the other side

I am from the forgotten district of western cascadia, on the other side of the wall of dead cops and past the lake of pretend smiles.

Here normal people camouflage doesn't work, and everyone is ashamed.

We hide our faces in hollowed coconuts and dance around deep forest fires. We accept our cowardly ways and punish ourselves. We'll continue to do so until the tallwoods tell us otherwise.

We kill machines that we've stolen from the normal side, and drown those who come looking.

I came here after my smiler broke and my heart withered. When i could no longer dance among the plastic dead, nor hide beneath intoxication. I can't return, my way has been forgotten and the crumbs I left to find my way back have long been eaten by spirit crows who darken my path with circling shadows.

Waiting to pounce when I've forgotten.

This is the wasteland of shattered hearts. We are broken here, diseased, and we lash back at those who have cracked us with lashes. This is the wasteland, the other side, where our freedom is obtained by way of desperate separation.

It is wild here, and though we are lost, we will not be forgotten. You'll remember us through our story. And we'll remember you through yours.

When the talltrees have tired of you, they will shake loose the roots of your lifecities. As your buildings crumble in, we'll watch from the otherside, laughing and dancing, and you'll hear us through the screams and chaos. The skies will cry red and the fires will rage high, and as your system dismantles, you will Remember Us Feral.

feast

they're feasting on me. on my wrinkled spirit.
seeking out any faint presence of a unique characteristic.
they feed on individuality until all that's left is one of them.

they're feasting on me, enveloping me.

i live in between them and me. they've eaten enough that i've become seperate from myself.
but not enough that i've gone lost amongst them.

when the tide turns

when the tide turns, i will find you.
among flowers blooming on industrial wreckage,
on moss swallowing concrete,
i will walk to you.

the open sky will illuminate your beauty,
through spring buds on fresh vines
your presence will be celebrated
by the return of migratory songbirds.

when the tide turns
i will no longer play dead.
my roots will erupt through broken foundations
cradling your soft spirit, allowing all your splendor to grow.



--

weary

I love you.
In capacities experienced only by the dwellers of the deep, ocean creatures unfound and unimagined.
Yet, imagined to be unfound, found to be unimagined.

I see you.
With a weary heart I've marched towards your castle in the sea.
With every step i think your touch will set me free.
But with every step, i perish, taken by the sea.
The waves have worn the sands of heart, granules lost to me.

I fear when i arrive to you, I'll be gone.

the rain runs

As the day drifts on, the rain runs. Washing out tracks I laid for you to follow.

The further I travel, the less i can see you, perceive you, but your silhouette wraps it's roots around my spirit.

Whispers warn me that you'll never find me, for the rain runs, washing out tracks I laid for you to follow.

dangle

A tattered, worn, but spitefully effective noose caresses the flesh of my weathered neck as i dangle in empty defeat. The hangman stands emotionless at my ankles, motionless except for a brief moment when he runs his finger gently across my skin. His flesh burns with coldness, the texture i can relate only to some form of crude metal.

The gallows are an open wasteland, a vast industrial landfill, a graveyard for one use products, containers, outdated machinery, and the skeletons of memories.

As i hang, my last breath seems to last forever. my blurred vision slowly returns to me, providing a closer look at my situation. Rusty tentacles protrude from my flesh in multiple locations, tubes of passage feeding a master. One such cyborg limb extends from my left ribcage, cracked and dry blood mark its entrance into my body. I follow it with my eye, through a maze of wreckage and death, it makes it way to an oil rig. still powered by the energy i provide it, it drills into an exhausted and dried up earth. Another erupts from my right thigh, and connects to a series of power lines that go for as long as the eye can see. Anything in it's path removed, leveled, and destroyed. The vague shape of a distant power plant sits on the horizon. I can't tell if it's actually visible, or a cruel hallucination stemming from the guilt of my spirit. Another tentacle connects to a bank. Another to a grotesque monster with circuit boards for teeth, giant clocks ticking backwards for eyes, and gears and motors pumping it's life force through its purely machine self. Created by the politicians of the old world, this machine of war and brainwash still shapes the reality of our post apocalyptic present.

My vision again blurs, too tired to look any further at what I have been forced to live connected to, and what my broken dead body will continue to feed until every drop of resource has been extracted from my very soul. harvested by doom's minions.

The hangman looks up, his eyes are empty, his carcass is empty, the next evolution of human... empty.

coffee shop rant

my Earth is wild,
I dream rumble in Shadow, and grow Broken…

broken, like my shattered dreams in combat with injected memories, programmed desires, and intricate seams sewn delicately by crude machines.

broken, like choosing your identity with a multiple choice test, an open book dialogue, check a box and contrive yourself to fit.

broken, like a species of animal defining itself by being beyond animal, put here by God to take, take, take, control.

broken, like poisoned lakes and polluted streams dammed and murdered by corporate teams for financial means and a diseased ego.

broken.

my Earth is wild, I dream rumble in Shadow…

rumble, like studying the symbols that give a regime power and systematically destroying them.

at war with them, in dark Shadows we rumble. passing vehicles illuminate momentary glimpses of the struggle, you see… hegemony, hierarchy, patriarchy, money, lies, deceit, money, war, disease, poverty, money… kicking me in the gutter.

you see, I struggle to get my blows in. you see.

rumble, like attacking the enemies ignorant enforcers, using sticks on cops, bricks on windows, bombs on dams, bulldozers on buildings.

rumble, like polluting the civilized atmosphere with screams of anger, anguish, and pain.

rumble, like the drums of the diseased youth taking back the streets. rumble.

my Earth is wild.

wild.

like hurricanes overcoming levies, tsunami’s enveloping shorelines, tornadoes reclaiming houses, wild.

like a single flower erupting in blossom through a crack in the sidewalk.

wild, like the unimaginable chaotic intricacies of the ecosystem.

wild, like a bear picking you off in the forest.

wild, like intense sweaty fornication in deep forest meadows.

wild, like Roy’s tiger finally biting that motherfucker.

wild, like no borders, no enforcers, no registering humans with the state, no banks, no laws, no industry, no representation, wild, like nothing defines me.

like you are not the boss of me.

My Earth is wild. I dream rumble in Shadow, and grow Broken.