Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Forensic Analysis

“If suffering like hers had any use, she reasoned, it was not to the sufferer. The only way that an individual's pain gained meaning was through its communication to others.”
Diane Wood Middlebrook, Anne Sexton: A Biography 


I reach through the fodder of my mental plane wreck, grasping, trying to make sense of it. Like a forensic crash analyst, I pick up pieces of my shattered self and hold them up to the light, turning them over and over looking for reasons of the devastation. Is it operator error? Did the machine break? Was it an act of God? Did someone fail to address issues that led to this? These questions are valid even when looking at my human psyche, and to that end I believe that all apply. I made mistakes, very big mistakes, and even if I were normal and my mind healthy, mistakes would still happen. Yes, the machine is broken, it's totally fucking obvious to anyone who knows me for any length of time that I'm fucked up in the head, that shit ain't right with this guy. People contributed to this trashing of my soul, abuse, neglect, rape, bullied, rejected, adopted, violent brutal attacks on my body and mind, yep, all done by others. The sad thing is not that these happened, 'cause shit happens to everyone, but that, like in movies when they dunk the guy underwater and wait till he's about to pass out until they pull him up, then he can barely take a breath before he is shoved underwater again, it's the frequency of the shit that keeps hitting my fan. I'll barely have a hold on my PTSD and I'll be attacked violently, or someone will violate my space by stealing from me, betraying me, or whatever. It happens over and over again. What in the hell is God trying to show me? What fucking possible good can there come of my constant devastation? I've held on this long because I'm so concerned about taking the next breath I can barely see beyond right now, in fact, dreams of the future are gone, if they ever were there. I only remember one dream, that of being a veterinarian. It was shot to hell very quickly as I got bullied and fucked with, even by teachers and adults. So that's it, I was given one dream, it's gone, so fuck me and all I have to look forward to is catching my breath the next time life pulls my head out from under the water. OK, wait, I hear some self righteous asshole from the back saying, “You carry yourself like a victim, that's why you keep getting attacked.” Oh, fuck me, is that the answer? It's my fault? Hell, well now I'm all better, thanks. This is not a whining rant where I want people to feel sorry for me, its mainly a way of examining the evidence and helping me toward recovery from all this shit. I don't want advice, I just want to fucking yell at the trees and mountains 'til I've exhausted all my homicidal and suicidal screams, 'til I've cried all my tears and I can't cry anymore, scream and scream until I break down and stop fighting against life. I've survived what would have killed most people, I'm still holding on to shreds of sanity and empathy that many would have lost by now. I'll be OK, and perhaps somehow, I'll find out how to piece this shit back together, but I seriously doubt it will ever fly again.

Spiritual Guidance

“She’s not showing any interest in me and she looks like she doesn’t want to be here. Should I take off her handcuffs? I thought kidnap victims were supposed to fall in love with their captors?
” ― Jarod Kintz


Help me! I can't see and my eye is swollen and throbbing. My lips are cracked and parched, I taste blood. He has me bound and my breathing is painful from broken ribs. I cough up blood and spit it out on my dress. I thought he would take care of me, protect me and guide me. That innocent dream is gone as I hear the sound of his breathing in the next room. Does anyone know I'm here? Does anyone care? I should have made different choices, followed advice, and been more careful. This is my fault isn't it? I begged for this he said, because I dressed the way I did. My walk was the lure, because my hips swayed a little too much, because I was confident had long hair that only added to his desire. I struggle against the stiffness settling in on my body and mind, perhaps the shock is wearing off. God I hope someone is praying for me. I feel around trying to find something that will help me out of here. As I fumbled around I bumped the door and it budged! Peering out of the small crack I see evidence of him all over, liquor bottles and clutter. I open the door a little farther and notice that he has passed out on the chair with drug shit all over the table in front of him. I struggle to stand and barely made it up before I fell with the thud on the floor. I shuddered with stifled terror filled panicked breaths believing that my fall would wake him. With my head on the floor I can see a steak knife just at the edge of the couch and I work my way toward it. I managed to with great effort get my hands on it, and began cutting the leather belt that held my hands. Damn the movies make this look easy, but it takes for fucking ever to do it and I manage to give myself quite a few cuts before I'm actually am free. My adrenaline is kicking in hard and it beats back the haze that is growing over my thoughts and making me dizzy when I stand. I hold the knife firmly, thinking as I work my way past him that I would drive it right through his eye, but I didn't, I just want out of here where I have a chance to live. I didn't think I wanted to live on quiet nights when I was hurt and lonely because of lost love, and I'm ashamed now knowing how bad I just want out of this and to be alive. I open the door and run through the street grabbing a cab that happened to be dropping off his passenger. I should go to the cops, but I don't, I just go back to my apartment. He knows me and he'll be back, after all, every pastor should know where the ladies in his congregation live.

