Violent Seizures and Voices Visceral

Violent emotions overtake my soul. Trapped under the weight of God himself, I pull myself apart trying to escape. With my whole being I dread my detonation.

You may not see from a window, but I have a secret for you. There is pressure beyond nuclear potential, and I have spent the years of my youth devising an ingenious restraint. Years babe.

They hold my hands and they take my romance and they nurture the horror. They just fuck it all up.

Yah gotta fuck it up. Yah just really gotta fuck it up. You can plan and author procedures. You can read the documents and illustrate the subconscious. But Ringo is Ringo. A dream far away from the truth.

Complacency is no longer an option. No one is sleeping in this violence. The men and women of the tribe are bleeding all around me. They wake up screaming. Overjoyed demons are reunited with their captives. God's unbearable weight is pushed upon us, falls upon our souls.

The nature of my heart is revealed here and now. I ache with the Children of War. Their pain is my pain. My soul registers the bloody amputations and the unmedicated surgeries as my own.

I always knew the worst was yet to come. The monster has yet to show its face, but if I close my eyes I can feel his muscles and I cower in our comparison. I restain it all deep within me. I have no need to see his face. My focus is elsewhere. My focus anywhere but where it needs to be. The demon stands right in front of what I need to see.

The unconscious disciple speaks in his language. The demon wants power, the demon wants to be audible. The unconscious disciple makes the desire visceral.

I am drafted to oblige my monsters.

The forecast of supernova is circulated by the tyranny of my thoughts. I loved Ringo. I never wanted to awake. Fact and fiction lived side by side within my mind. Divorce could not ensue!

What is inevitable is inevitable. An eruption of fury, followed by a bleeding of bad blood, followed by a duel in limbo. Then diffusion.

Diffusion. For if Gods unbearable weight split us into splinters, what could remain? That which could not, would not detonate. The pure.

At last, it was revealed.

An Agent willing.

A poet vulnerable.

A child pure.

Canaries and Cardinals

To the Dear Catalyst Canary and The Young Cardinals, my bones burn with a new fire. I leaped into the flume and have found myself on different shores. The home of my heroes, a land of wild hearts and captivating souls.

All my sorrow and all the distance; they just faded away. My lips sang the request and as the grand yearning of my faith was fulfilled...

the impossible gave in to truth. Like a dam under the weight of water, my mind tried to stand against the weight of blood. Blood breaks the barrier of sin. The glass fortress is already in ruins. The blood finds all the cracks and errors in its structure and yet again, my sick haven, is crushed under the blood.

Honestly, I loved Ringo. I admit it. But that is the nature of the children. I admit it, I am a child. I am no man, I am no anchor. I am a child void of blood. I wandered aimlessly searching for Day, and I realize now... I was asleep.

Day cannot be reached by any vehicle of air, water or outer space. On our own accord, by no system or manner can we travel to Day. Only by invasion, only by being taken by the flood.

Blood came through my roof and flooded my room, I had no control of my body, for I was swept about in its manic fury. I awoke with a song in my belly, and sugar on my lips. Birds of every color filled the air with sweet hallelujah. On the ground I notice the blue children. They lay silently in the high grass, sleeping their lives away. I know the children by name, they stay behind me in Ringo, hiding in glass houses, waiting for there own waves.

Blackbird, she is trying with all her heart to wake up. See, back in Ringo, I told her of another world, I spoke the great ballads of the past. I told her, we would see spring, we would drink real water together. She is still asleep. Blackbird, whom I LOVE. Oh, sweet Catalyst Canary, do you hear my call? Ever insightful Catalyst Canary, can you handle it all?

The sommonia is killing her, the lightning terrifies her, the blood tyrants hold dominion over her sanctuary. I'll stay by her side and whisper sweet promises of Aslan's Land, but I am no catalyst. I am no anchor. I am being carried away like Jonah from his shade.

I graphed out the grooves and curves of planet Ringo and now you ask me to chart Day? I know nothing of Day. I know of midnight confessions and the tears of children. I know your children, I know Jack and Maria, I know about the things you say behind there backs. Never forsake a child, because they just might be a child God destined you to love. I know about the blue children, and when Psalv-Muron comes, you're gonna have to rip me from there arms.

The children never cease to come to me. I will venture tomorrow to a new land to meet new children. I am just a boy in this land, I swear, for I know not where I go. I stumble over my sorrows and I lie about tomorrow. Young Cardinals, I am impulsive, so I would ask you to take care of me in my old age... but there is so much to see, so much to be, tomorrow is just to far away. I will always be determined to set the world on fire, for I am burning in the marrow. I am burning in the marrow.

Burn your marrow.

