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.

And I turned to face the cold and damned...

I swear to god, if anything, possessing sanity in a world of unmitigated insanity will be the trigger that finally drives me insane. Fucking irony. Fucking hell.

The more healthy&stable I become, the more alienated, alone I realize I am.
Alone and suffering.

And when it comes down to it, what good is sanity in the face of absolute aloneness? What value is a mental, emotional, and spiritual language that is entirely incommunicable? When do mere human fallibility and sheer insanity begin to bleed into each other? Am I sane if sanity, by default, is socially defined because knowledge is collectively gained?

George Orwell himself wrote that "perhaps a lunatic is just a minority of one."
[Granted, that line stems from a troubled protagonist's internal struggle to find truth amidst an oppressive, totalitarian society; the character is despairing, conflicted, confused, and his perception is obfuscated by the absolute tyrannical monopoly on truth... that is to say, the line itself may not be truth.]

Monopoly on truth... as though it were a commodity for humans to control, as though it is dependent on our existence and not the other way around... as though with enough sickening egomania, we truly become gods. Disgusting power lusting wretches.

Now belief, that's another matter altogether.
Belief is entirely dependent on human existence.
Belief is entirely subject to human control.
And belief itself is the root of all power, and subsequently all tyranny.


[The irony of tyranny is that the worst tyranny is the voluntary surrender of freedom.]
[The irony of tyranny is that the worst tyranny is the voluntary surrender of freedom.]

But sanity is tied to belief in truth, and who defines truth and thereby sanity?
The salient crux: no one transcends belief, no one is omniscient; there is only agenda; there is only those in power with more ability to influence belief. And sanity, oh sweet sanity, is owned by the worst possible demographic: power lusting egomaniacs.

Maddening. Enough to drive you mad.

And what are you left with when sanity in the face of absolute aloneness renders you as good as insane? Or what's worse your loneliness finally drives you insane?

Defy, defy, defy sanity; embrace, embrace, embrace your own wild ideals.

ma cheri

looking at you is like sucking on a black lollipop. sexy&sweet&noir.

coronary insanity

i was drinking up and looking through a glass, darkly
weeping i just have to make it through this evening
pulled the curtains i heard them speaking in tongues
about a naive no-one who never tried who was barely more
than a twinkle in his old mans eye but slightly more than
a suicide who met a good listener with perfect words a
closed lipped ventriloquist heart all-a-slur either you
are still with me or you never were either you are still
with me or you never were either you are still with me or

~loveless

Headlong to Doom

This is a country/western song I've been writing in the style of Johnny Cash:

Headlong to Doom

Verse One:
Red, white, & blue scars across your face:
The crest of a hero in love with power's embrace,
Oh, sinnin' saint.
So patriotic, young, & full of fight
For any god & country, destroy & delight,
No end in sight. So blind, no end in sight.

Verse Two:
Seein' stars, & stripes of bloody wounds.
No man is victorious when gunshots make you swoon
Headlong to doom.
Oh, once a soldier also was a groom;
He fell, never grew older, cried "Son I never knew,
Still in her womb... forgive me, son, in her womb."

*Dobro Solo*

Verse Three:
I roam down the highway on dirt the colour of rust.
The air shimmers before me. A mirage that I mistrust
Forms in the dust.
I see myself a shining stallion,
No scars, so naive. I sought medallions,
but no war is won--I know--no war is won.

Refrain:
Headlong to doom.
Headlong to doom.
Headlong, headlong to doom...

Afflicted by Exhilaration from Hyper-Intelligence, Reckless Self-Abandon, & Hyperbole

There is this feeling so god-damned lily-gildingly beautiful, so treacherously & infatuatingly magnetic, so staggeringly dark yet brilliant, that I fear [know] I will go insane, once & for all, if I continue to fail at expressing it [read: smother it with verbal/emotional/behavioural incompetence]. & There is a sort of event horizon surrounding the various hypothetical futures I entertain... beyond which there is no reality, no possibility--an inevitable event horizon stemming from the point at which the suicide factor falls into gridlock with the endurance/"will to expression" factor. When my capacity has been exceeded. Ergo, time is running out. & Of course, I refuse to be suicidal.


The confusion, I think, arises not solely from the notoriously ineffective translation process called articulation, but also from my internal schism. When experiencing the soul-slamming high of absolute reckless self-abandon & of glistening vulnerable narcissism, I am so totally enveloped, I do not recognize the magnitude of what is. Of course writing this is problematic [being that I am trying to relive it]. Only when I extract myself from the residual emotional strands & I retrospect does the true [read: glamourized] meaning dawn on me.

The thing that I need is an acutely perceptive external point of reference, or, in laymen's terms, someone who understands me fully [which by default generally coincides with a lover, with the lover]. & Which I have.


The lightest part of it, the shining gold narcissism, is so light & joyful, it feels like nothing; as insubstantial & necessary as air. Invisible because blindingly bright. & When recognized, when the true blazing nature of it is recognized, the repercussions are cataclysmic: love. Unbearably light.

