Fingertips & Bruised Lips

I apologize for the lack of entries... life has become, complicated, once again. My goal was to post on a regular basis... everyday in fact, if that would at all be possible. It's no surprise that things seldom turn out the way we expected them to be... life has a way of dry fucking you, despite the copious amounts of lubrication on hand.

It's been about two weeks now since I rebelled and rejected the poison... the Choir has returned to full strength and I've left the chains of center stage behind. It was decided that we should also discontinue the anti-depression medication... not a choice made purely by myself. They all had a hand in this conclusion... two fingers per sandwich and one always left dry. Richard has remained in the background... praying and chanting in rhythm with the Choir and restless screams. The children continue to rot in the gasping gullets... the blood quenches their thirst no longer. The definitions of suffering and torment have stretched like the bellies of fattened calves ready for slaughter... rocking back and forth in the middle of the night, as the faces leap single-filled from the closet. It's not a matter of adjustment... it's the fallout of evolution. The more I try to realize some measure of value, the images shift their perspective and innocence... there is no "I" in team, but there is a "Me". Self-preservation... the cautionary tale of genocide. Part of me is still clinging on to the promises and assurances of Richard... the destination is the same, it's only the path and his companionship that is of the question. His strength has been proven in the recent past, so his wrath is a continual concern... he may be still for the moment, but he is very much aware and waiting. With Diana's continued absence, my support has dwindled considerably... the majority of my support has been reduced to the internal, for my resources and companionship in the real world are beyond limited. My cat and my doctors are the extent of my social reaches... digital and delusional persons excluded, of course. Perhaps I need to widen the horizons... venture into the real world and sink my toes into the earth. Replace the X with 0808 and do what was once denied...

Redemption 101

While we sleep, the images creep... lurking two steps deeper into the mind. Was it you or me... they come just the same, easily and without much effort. I am recording this here for reflection... a nightmare which visits often.

I was a young man, of 20 years or so, at war... the interests being only those of old, fat, wealthy men and their Libertine ways. A trusted friend of mine accompanied me through the jungle, dodging the relentless onslaught of those pitted against our side. We survived the jungle massacre to find ourselves stumbling upon the piers behind enemy lines... though our safety was still obscured, this settlement was loosely guarded. As we tread upon the creaking planks of weathered wood, a female soldier noticed our approach... nervously she reached for a canister of chlorine gas and secured her gas mask tightly around her delicate, porcelain face. We pounced upon her and greeted her features with delirious kicks and thrusts of brutality. After securing our masks, I reached for the canister of weaponized gas as her fingers shook loose their lingering grasp. There was little passion left in her, until fear awoke the need for survival... she thrashed violently against the planking as I struggled to remove her mask. Her tears spewed forth and mixed with snot and saliva, as it built up around her cheeks and mouth... the red blushing of suffering in her cheeks looked almost glossy under the film of sorrow, sweat, and mucus. I opened the canister and unleashed the hurling chlorine gas directly against her face... gasping and choking as she wildly swung her arms in a desperate last attempt of escape. The yellow-greenish gas caked around her lips and under her nose, sticking to the wetness and lubrication of her suffering... reacting with the tears and mucus upon her face, as it slowly melted into her flesh, bubbling out pockets of plasma and blood. We laughed... laughed as she struggled to shamble away once we'd loosened our grasp. I remember looking through her eyes and felling nothing... just the irritation from her blurred vision.

