Begin at the beginning

The tangent force fields of expressive lights, mock the hipsters at dawn who wear tortoise rimmed spectacles and smoke rough skinny roll ups.

Ravishing darlings giggle aggressively at unsightly academics, who struggle with daunting books spiked with psychoanalytical lingo.

You sit in disproportionate bars sipping artificial cocktails constructed with lies and fabrications while the dreamers fidget in their sleep.

Communication between sexes is limited and vague, except for the disinterested enquiry for a swift alleyway fuck.

The stature of man is regrettably superior; the opportunities they receive are more illustrious and bold.

Yet you accept this and struggle to insert impact in the arts, to show your talent and expertise while knocking on the door to mannequins in suits.

You shy away from the whistles that escape the mouth of cowardly wolves, head so low your nose scrapes the tarmac and pebbles catch in your lashes.

Your eyes they glow with malevolence as you watch Prozac girls stumble out of casinos at dawn; their purses burst with copper coins and blood tipped notes.

And the sound of Zizek carries on in your head, racing in circles with affluent parents you seek to destroy.

The melancholy beat of a generation in turmoil, wherefore art thou poets? Where are you, young poets?

Dissolved at sundown the writers depart, leaving nothing but muddled stanzas and disorganised prose.

Fabulous monologues slide off tongues of self-obsessed romantics who steal love potions from alchemists.

Repetitive chants of gobbledegook idioms respond to involuntary hallucinations and pathological amnesiac conditions.

Crying out in frustration at blocks in the mind while terminating cesspit desires in discovery of fallen hope.

Kafka’s sense of identity has no meaning without interaction, a schizoid dilemma of pleading for love mixed with fear of honest intimacy.

No recollection of former dreams, the imagination is absent. An unproductive society destroys wild brain cells with rigid rules.

Your mind boasts eunioa and beautifully formed expletives, the regretful open letter screaming I O U.

Yet myself I crave psychosis, and the affliction of self-deprivation, the shocking neuron energy is intoxicating to touch.

Yet it is important to understand, that there was also an obsessive craving to live, to succeed and dismember the doubts.

And it was not man made but something I was born with; something that grew inside of me, as I grew inside of my mother.

My worm consumed nutrients and fluids; iron and enzymes. My brain guzzled literature and art; Foucault and Tchaikovsky.

I rotated slowly inside as Bach’s symphony mesmerised my thoughts, I imitated metaphors and hyperboles whilst I struggled desperately to break free, to drown myself in self-expression and revolutionary ideals.

Then growing up; sipping prescription pills beside street narcotics, mixing alcohol with juice box dreams.

Getting turned on by blow backs and Polaroid photographs, mixing lonely whiskey chasers with self-harm impulse.

I was surrounded by teenage pregnancy, government lies and my parents unfulfilled dreams.

I spent my days asking for everything when I myself, had nothing left to give.

I am afraid of love, life and flat packed furniture.

And now, this place breeds leeches and cockroaches, desperate to wriggle into holes of admiration from middle class cunts. 

Self-assured manic depressives reside in this placid environment, happy to continue on the road of steady average.

But I am accidentally satisfied with these dramatic exits, and the indignant recklessness which plagues the midnight trains.

I am occupying the spaces in between with my lies yet my self-righteous attitude suggests otherwise.

Malnourished dreams surrender to oculus watchdogs as snitches sublimate nightmares in teens.

Alcoholic binges amass guilty understanding as cowards threaten to discover your crazy.

Sertraline hallucinations; with exploding sex, forces holes in cognitive fires, thighs ache and vulvas weep.

Concrete psychotherapy ends, with blood, repetitive suicide tapes and unhelpful mistresses.

Madness seeps into the cracks of your awareness, its faulty demolition fakes expulsion.

Mass produced hysteria with existential crisis, receive permission slips of rage within cancers.

Whores who fornicate with desperate beings collect broken glass eyes of shame, retching their innocence onto street lit corners.

Melodramatic artists desperate for self-validation, they beg for acceptance and approval.

Pathetic writers disembowel themselves over split synonyms, prose like manslaughter delights.

But what if the illuminated vibrations caused tremors inside weary minds. The bowels of mankind compelled to accept revolution.

Valium visions of unsightly psychosis, expel literature and dreaming from the holes in your temple.

Spiders tickle your tonsils as ants pull wires and click along your pulsating skull.

Vomiting intellects disperse on university soil and ill-fitting suits encapsulate male puberty.

Powers of zen and triggers in fours, feminine warriors shriek peace to lazy governments.

Suffering with migraines and brain zaps you collapse into hospital beds as pinching needles provoke.

Frantic eye sockets roll backwards with glee; exceptions devour confessions as they apologise to your secret lovers.

And the all-seeing analytics of existence intimidates your depersonalised arrogance, as the desire burns slowly away.

Masochistic celebrations suggest retribution and craving. The rebellious teen inside aggravates insipid emotion.

Unlawful troublemakers impede on disinterested elders. Police sirens wail as naked children run amok.

Rocking in corners you repeat over and over again; ‘15,614 days to live on this Earth.’

The self-righteous soldiers who scream for blood on front lines, sob uncontrollably in their barracks at night.

Home sick travellers curse their necessary wanderlust, their lonesome reflection inside the stagnant lakes is haunting.

Heatwaves intrude as thick muggy air strangles humanity, cold showers and icy lemonade provides relief.

Overemotional children drown in self-obsession, bored tearful parents play on electronic devices as the screams are heard overhead. 

Sex obsessed lunatics invade memories of celibacy and puncture holes in women against their hysteric resolve.

Exaggerated symbols defy all reason and order, a woman cries out, ‘I simply am not there.’