Everytime I hear that melody, something breaks inside. I cant turn back the tide. I await to learn the destination, I wonder if I will ever know the cost. Love came and filled my belly, starvation holds no power over me. Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.

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Check out "Martha" and "The Heart of Saturday Night" by Tom Waits.

Sanctuaries and Sommonia

The chorus cries out upon us, “Bring us your heart”. I hide in the bosom of a young lover. I find my shelter upon her shoulder. We know the consequences, don’t we? I tell her of my unraveling mind. My heart has no room for my secrets, but yours are kept and collected and put in their proper compartments. Their commissions hang on my conscience. The consequence of wasting time is eternal. For it is we whom make the choices along mortality’s jagged road. Always approaching Psalv-Muron does not wait for wisdom to make its place.

I am to go. My sweet Blackbird cries out “If we announce a problem we become the problem.” Where are we to go, if the blood tyrants hold dominion over our sanctuaries? What are we to do, if every second climbs upon our backs? Whom shall we call to our rescue, when we destroy ourselves? No, I refuse to believe that the answer counters what I know as true love. The hypocrites pride grinds against my bones, and my blood becomes like fire within me. Are those whom are violent, criminals? We live in a world of unanswered questions and men without resolve. Pride goes unchecked and lust is turning every eye black. The merciless fill the air with poison, and when they choke, we choke with them.

We recorded the past. Our mind is programmed according to your movements. Our souls seek you out without condition. We are tied together without condition, by nature, but not by the laws of the tongue. So easily we build unseen barriers around those who call for our aid. In our walls we are understood by God alone. She cried out for someone to come in. Thank the Lord it was his servant. But now that I leave, I wonder if my sweet Blackbird could rebuild the walls. I wonder if the SUMMONIA will plague her house again.

She fell in love with my blind ambition. She heard the chorus cry out our destiny. I am just a carrier of the message that is true. I tell you, it came and consumed me without warning. The message came to be called in all times desperate and as I acknowledged what was true, the numinous came upon my soul. My emotions were not my own and my tears were forced out from hiding. That which was unseen dwelled in me and what was inside peered back at her. Our confessions came only in the madness of our risks. I was told of her summonia. I was told how it filled her heart, till she bled from anywhere she could. I was told how the doctors mistook the antibodies for the summonia, claiming her own defenses to be the sickening agent. I was told of the invasion of a blood tyrant and the betrayal of the other. The blood tyrants had shared their summonia with her.

I learned the grit and the grime of her soul. The summonia is all she saw. I saw what was unseen. Her own fire kept her alive. She was shivering and cold and I took her in my arms. What I saw was an saint unborn. And like every seed, she was made with proper nutrition in place. She had unique properties, that should she be planted in fertile soil, shine with such a white brilliance to overcome any darkness. I knew in my soul a match must be lit. The fire must be ignited. She must overcome. Then, into my own darkness we fell. She was everything I could dream of. I forgot that there was that which existed beyond my dreams.

AND SO, I find myself on planet Ringo. A place of crushed dreams. My rage and my lust and my mindlessness tear apart terrain already in ruins. I see Psalv-Muron in the distance. I have been on Ringo to long, I must drink from the waters of DAY. Day, the world I lived on before Ringo.. A world of real food and real water.

The Champ of Angels stands beside me. He beseeches me, pleads with me, implores me. He does so to take back my name. Back to my home he says. He brings me back to DAY. I take his words, which he brought from Aslan’s land, and I wrap them around my forehead. He brings me cold water to wash my face with. I am awaking from the daze. I am still breathing heavy. But that which is within me cries out to be released once more. The chorus sings into my ear “Bring us your heart”. I cry because I am far from home, because I held her as I fell. The young cardinals see. They sing out to me “look to what is held out for you, you hold nutrition inside of you.” They sing “Darling don’t you see?”

Sing, Young Cardinals for my sweet Blackbird. She will stay with you, while I leave for Psalv-Muron. I put her in your care. You know not of the summonia or the blood tyrants. You know not of our slip into darkness. However I can only trust you, for you are within holding distance to my sweet Blackbird, and you know the song of Aslan’s Land. You know the song of that which brings my conscience back to Day. I would stay, and bring her the water myself, but Psalv-Muron will either take me to Day, or damn me to Ringo. We are helpless without you.

Oh Lord. My God of all things. You made the young cardinals. You wrote the songs. You are the antidote, and you are the catalyst. I am not but a man. I know what I know, and I am at your mercy. Break me down. Take me apart and show me which is death and which is new. Let me drink the water from your heart. Raise a temple in which you dwell, so that when I leave, the children can have a sanctuary. Let there be the water from your heart. I pray this for my heart burns for them; A heart that I give to you. I’m sorry; it was always yours, wasn’t it.