It was unclear if we "won" or "lost" the war... the next memory took us outside of a warehouse in the South Pacific. Our tongues had been removed for some unknown violation during the war... we stood outside that warehouse awaiting the next phase of our punishment. I looked at my friend and tried speaking in confusion, questioning what punishment we had so brutally deserved. The commanding officer deciphered my mumblings and replied, "You are to serve as prostitutes."... with that, he pushed us through the windowless doors. I was greeted by the darkness of a dimly lit room, with a stench a depravity, thick with hopelessness. I remember my body feeling numb as we shuffled deeper into the room... every few steps my foot would turn under itself and I would slightly trip. Once through the opening of the main room, I noticed countless naked children... laying upon couches, rugs, and each other. It was an endless pile of naked, young flesh... suited to fill the desires of those same Libertine men. We were taken to a makeshift recovery room and instructed to lay upon the beds... I remember seeing him settle down beside me, looking nothing as he did before. We were a little more than children ourselves, perhaps the age of 12 or so... tender flesh that met the end of a mutilating mind. I looked in horror at my own young youthful skin to discover my transformation and new place in this house of prostitution and immoral delights... I had new swollen breasts, firm and discharging rivers of puss. I reached down between my legs to fondle what I knew was no longer to be found... instead I felt the moist tenderness of my vagina, made from the clippings of my former penis. I wept... and awoke.

Give In And We'll Do The Rest

Get out, get out, get out! These are the words I'm longing to speak forth... it builds inside me, swelling more with each passing moment. For years now I've suffered from night terrors as a side effect from the habitual narcotic use... add a pinch of mental illness and gently fold in some trauma. They usually range from my deeds and shortcomings and some of the things I've seen and experienced through this vicious whirl of life. Lately, they've been focused on biting and ripping the throats out of people that cause me a significant amount of stress... it's a limited list, and we're no longer accepting applications. Please speak to Management, Thank You. I'm not opposed to this one particular person suffering a horrible and extremely violent demise... actually, the thought makes my saliva run thick and the hairs stand on the back of my neck. It's the thought of me loosing control that is upsetting... one foot in front of the other. Once upon a time, I had some issues with controlling my anger... we aren't talking about fits and temper tantrums either. More along the lines of wrapping wire around someone's neck and telling them to say goodbye to all they love and hold precious in this world... at any rate, I had some issues. After much hard work and learning to identify the symptoms of me "checking out", I have this part of myself well under control... most of the time. When I'm confronted with strong emotions whether from myself or the people around me, my mind doesn't know how to process and analyze them properly. The building vibrations shake so violently inside, that I want to lash out and inflict serious harm to people... this isn't an option, so it must be kept in order. Back to my original point, the nightmares are upsetting because I can't lose control of myself and give in to those urges... I just can't. I don't know how or when I will be able to develop the courage to dismiss this person from my life... I can only pray that they die miserably or wind up in prison before I end up losing it or taking my own life. It sounds dramatic, I know. But imagine having to constantly watch out for someone trying to steal your belongings, invade your extremely limited privacy, having everything that is of value locked up behind several tamper proof locks, constantly on the lookout that no illegal substances are brought into the home, and finally, constantly worrying about upsetting the sociopath that has already made several threats against you. Yup, that's just a little more understandable... it's no wonder I'm in therapy three times a week.

Being Serah Weaver

As promised, here is the tale of Serah Weaver... who is this mystery person and what is the meaning behind my constant searching? Serah Weaver is in fact a woman... although, the choir would argue that she is actually a New-Half or pre-op transgender (She-Male). Genitalia and gender are the absolutely least important piece of Serah Weaver... she is my twin flame and answer to every prayer and desire in a person. As you've probably figured out thus far, Serah Weaver doesn't exist in my life... hence the constant searching. The name is from two sources: Serah Farron, from the Final Fantasy Series, and Sigourney Weaver, the famous actress... two things I've loved deeply since childhood, Final Fantasy and Alien. Okay, now that we've got that covered, what makes Serah Weaver so ideal... what type of fantasy person has your sick, twisted, deviant mind dreamt into existence? Well, thank you for asking... please, allow me to continue. Serah Weaver enjoys the same things in life that I do... video games, various forms of art (writing, sculpting, making music), silence, watching DVDs in bed while eating popcorn, animals, horror movies, fantasy creatures (fairies, elves, trolls), magic (lore and ritual), ancient civilizations, myths and legends, and spiritual experiences. It would be a communion of the mind and spirit... whether it was to just sit in silence reflecting on life or abducting, torturing, and slowly killing random people. We would be in sync, complementing each other and working together in all situations of life. Serah would be kind and thoughtful, but also firm and assertive when needed. She would have a great sense of humor and highly intelligent. She would find joy in the simple things in life and would understand my complex way of thinking. Feeling love would no longer be a dream, but rather a reality... I would feel it in her eyes and words and it would warm the very depths of my being. When she wraps her arms around me, all of the negative energies and vibrations would be replaced by a comforting cocoon of love and peace and for the first time in my life I would know what a real embrace was and how it could make your soul quench for more. Some would argue, that Serah Weaver is just a fantasy or perhaps even a perverse and offensive idea... of course, those people would be hypocrites because who hasn't thought about their "perfect" partner? Serah Weaver could be the girl next door or perhaps even one of you reading this right now. Maybe, just maybe though, Serah Weaver isn't another person out there that needs to be found... perhaps Serah Weaver is really the missing pieces of myself that I've yet to discover. Where is your Serah Weaver... and will you ever find them?