Friday, November 14, 2014


“And so, irritants, it is with this that I leave you. You are spared so that you can think of what it really is to live in a world that engenders a pain for which there is no comfort. Here is your product! You have the rest of your lives to think of this. And I suggest you think quickly, for a long life is never a guarantee.”
Jhonen Vasquez, Johnny the Homicidal Maniac: Director's Cut 


No way out, that's plain to see,
No breaks here, at least not for me

Created someone, by choices of peers
People pleasing, bad choices in years

Time is here, for the ugly plans
Another choice, to take a stand

In the mind, I thought I'd be
Options present, from a Divine We

Way is clear, two roads to home
My destiny, no guilt to own

During the course of a man's life there are certain actions which to him are inevitable. His nurture of violence, rejection, torment, and pain makes a repetition of this lineage probable in many areas. When the professionals look at his past and problems, they commit him to a destiny with their prognostications. Cursed with the Homicidal Triad, he carries the weight that his life is over and many others will end by his hand. Perversions visited on him time and again long to be reborn in a vain attempt at control and vengeance. He is for all intents and purposes, a dangerous time bomb that, not a matter of “if” but “when”, will explode. He carries himself in a way that attracts the vermin and vultures of the dark life who, smelling blood, come and circle him in an ancient dance of death. They smell blood and think it a sign of weakness not knowing the he cut himself to draw them in. He does this so the ones he takes with him will be deserving of the death he brings. This way is clear and this way he will follow by virtue of having no other choice. No choice until one is taught to him by a God unseen, but heard and felt. His father told him that faith is a crutch for the weak, he now learns faith will save not only him but those he set his crosshairs on and if not for the crutch, then the kill. Look for the choices you misfitted rejected ones, there is a way that leads out of the darkness.


Cruel - My body wears her marks

 “People speak sometimes about the "bestial" cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel.” ― Fyodor Dostoyevsky

“True beauty is something that attacks, overpowers, robs, and finally destroys.”
Yukio Mishima



Cruel her whips of love,
Holding hands in chains
Giving a slap and shove

Cruel her feet lead away
Left with a subtle kiss
Leather and studded sway

Cruel her hands choke and rub
Enduring eager strokes
With angry slick gloves

Cruel her wet licks on thighs
Stains of lips and teeth
Bring to a head deep sighs

Cruel the game she plays
In the morning lights glow
Tortured memories remain

Wednesday, November 12, 2014


“There is darkness inside all of us, though mine is more dangerous than most. Still, we all have it—that part of our soul that is irreparably damaged by the very trials and tribulations of life. We are what we are because of it, or perhaps in spite of it. Some use it as a shield to hide behind, others as an excuse to do unconscionable things. But, truly, the darkness is simply a piece of the whole, neither good nor evil unless you make it so.” ― Jenna Maclaine, Bound By Sin