Now, if you can imagine a shifting golden-brown that has streaks so dark, they resemble black more than brown--that is the dark part of it. A messianic tragedy of the heart, often self-destructive, & downright destructive, to the point that self-loathing starts to seep in from the periphery. Black humiliation that fuels the darkness further. Only abated by the slaphappy golden waves of cathartic lightness.

The perhaps more troubling aspect of this emotion is that it is in fact one (1) emotion. A glittering happiness that breathes in the pain, a troubled joy that sings the darkness. & It is my imperative [albeit chosen] Modus Operandi when facing the worst perils, the head-reeling drunken sorrows, & the bliss [always the bliss].


Now, to escape that horizon.

excerpt from Journal Account of the Apocalypse

Sometimes I find the surging notions of destructive beauty overcome me, notions I can only express in bittersweet pangs of art, music. Somewhere inside the psychotic shell, I wonder if the tormented artist can find meaning then perhaps humanity can be redeemed. So, in desperation I take refuge in ugly(?) images like the rosebuds on a crown of thorns, bleeding in the womb, a god who in the darkness of omnipotence thrusts upon us terrestrial tribulation. I hope that somehow I can convey the beauty of these notions. And then, there's the one I'm in love with the most, every time: Armageddon. It is the Ultimate Battle, because even in triumph, the world ends, we end, you end. The storms of blustering wind, the raging hearts of love and chagrin, and empty seeds of mustard that once held faith… dissipate. Every mortal fights in vain. Just the difference is some wildly embrace the joy of infamous kingdom come, unbearable amounts of terror rife in their hearts; but a sense of resigned glee of being at the mercy of the cosmos ensnares their free will yet. And some go on resisting, calling the blinding light darkness, and ultimately I don’t know which is which.

megalomania is sexy

I said, “I feel invincible. Do you?” He said yeah.
Absolute megalomania looks good on him.
Usually the joy is impenetrable, dangerously slaphappy and naïve, and completely erroneous. But such is the paradox of everything I encounter—as soon as I assert its definiteness, a jolt of knowing opposition erupts. Troubling, really.

I suppose it’s just some youthful high—and it’s strong as fuck, cause it’s lasted for twenty-three years and still going strong. Giddy with life, in denial about unconcerned with unwilling [?] to process death. Rationally, yes, of course I’m going to die. I’ve been told. But basically, aside from those morbidly obsessed poets and cancer patients and the odd wise-beyond-your-years prodigy, youth are invincible against not feeling invincible.
Ergo, delusional fools. But resilient-ass motherfuckers.

And then it crumbled, for a moment. I don’t think for me. I think it was for him. A horrible, bittersweet rush came over me, a grave [forgive the pun] hush and stab. I still want to scream. Because suddenly I could hear all the weakness and vulnerability welling up in him, in contrast to his words of might. Although a moment later, the unreasonable joy was brimming in me making me almost cry; felt like sadness, a vice grip in my chest and uncontrollable buckling of my knees, but somehow it was the reverse and happy. I think… either way, its going to go down. Down, down, down.

Throughout my turbulent, risen-hell, fucked up childhood, I was invincible. Against repeated, methodical, almost mechanical near death experiences; in fact, furthered by triumph over these experiences. I retreated into the mind, with the profound and awesome for my comfort. Death-defiance because the cosmos were on my side. Then daydream and wonder made way for sex drive, though pain still lingered.

And sex drive doesn’t just ignore, it literally attempts to counter death. Someone will live if I don’t—and they’ll be like me dammit[!] and someone I love even more than me[!] And it governs everything, from your soul mate to ads on TV [pin-up girls?] to the way you curl your toes. But yeah, yeah, yeah we’ve all heard that, well-familiar now… if not at least by experience.

But then even that goes away. Whether the attraction stops for you or in you. And then you’re left facing an old demon from the back of your mind, only friend, alone.  A sad knowledge that you've always had, but somehow only just now realized.
And I guess then you stop feeling invincible?
I don’t want to shake it off, but I don’t like being so profoundly wrong. Or so aware that I'm not really aware.

There's no reason to fight it.
Megalomania keeps you sane.

The Is and the Meta

The phoniest thing in the universe is this straightforward, ironed-out, linear presentation of reality that words [read: writers, no I] inherently force into existence, that inherently is false because the certainty of words arouses indecision, deliberation.  If words, the incremental units of communication, contained the indefiniteness of life, contained the indefiniteness they inevitably heighten with the problem of choice, could we speak at all? And yet, by definition [and because of definition], could they ever reflect the blurred boundaries, the fluctuations, the transience of love&lust&death&dust... thought&vision&doubt&revision? Is this vanity, or simply humbly in vain to even write? Can words ever mean what they mean, if their very nature affects thought and confines reality?

for my Avant-Garde class in Cambridge: sex&narcissism