Moon Etched Bookends

After everything, all the torment and heartache, why would I allow further destruction... am I addicted to the chaos or merely longing for a bookend? Something to fuel the fires of passion, love, hate, isolation, cruelty and animalism... or something to lean on holding the volumes of this life from crumbling asunder. The last encounter inspired much thought and growth but charred my innocence and sensibility... the wounds are fresh and the void is limitless. These walls, my womb of plaster and wisps, are my salvation... the very foundation trembles at your approach. The smile that hides those hollow eyes is beaming through the cracks... tempting me with explanations of yesterday and the consumption that followed. Will you prepare to feast once more, knowing I have little to nothing left to suckle upon... or must you fatten the lamb before the slaughter? It is necessary... life feeds upon life and no key can keeping you from finding me. My friends, my bookends, are long forgotten... making me your desired prey. How I wish I could erase the day I found you laying there, laying in wait... had I not reached for something to save me from drowning in the darkness, your venomous charms would have been unfruitful. I close my eyes, as the moments come close to this reunion, knowing the inevitable... you are returning and I am powerless to stop you. I must... I musn't. Whether it's ruin you will rain down upon me or solace, I crave the affirmation that I am alive... if even for but a brief moment, at any cost. I need to feel. I need to destroy. I need... this.

A Hushed Audience

Comfort and understanding... these things are of great importance to most. To me, they are instrumental... living in a world of constant confusion and emotional torment. I reach out to strangers... either as a source of comfort for themselves or friendship for us both. These attempts are beyond futile... again, I find myself questioning what it is I am working towards. My primary purpose of writing here, is that one day, somehow, in some way, I will make a positive impact on someone's life... for someone to think to themselves, "I get that....". I also write here for myself, to vent my frustrations, fears, desires... not all is as it appears to be, the written word is fluid and artistic. I am certain that people may have visited here once or twice and immediately cast judgment upon me and my thoughts... this is nothing new, nor surprising. One thing that does bother me however, is the rejection I receive when I extend myself to the world... beyond the void, stepping out of myself and trying to make friends. I have been writing here for quite some time now and I feel even more alone than I did when I started... it is hard to imagine that as even possible. I have had visitors from all around the world and one or two people that visit here whenever I write something new.... I do recognize and appreciate those few that try their best to support me. Perhaps it is shallow and insignificant, but it is hurtful that after all this time, I have no people openly following my blog and not so much as even one comment of support. I am a real person and even though I don't quite understand the feelings swirling inside... I do feel, deeply in fact. At this point, even if someone just left a comment saying, "Shut the fuck up, you sick piece of shit!"... it would be mean something. It makes me wonder if I am truly that far beneath everyone else. Friendship seems even more unattainable... an actual friend. One that communicates with you on a regular basis and without being prompted to do such... I have someone to talk to on occasion, but only if I reach out and bare my soul to them first. Even then, it is limited and awkward...no one appears to have the desire to actually get to know me on a personal level. Casual, noncommittal and lifeless. Is there more out there? I see the rest of the world with these things... I see other people writing in their blogs with everyone paying attention, caring and supporting them daily. What have I done wrong now... what new sins have I accrued? Is there even anyone out there... or in here?