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Aslan's Land

Tonight my mind is sitting on the bench. I have been put out. Shot out. Expelled to Planet Ringo. The temperature is just shy of 40 degrees. The frozen water burns on my face. The sky is black and raining ash. The tide of the ocean pours onto my feet, gushing through my black combat boots. Yes, I am still ready for war. I am on the bench, not in the hospital. I over look the horizon, lightning comes from the setting sun and tidal waves are rushing towards me. PSALV-MURON, the holiest wave of my youth, comes at me now. It is not a power I can hold my bat to; it is not a demon I can conquer in battle. I cannot run to or from the wave, for it is linear in manner and parallel to time. It is coming. It is crashing down. In comparison I am a small man. One of fear and hesitation. I need to crouch down and take precautions, but I am paralyzed in my fear and weakness.

What will I find behind this wave?

The depths of darkness and loneliness? A sea of regret? Will I find myself in lockdown and another world thrown away? Will reality even keep its meaning?

Or blue skies and the eternal sun? Or a new crew and the true cowboys? Or a girl anew, bewitched by the numinous love of the true creator? Or the shore of Asland?

Oh how I wish to see the shore of Asland. If you don’t know where that is, it is the land of the noble savages. Void of the user. Void of the liars.

AM I A USER? AM I A LIAR?

Not do I use, not do I lie. Is it my destiny to do so?

My body continues to shiver and quake. It is in part due to the high voltage in this reigon of Ringo, due to the vanishing ARX-IGNIDERMIS. My body cannot stop beating, my body cannot stop stop pumping blood from my pores. The sun penetrates my leather skin. My fear dissipates the arx-ignidermis, my screams leave my only protection in ruins. I bury under the glass and steel that makes my home. My current home that is.

I am away. I am on the bench. I now live in a glass wasteland. The only thing that moves is the deep ocean. The only thing that moves is the only thing I fear. The only way I can leave is if I face Psalv-Muron. Perhaps I do not have to face it alone. There are two. A true cowboy and the girl.

The Champ of Angels.

A true cowboy. A man worthy of song. His face is like an angel, and he is gentle. Despite all of his strength he doubts the power of his words. Despite the power of his words. I gotta feeling in my gut that me an him are gonna be buds for a long time. If there ever was a true cowboy, he’s one that’s faithful and blue. I find security in his commitment to my cause. When a champ like my friend says hes got your back, you know that that demon is full of shit.

Blackbird.

The girl in my dreams. Honestly she might be my wife. The question that rumbles in my head is not if I could see us get old together. The question is it her destiny to be my wife. That is the question in my head. Skin like the setting sun, and hair like a cold dark night. When were together, folk music plays and poets play piano. My legs shake and my heart is calm again. My lips stop moving and my eyes start speaking. My secrets are safe. My tears are safe. She is not ashamed of me. I don’t know if she can handle me, but I know she’s not giving up. Neither am I.

So am I prisoner? Am I captive?

Lord keep wisdom close to my bedside. My shelter is breaking, my land is foreign. My life is feigning, but opportunity is my doctrine. Hold my eyes to the wave, let them not stray to the lightning. Stay and wait for me to change, what is a patient without his doctor? You are that which I love. The song of my soul. If you keep your eyes upon me, perhaps, perhaps I will grow old.

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The Place Where You Can Always Beat Your Fists

I'm here to raise my drink to your desperate ballad.Scream at me through your clenched teeth.I know youre not alright.It's not alright.I know everything's all wrong.Everyone is gone.I watched them leave. I see you plead. You throw your fist at my chest. And I try. And I can't sleep. My heart is fucking yours and I'm not going home.I passed up the exit for the retreat 8 miles back. This world is filled to the brim with retreat, and not enough people to meet you where your at. Your'e not alright. Its not alright. You can keep up the fight. You can lose and give up. Either way tell me whats up. Cause its still not alright and it wasnt alright and it probably wont be alright! I know darling. Sing me that song. Rage against me with full force. Tell me about what they do to those who bleed. Tell me how you came to know your demons. Tell me what the fuck is wrong with you. Yes they brought me down too. Even though we keep on weepin we can still hold hands. Thats where God's at. Thats where God's at.

My Button Breakdown

There I lie. I lie in the chopped grass in the center of the field. In this valley no one can see me. I am in my sanctuary. Their words wrap around me and as I assemble there, the puzzle, I attempt to dig into myself. Bat in hand becomes my shovel as I drive it into my heart. But I cannot go deep enough. I cannot penetrate my soul. Not with their words. I only reach ores of this world, only rocks defined by ages that will wilt away in their seasons. I am far from my core.

My mind often wanders off of their rhapsody. Onto the cold wind seeping through my clothes. Grabbing hold of my attention. Manipulating me into shivers. Surely the mere air is not as powerful as the songs of my kin? Surely their words are immortal as I am. I feel the muscles grow underneath my back and my legs become strong and durable as I run. I only know this prime.

