poetry is not a science

poetry is not a science to me…
it’s a painting, of words, feelings and black emotions.
it’s a sea of old blood bringing sickness to the sand;
a sea of grimy blood and shiny things.

it’s a psychedelic sea of tiny shells broken up,
and the World, will never know the faintness of its Being,
will the World, ever see the genius?


Complete by Candlelight

She’s a psycho in her big, brazen feelings.  She’s a psycho in her right, a psycho to the tune, immune to alien bites and full moons… a psycho – complete by candlelight.  Should she find the time to keep her esoteric guise in place?  Should she wear a deviled mask, of sweat, pain and grace, a sweaty beaded bulk inside her rose-colored sun, a drumming of her ego’s quick escape?

Protection in psychosis; her guise plays along, prolonging common sense, her truly awesome fate, extending each and every grimy hiker as of late.  Can she find the path with crystallized light inside a song?  Should she bother?

Gotta Givem an ‘A’

I’ve been good and emotional for the past few weeks, but today, all of those emotions materialized in the form of tears.  I had so much compassion for the people of the World.  Such sorrow seemed to cry out from stranger’s graves – some fresh and unstirred, some old and forgotten.  Why did they contact me this morning?  Why did I have to be a conduit for the World’s pain?  Could it have been a trick of the third eye; that confusion from the World’s mixed emotions is the thing we all need?  Confusion is the magic drug that can protect all of our delicate wireworks.  Those at the top of the pyramid bottle it, and sell it back to us in the form of our greatest fear.  That fear is what kills us.  Not them.  Not really.  Not when the only crimes they’re allowed to commit are invading our privacy, and broadcasting our hidden nightmares to the rules and regulations of 3D.  Our hidden nightmares lull us to sleep.  Not them.  They’re just amazingly skilled at invading our privacies.  They know all about the weak points in our armor.  Where’s the little bubble that’s supposed to protect our privacy?  They make good and sure we stay ignorant to the bubble.  They dumb us down to the fact of its existence.  The intent is to dumb us down, to take our rich lifeforces as we slave away in the Matrix – while we’re wide open and asleep.  Gotta givem an ‘A’ for backmasking emotions – the songs, the tears, the dreams, the media.  All of that stuff’s praiseworthy; however, I cannot join their low vibrational society.  My lifeforce is naturally alkaline.  It serves no worldly purpose.

Addictive Cake

A jaded ghost lurks inside the corridors of my journal.
Shall I feed it addictive cake and meet its needs with gullibility?  No.  I am much too late for that nonsense.  Its jaded royalty has been feeding off the emptiness in my Soul ever since childhood.  The physical ailments I experience are byproducts of this emptiness.  In ignorance, I continue to feed it addictive cake.  I cannot meet its desiccated needs with innocence, because my ignorance is what it survives on – it survives on my ignorance and addictive cake in excess.  Ignorance is no excuse in this matter.  My ignorance gives rise to the matter, to the jaded ghost who lurks inside the corridors of my journal.  What artlessness rides alongside it in the night’s wind?