T.O.D. - More Ramblings Of Yesterday

Here is another poem I wrote from the original T.O.D.. Nothing deranged... simplistic. Of course nothing is never as simple as it appears to be... you must turn the earth. It's all I have for the day... my mind is spinning webs and my mouth is dry.


"Sunflower"

Sunflower, my sunflower-
Wilted, weeping power.
It is you crumbling hour...
Right before Her shower.

Sunflower, my sunflower-
Drinking, Raising power.
No longer your arms cower...
The earth no longer sour.

Sunflower, my sunflower-
Graceful, brilliant power.
It is your finest hour...
A beautiful, yellow tower.


00.13.8

T.O.D. - Dusted In A Cardboard Grave

I was again looking through some of my writings... part of me has been entertaining the idea of trying to finish revamping my book and pushing once again to have it published. Of course, the cat and the choir think this is pure insanity. I have spent many recent nights listening to this constant rambling and ridicule and I am quite worn down... I wonder if there is a limit to the amount of tears the body can produce in any given amount of time. More things to ponder, perhaps. Against the wishes of "the collective", I have decided to post another poem from the past. It was written long ago, but it still has a story within it... somewhere.



"Touched Me Within"

It was a dream, or so it seemed to me-
Another normal night, wrapped in fantasy.
I sat alone in the dark, looking in wait-
Then I met you, as the hour turning late.
With simple smiles and names exchanged-
Never thinking my life would rearrange.
In those words and a little time shared-
A dream glowed and feelings had flared.
Pleasure was mine, to be welcomed by you-
A friend and companion; possibly more too.
I can not wait until time unites us again-
For you have touched me; touched me within...

T.O.D. - On A Softer Side

More remnants of T.O.D. ... I was looking through it tonight and I figured I would post something softer for once. Reliving the past, offers a strange comfort... perhaps it is just from remembering simpler days...



“What You Are To Me”

You are my breath,
The air- all that fills and surrounds me.
You are my light,
Shimmering- the beauty and life I see.
You are my reason,
Answers- my purpose and destiny to be.
You are my thoughts,
Inspirations- desires and passions set free.

Grace and style;
The pleasures that you bring.
Peace and simplicity;
My heart and soul doth sing.
Purity and divinity;
Your promise not to sting.
Compassion and love;
You have made me a king.
Forever searching- but now I see…
For this is what, you mean to me.

Solace

Is it too much to ask, for me to crawl inside of you? In there, feeling warmth and security... I could feel something other than myself. So many emotions bottled inside, bouncing around with no exit or interpretation... flat are they, with no purpose or sensation. Together, we could give them purpose and understanding. So close we'd be, your could impart your feelings unto me... giving them life as they nestle inside of my heart and being. At last, I could give a face to the flat and a voice to the silent screams... feelings I could express freely and receive without indifference. "Wake up child, for this is not your place, there are no burrows in which you can erase. It is time to go home now, inside the silent, dark and deep. You have your company and friends to keep, skeletons to nuzzle and hold as you sleep. This is your home and you need no more, certainly not that dream you so adore.".

Still Lifes

Even chaos requires a stand still... ceasing as moments of tranquility seeps into every pore. In those moments, the humming silence encompasses me restoring hope and faith. If I could only capture those rare moments by lens and frame myself within them forever. Little over the years have inspired such moments, making them even more so desired. How I yearn for those moments... cringing in despair as the tears roll from my swollen eyes. I must hold on for another time shall come to pass... another moment when the world becomes brighter and dreams closer to reach. The comforting presence, and assurance that the battles can be won, things can change... I can change. The Lady in Red, sweeping in and lifting me up... this shell of a man. Her arrival is sweetened air... short lived for the audience, for departure is nigh. I braid her words, as if they were locks of hair, and tie them into my own... draping across my face, reminding me. Though I mourn her absence, I fear less the destined reprisal of chaos... for another time is coming, another day, another breath of that sweetened air.

