There is no Malady.

A malady requires there to have been normality in the first place.
So unless you are Hobbes, what are you talking about?
When was the first root of violence and where is or was this...

"Human Spirit"


?

That you or I can possibly see, feel or identify this....come on.
We've lived in a perpetual Ice Age as far as "Spirit" is concerned
and we know nothing other than what is human.

We, humans, are as disgusting as the most degenerative bacteria you can find out...
..in a swamp
..in our blood
..in our mind.

"Human Spirit" is a myth and morals are just false teeth set to take a bite
out of the only prey we can never pursue.

We navigate our fjords and all we find is a cold darkness;
and what we talk about are horror stories
as we yearn for this bright red fire, your dream buried deep underground,
to warm us
up.

Land of the Seas, Home of the Slaves

The Sunny Empire lets loose the laughter,
bursting — unconditional to the collective unconscious.

The hysterical rhythm and tone of madness behind its veil,
psychological smut smothered by frail happiness.

This type of laughing is no laughing matter.
It is the abysmal malady of our Modern Times.

It represents a reproach for human spirit
and the desire to prescribe its moral disaster.

Wabbit Season

Ridiculous. Steep.
Twice forgotten, once taken.

Vibrations. Echoes.
Please stand by..

abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz.
EADGBE

Timeout! New game!
Get to your corner, NOW!

Each scurries to his corner.
Tension in the air, who will win?
Who has not a spot?
Who is instead watching the tele, watching:

"I claim this planet in the naaaaaame of the Earth!"

There is a winner and a loser to be proclaimed;
I would much rather be on my way to Alburquerque.

Shed Water Weight Now..

"Ahh!"
Is a figure of speech, (slow or fast)
a wait is a weight in and of itself,
a sublimation of an eternal feeling,
the memory forever persists.

Mystery is necessarily followed by
un-mystery; the wait is what flexes
and bends, time does not have time
for anything or anyone.

Century over Century, we mull over the same questions.
We bear the weight of our wait for a solution,

And I bet the magician hears, "Just one taste? you want to know what its like?"

Laughter.

exit 7A

soon slow matters will pass
the wait and weight which came with it
will be gone

speak of lives across the horizon
the shadow behind the horizon fades
like the lives and stories untold

generation after generation


question i still can't answer:

why give us the potential and watch us use it ignorantly?

Night Walking

Gently, I picked up a rock from the pavement and smashed his windshield.

I felt no remorse; he never should have fucked with me in the first place. As the windshield shattered, lines of glass separating, like the veins of an emaciated man, the sounds of neighbors, fine and vigilant people of the area, could be heard resonating through the alleys and down from the rooftops.

"Shut up you faggot!"
"Get a life bozo! Go to sleep!"

And the insane Jewish mothers, curlers in hair, last bon-bon still on their breath, shouting from a distance..

"Don't you know what time it is? God damn --"
"Johnny?!! Is that you? You magg--"

And the variety of commentary that could be heard reverberating continued. I thought to myself, I'm not Jewish, I'm crazy. I walked away from the vehicle slowly. hoping that those who could see me know that I am just an innocent passerby, a good samaritan like them, frustrated and awake at this ungodly hour. I probably had just come out, looking for the rogue creating all the racket. As I walked my black shoes buckled against the dark pavement, like a strained horse galloping away from the action. It didn't help that my shirt was bright yellow or that I had a sizeable chunk of my shoulder missing, blood pouring out of it slowly. It had been a few hours since that incident and I had luckily eluded my captors by jumping into the back of a passing garbage truck, throwing the garbage men off, you could hear the thud of one of their heads (accompanied by a groan) and the scream of the other as he hit a pile of wood on the side of the city street and broke his leg (craaack) as he did so. Sorry guys.

As I hung on with my good arm to the back of the truck, expecting a pickup-stop at any moment or a drunk vagrant to pummel me with a glass bottle, I saw several people sleeping in the street, some with plastic covers, some with old, weathered jackets and finally some with cardboard boxes. In the next moment I saw a man exit a building with a pristine black, pinstripe suit, with Black Bruno Mali shoes, something shiny on his wrist, short black hair slicked back and a black leather briefcase. As we drove by him, I stuck my hand out smacked the back of his head. He dropped his cellphone and briefcase and started chasing after the truck yelling "You fuck! I'm gonna get you!" He was snarling and seething at the mouth. I laughed as we turned a corner and he ran out of steam, screaming at me as the distance between us grew till infinity.

I continued to hang on, sucking in the night-morning air, thinking of my next conquest, my next escape. Forget this place, I thought to myself as I lept off the truck and onto the quiet, foggy street.

One More Bob for the World Today

There is one more Bob Arctor in the world today.
His slippery appearance will elude so many again.

There is one more Patrick Bateman, a stare looking back at him from a mirror.
A slumped over homeless man mourns somewhere.

One more breath.