I know the sweet kisses of young girls under my high school’s trees at lunch. I know the approval of my coach as I run faster than I ever have. I know how to put the shapes of our bodies onto paper. I know the immortal heroes in my books. I know the fearless rebels in my movies. I know my three scars, the one on my leg, the one on my chin and the one below my lip.

Now, in present time, as the cold wind took me away, the cold wind brings me back. I am not with my young sweethearts. I am not with my coaches or my paper. I am not with my rebels or heroes. I am with my scars. I am with their words. I am with the cold wind and the short grass. I am with myself.

I am taken away by distractions. I want to be close to my soul. I want to hold and look at its depths, unclothed and naked. I want to see the curves and its sides and the habits and the movements of my soul. I want to be close to myself. I am not close to myself.

I am close to these words and these girls and approval and fiction. But I am not any of those things. That is not who I am!

Am I the contents of my heart? Am I the contents of my actions? Am I mortal? I am out here to ask these questions. To even ask why these questions are stirring in my heart to begin with. In my failure, as I search for definition I have found a case of buttons to put on my coat. I am not unclothing and I am not even putting on more clothes. I am putting buttons on my coat. I like girls. I like indie rock and roll music. I like comic books. Just buttons on a coat.

Back in the present I have discarded my clothes. I have discarded my headphones. I am kneeling on my blanket. This world offers me no solution. The papers are lost and the heroes are forgotten. My body fails me. The love of my girl dulls into gray. I grow out of these songs like a pair of jeans that don’t fit me. The alcohol and tobacco isn’t worth and the weed doesn’t take away the pain. I am not even into drugs anyways.

I lay naked on the blanket in the center of this sanctuary and I have discarded this world. All I feel is the cold wind getting stronger and stronger. And I bow and kneel before something stronger. I have no other choice now, I am tired of fighting and struggling, I am weary and ready to admit who I am. That’s what I want to know isn’t it?

I open my bloodshot eyes and there I kneel.

The Angry Sun and The Southern Land

The air smells of my sweat and my nicotine. The angry sun is unrelenting in the southern land. I grind my teeth as I impossibly sleep through this goddamned unbearable heat. I dream of the strange beast. The animal is like a rabid wolf with super-real presence. Its numinous words are like that of a lion. Ears are like planks. The spine is protruding from its shallow body. Its human hands dig their dirty fingers into the soil. When it speaks, it speaks of my thorns being my demise. About how it will conquer me.

I tremble.

The air smells of my sweat and my nicotine. The angry sun is unrelenting in the southern land. The true cowboys are weeping on my porch. We read the books on my shelf. We don’t smile, we don’t believe. Strip me of my shirt and shoes. Vent with a bloody fist and book of poems. Love a good girl but only cry for your good men. Don’t you dare fear blood or sweat or your older brother or the insanity of the crimes against me. Remember that only broken heroes and underdogs can bring us hope. Give a firm goddamn handshake. Look a man in the goddamn eye. Don’t forget the poor, cause the rich are void of all beauty. And never turn your back on any son today or tomorrow.

I am no backbreaker.

The air smells of my sweat and my nicotine. The angry sun is unrelenting in the southern land. She wears her black tanktop and her cutup jeans and her black converse shoes. She don’t sweat. She smells strongly of lavender. Her hair shines blue. Her love is desperate. Her grip is nonexistent. She don’t know why I love her. She don’t know why she gotta be. She sings me sweet blues in the summertime and tells me horrible stories in the winter. There’s a story for every line on her body. And its proof that it’s tragic and its proof that it happened. Along with the wolf and the castles, the girl appears in my dreams every night. We fight these creatures together. But were separated. At the end of every good fight we gotta say goodbye.

I sleep alone.

The air smells of my sweat and my nicotine. The angry sun is unrelenting in the southern land. But the air is cool now. The moons up. Everything is pitch black except for the white moon. Sometimes, when the moon is full, I imagine it to be the eye of God himself. Sometimes, many times, its just me, the moon, and the clothes on my back. I take my bat with me whenever I can, cause you never know what demon awaits me. I know I’m a wanted man. But I fear no evil, for God is with me. I fear the Lord. God knows I beg him for mercy, for she knows I need to. God knows I sing him sweet songs under moonlight. If I ever had a lover I had Christ. God knows I sing with whatever I got, to raise an upbeat sound amidst the rampant pain and paranoia. God knows I don’t just sing my song for me, I sing it for her and the real cowboys. I got this one life to sing me song. Violence may ensue, bad men may curse us, and treasures may be lost. But we got what we got. Hallelujah.

I know me song.