The Ascetic

  • Semen and Civilization

    The vial of sperm which has been extracted from me.

    Which I will later be born from,

    Through a nuclear reaction.

    One that destroys mountains,,

    Yet turns dirt to stone.

    Sometime called a family.

    Has been embedded first in a highly advanced machine.

    The solution to our reliance on coal.

    The semen burns green,

    Consuming flesh instead of bone.

    I did not relinquish this sperm though,

    When, as an adolescent, I was asked to be ejactulated into the vial.

    As my last chance to produce,

    since semen was all I was worth,

    and would have it irradiated from me.

    I have no seed but maize.

    I have grown to ejaculate collards,

    And they speak.

    Mutated on my nuclear corpse.

    Signaling with my burnt flesh.

    They speak.

  • Home

    Where can one go when you’ve been lost your whole life?

    If home is where the hatred is;

    What does one from no-where have?

    I thought shadows in the forest guided me.

    But where are they now?

    How do I distinguish speckles of ash from these heaps of dirt?

    The grave is not marked,

    Nor desecrated;

    It does not exist.

    The bones are not singed,

    Nor crushed;

    They are plastic figures without original.

    I ask

    Where do I fit in the story?

    Where is my story?

    I’ve already been lost in your gaze.

    I close my eyes and your world is lost.

  • Ignition

    I feel the oil fill my lungs

    The sludge in my veins

    It yearns to be spilt

    My breath brings oxygen

    Fuel

    From the fire of the match

    To the accelerant of my rotted soul

    Ignite

    And once again the sludge shall flow.

  • Mumbling Through the Darkness

    Mumbling through the darkness;

    Grasping for something,

    Anything.

    It is devoid of any substance;

    With thousands of lines outlining its non-being.

    A figure without form.

    An eternal light lies somewhere else;

    Nowhere I may know,

    Which creates the contrast of its shadow.

    I am lost;

    I am lost.

    I’m lost.

    Effortlessly it expands;

    It consumes me,

    My flesh and spirit.

    Its will is not carnal;

    But methodical.

    A divine machination.

    I mumble through the darkness;

    Looking for something,

    Someone.

    I am lost;

    I am lost.

    I’m lost.

  • Food

    Insatiable hunger.
    I’m fed nothing but blood.
    I eat iron from the earth.

    My anus leaks a red ooze.
    More blood then shit.
    I eat that too.

    If only I could eat something other than food.
    Feast on meat and bones, skin and flesh.
    And wear the blood on my face.

    I crave soil mixed with shit.
    Indistinguishable in color.
    Green.

  • The Analogy Is Cancer

    The analogy is cancer;
    My childhood.

    Literally it is a clump of cells;
    Realistically it is a terrorist without one.

    A car crash experienced over years not seconds;
    You know whats coming and can’t do anything but watch.

    The only thing worse then the suffering of death;
    The pain of living.

    The drugs kill you faster;
    The morphine tells you just how good it’ll feel.

    Just one more dose;
    Always a treatment never a cure.

    The reality is cancer;
    My life.

  • Suicide Note #1

    Encapsulated
    Not buried in earth
    But drowned in embalming fluid
    Perfectly preserved as an idea
    Finally unchanging the immortal undead
    For whom death is the rotting of bones
    Eerie but never haunting
    A corpse who could wake up at any moment
    Not a ghost with its own will
    Dead on the page.

  • Lines

    The line|
    Between my writing and my poetry is a cliff|
    It’s a jump|
    To my death|
    It’s an impossible climb|
    It separates|
    What is said, what is heard, who speaks and how. It dictates|
    The structure|
    Of my words. It is impossible to write|
    Poetry|
    The chasm|
    Between the two is the necessity of both. Clarity on one side|
    Meaning on the other|

  • The Streets are Never Dark

    The streets are never dark, they’re dim.
    You’re scared because there’s still hope.
    In the darkness it’s clear where the danger lies.
    The light blinds you to the truth.
    The streets are never dark.

  • Spring Winds

    If all is well and good I’ll be dead by spring.
    Limbs broken by the wind, corpse scattered on the ground.
    In my place, replaced, anew we stand again.
    Now green, yet strong, from where we once had been.

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