Building my life on this fulcrum, everything I have hangs the precarious balance of needing you and needing to get away from you. Tainted is the air I breath and colored is the pain I have with the stain of you. My pride bends low in wet mornings, on decks with men, whose own pain I have far surpassed. They are hardened, unable to feel the pain anymore, as for me, I just got here, not so long ago, but it seems like forever since the crucible of your hot irons scalded me into blind submission to you. I called my mother and asked her when the pain will stop, it's been years since I've seen you. Yet, it's like an hour ago I nursed the burns and savored the pleasure of you. Every other song on the radio brings tears to my eyes, every sweet moment of tenderness I glimpse between lovers, brings a knot to my throat, a wrenching in my gut, and a fresh trail of moist sorrow from my eyes that runs down my neck and seeps under my shirt. In the most common areas of life, ones never thought to bring mourning, are found my new altars of sadness. I weep till I'm shaking and the doctor says he cant get the MRI to take a good picture. I'm partying with good friends, but I'm hollow so I go outside for some fresh air and to shed more drops of missing you. They say, “Quit your whining. Jesus, everyone goes through shit!”, but you know, sometimes the shit just gets to be to much, to often, and to long. I'd not be the first strong one to break under the pressure of love gone wrong. I won't break though and to live is not hard, but to love you and love another is the tortuous path ahead of me and a balance I must achieve.

Thursday, November 6, 2014

Imminent Mortality

"I want to tell you what it was really like to think death is imminent, but I can't. It's a taste in your mouth. And an emptiness." - Aaron Huey

Sneaking thing this black specter, writhing in my brain,
Coloring my bright light with shades of never

Death of my flesh

In the missing of your gray eyes, pushing in my stomach,
grabbing solitary and smearing me with earnest

Death of my heart

Swirling decisions in red clouds, failing in my heart,
a tempting success erased in a hurried smudge

Death of my work

Jumping off castles of white cliffs, flying in my soul,
flapping frantically in the forest of the unknown

Death of my belief

Monday, November 3, 2014


“If you don't feel the pointed things in life, you'll soon take the soft ones for granted.”
John Everson, Cage of Bones & Other Deadly Obsessions


Pushing through these thorned opinions and games is
like spinning through the clouds which having lost their
curved softness have gained a razors edge on every
boiling motion of agitation.

Haunted by my mind and its incessant gathering of
these long stemmed painful abrasions seeping with
the sweet sap of noxious compliments all meant to
disarm and take advantage.

Lasting harm is at a strong disadvantage given
the scars and foreknowledge of a paranoid state
for what is plainly seen is scarcely real or continuous
except in my unseen world.

Sunday, November 2, 2014

It's A Long Way Back

"The Edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over."- Hunter S. Thompson

"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before." - Edgar Allan Poe


Its a long way back from the edge of life. I knew when I followed that path to the outer limits of my experience, my emotions raw and excited with newness of knowledge and feeling, that the price for this wonder is the journey back. It's beautiful on the way to that edge, my soul being easily amazed by pleasures which offer no sure guidance and seduce me with their passion. This excitement is the elixir of madness offered by my wayward senses to lure me beyond the wise and sure, and I have recognized the most painful of these experiences are the ones that offer extreme pleasure that lead me away from safety. There are many secrets out on that cliff, many of those secrets are taught on the journey back from the precipice. Run to the edge with reckless abandon, gather your pleasures of knowledge and lust, and know, a price will be paid. I'll see you on our way back...

Also published in Life As A Human Magazine
Also published in Broowaha citizen newspaper
Also listed on Stumbleupon



Saturday, October 25, 2014

Self Deceived

“Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.”
- Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov  


Coming from nowhere, appearing within,
Came a thought born in weakness
It wore a disarming grin
Innocent at first, it seemed to be all true
I believed the thought as it was
It seemed nothing I could do
As in a wild fire, all the facts would burn
Self deception at its best

Makes it impossible to learn 


Monday, October 20, 2014


“A certain recluse, I know not who, once said that no bonds attached him to this life, and the only thing he would regret leaving was the sky”Kenko Yoshida

Find this one, lock this one, cold, my heart runs around,
flicking off switches
Hurry be swift

Quick slam the door, locking the windows,  
hoping you don’t hear me
Hurry be swift
No I wont come out, I’m staying in, quit calling me. 
So many switches,
Hurry be swift
Disconnect, follow these impulses, block the thoughts, 
they lead me out
Hurry be swift
Damn the lights, I forgot, turning off the lights, 
closing the blinds, pull the phone
Hurry be swift
There must never be another, never again, I must hide,  
protecting the remains,
Hurry be swift
Finally dark, all alone, no one knowing where I’ve gone, 
I'm the recluse, go away
Hurry be swift 

Also published in: Broowaha