursting, careening, & you are engulfed. You hold on for dear life & out of nowhere [read: somewhere] a hand holds onto yours too. The hologram of a woman, a woman you called herself & called beautiful, a woman whose womanhood you knew, holds onto you. The passion streams by in a red flood, you see a tormented child float by, & a galaxy spinning with nauseating speed, daydreams, & the childhood tree I lost a red balloon in on my birthday, used condoms, my first guitar [a blue telecaster], a crack pipe bobbing up & down in the current, acid fractals to your right, a British night club where I drank my first "orgasm" to your left... But you are hugging this hologram, she holds on tight, & you are whispering to each other that you love each other. A cheesy hallmark card floats by with a box of chocolates on it & reminds you that you first told each other this on Valentine's Day, 2014. & you are telling the hologram, "You are real, you are beautiful, so see it!" Screaming belligerently, you shake her by the shoulders, or you try, but your hands just slide through [for, she is a hologram after all]. It is like she is dreaming, dreaming herself, but not seeing herself, you think. & you are trembling, & then you kiss her, you kiss me; an awareness flickers into my eyes & I feel your shuddering soul in mine, & we need each other. & the lifeblood flows by, in this engorged gulf of sexual, spiritual, carnal fluid.... & I solidify.