Aggressive and wealthy they pierce the poor with looks of distain. Apparent lack of empathy is sociopathic and blind.

Fortuitous self-sufficient memories coincide with inexplicable suicides suspended under wrath.

Miserable undertones paint dramatic mishaps upon deadly cloudy skies dipped in yellow.

Retribution beckons and nostalgic chasers engulf the youth as her hourglass figure is mistaken for sin.

The secrets we keep will kill us at dusk yet we embrace like tomorrow is forgiving.

Abhorrent fetishes, your sympathy disgusts, pushing needles through your eyeballs, they pop.

Innovative explanations recoil in artificial terror, insecurities eat away heavy organs at will.

Is honesty just futile or corrupt? The last lie was repulsive and blackened with invention.

Monsters, and the tremors they produce, haunt with ideas of death.

Question marks suffer as frustration simmers internally, and the shaking corpses conceal the inferior men.

Post traumatic anxiety follows like shadows in summer, long and winding roads, the tunnel is always dark.

Dehydrated risk enhanced by subliminal messages; my thoughts, like self-confessed conflicts, read like flaws.

Compressing destruction patronises the youth, melancholia engulfs the karma and the spaces in between.

He wears your body like a fleece, so his ugly is hidden. His intense disposition is divided and weak.

Go insane in fascinating circumstances, watch as the blood drips down the walls and call my name.

Hesitant witches burn as crowds gather, screams intense as flames rise, the sunken sockets melt away.

These myths enrage as my faux intelligence threatens to deceive. Taken by surprise you lash out uncontrollably.

I’m afraid of changes, the turn of the tide and excessive drinking.

Building lives in boxes with neat little fences encourages isolation which dismisses humanity, believe in better they say.

So why don’t you tell me how this could be better? My senses warn me against all you preach, the lacklustre speech wears me down.

Mirrored inside reflexes I peer into empty houses where mice jump through open wounds, licking muscle, tendons and bone.

You are mistaken for sin so ask to be excused while martyrs interrupt lonely stories. Their victim baiting regime is disgusting to say the least.

I give a sigh of ecstasy, my dreams finally enhanced, horrible numbness disguised as broken visions delight.

The melancholy drip from the underachieving tap reveals dreamcatchers occupied with anticipated thoughts.  

Guilt bound in candy wrappers glisten like shameful crystals; sullen nightmares surrender as they are engulfed in blinking torch light.

Phallus-sopihical erections launch towards space, groin injuries occur only to prosper.

Headaches glare like rabbits in headlights, limp bodies adjust with fleshy sores.

Peace looks like fireflies in the depths of the ocean, are we proud of what we have become?

Discipline runs from punishment as the panopticon of doom circles your face, spitting with murmurs and rage.

Underground forces march the solid concrete streets, a mass of fury their eyebrows knitted like jackets.

Visibility is a trap, the watchful eyes decipher your fabrications, condemning you to a life of unwilling labour.

Falling signals produce everlasting bombshells, blonde and skinny he skates through the park.

The Buddha sits as ‘rupa’ progresses over ‘nama,’ body over mind, me over you.

Form. Feeling. Perception. Volition. Sensory. Consciousness. Experience. Sunyata. A ghost.

We leave a gap, we subtract, your fingers point to the moon. I lick your knuckles and force constellations out of zero.

Minor details avoid everything, repetitive repetitive apprehension reflects on reduced distractions 

Leaving things out is better for your therapy, analytical over cognitive I believe.

What is art? She asked me. ‘questioning fundamental definitions will get you nowhere’ I say in return.

Memory is inherent in nature, interconnecting telepathically the morphic resonance of life expels tradition.

Space communicates with us, physical environments can think and mental atmospheres can create.

What can go wrong if we don’t follow the rules? A sense of chaos awakens the minority.

Technology has gained control of man, the more it advances, the more we retreat, till we are left living like shells.

The mask is a shell, a memory cast of a human skull. An extract of a bigger picture, an abstracted idea of a person.

As we subtract ourselves from the environment, what is left? Anonymity can be both inspiring and horrifying.

We could define our existence based on the lies we tell ourselves.

If we do not exist objectively and subjectively, we only have one subjective identity, that of the ‘false self’, meaning we cannot be real.

We do not exist correctly. We constantly wear a mask.

Oh and my manic disposition threatens to rid my life of friendship as I battle to keep social. As I battle to keep the silence alert.

Desperate force fields of galaxy settle on my tongue like dust.

Wise up, life is hard, suck it up. Do you think it will stop?

So, how does it feel when you being to lose control of your thoughts?

When negativity attaches itself onto your vulnerability and you start to slip into the abys.

You cannot breathe, you cannot breathe; and desperation settles in as you gasp for air.

You lost your keys and now your dad will die.

The magnitude and pressure of everything involved sits heavy on your mind as inconceivable guilt consumes you.

You have been waiting for this your whole life but what happens if the phone rings and you are not ready?

That knock on the door that sends shivers down your spine, so you stumble across the room, your pathetic shaking hand searching for your accelerated heartbeat.

The passive aggressive cruelty is hidden beneath your eyelids and you will implode if you are deemed an incantatory dud.

So was Oppenheimer the magician?

Or was he the illusion?

Like the divided-self theory the tension between our two personas is real.

Our public social, often false self; and the private identity of our souls, a darker side we keep hidden, our wolf.

Yes, we all need sleep, exercise and vitamin C.

Without it we would forget how to tap into our selves, create memories, develop love.

If the stars stopped providing us with joy, then all logic would be abolished.

How does general relativity compare to our visceral lives?

Gravity pulls us through the multiverse, but where do we end? Where do we begin?

Sometimes I am afraid of what you may tell me.