Red November

Night has fallen, once again closing the day.
Confusion building, emotions cling and sway.
It's not coming, not a faint whisper nor sigh.
Stepping lightly on the boundaries that lie.

Not to mourn the things intended empty.
It's not coming today, not for you or me.

-AF

An Open Letter...

Data, data, data... we need more data. No, the incessant ramblings from the choir do not count... shut the fuck up, you don't have a say in this matter! Breathe in... it's out there. The past several nights, I have laid awake wrestling over the thoughts and theories... where did I go wrong exactly? What act raised the water, swirling it up into a vomitus squall of emotion? Somethings are never so neatly answered and other times elusive. So here we find ourselves, in this silence... this deafening silence. There must be some way out of here.

Several weeks ago I made an attempt, an awkward invitation as I put it, to initiate a friendship with you... no agenda, just a meeting of the minds to someone I felt was a genuine person. You accepted and things seemed to be off to a rather good start... which surprised me because my social skills are quite inadequate. Then things just stopped. I continued to write to you a few more times and never heard back from you. At first, I thought this was due to you having a busy schedule... time moves differently for me so it is really hard to determine with any accuracy. Soon, my beloved choir began singing me the tales of woe and how I managed to ruin this friendship while the seed was still freshly planted... the soil turned sour by the plowman's hand, my hand. No need to get excited... these words fled my mind to be replaced with all sorts of things I did wrong. Now I am at a loss and in mourning. Tears swelled in my eyes late last night as I lay there wondering how, what, where, when... no answers followed. Emotions were swimming in my head... in the sea of madness. True, I don't understand emotions and I have a very difficult time recognizing the differences, but I do feel them... deep, they cut me deep. Crying over something I really didn't have... I haven't earned the title friend, things were so new. It was the idea of having a friend inside this silent world. Throughout my life, I have collected many acquaintances... people you meet at work or school. You wave and smile, add them to your social network pages, but in reality all you really have are smiling icons... a nice, neat, little collection. Friendship-honesty, loyalty, openness, hope, joy, trust, companionship... the land of milk and honey. Uncertain on what I should do, I write this open letter. Perhaps you will read it one day and know my intentions were pure. Regardless of the silence, my opinions of you haven't changed. I approached you because you seem to be a kind, thoughtful, appreciative and sincere person... one with morals, values and integrity. If only I knew what the future holds. Fearful of writing you again directly, I stand by the wayside. Left, right or down the middle... perhaps we shall cross paths once more.

"There must be some way out of here", said the Joker to the Thief.
"There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief."
"Businessmen, they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth."
"None of them along the line know what any of it is worth."

Information Highway

It is amazing how contact with another person can cause such a tidal wave of emotion... so beautiful and destructive at the same time. Whether it be verbal, physical or just a glance... the result is always the same for me. Imagine a highway filled with people traveling to and from their destinations. Everything is flowing smoothly and balanced... like water in a creek. Then comes contact, an accident or obstruction... the fluidity ceases and in it's place is chaos. The drivers must adjust accordingly, whether it be stopping to a screeching halt, swerving aside or calmly slowing down... the situation must be registered, evaluated and then processed. I tend to hide myself from the world, but out of desperation I find myself reaching out at times... to strangers, acquaintances or family. Most of the time people's instant response is rejection, but on the rare occasion when someone reaches back and contact has been established, my mind locks up... prepare for impact. Waves of emotion come crashing down, all of which conflict with one another... there is no balance and registering the event becomes very difficult at best. The voices in my mind begin their chanting and the symphony of chaos begins it's haunting melody causing the evaluation to become fragmented and desperate... joy, sorrow, love, hate, empathy, pity, appropriate or unseemly. Frustration and anxiety settles in while my mind tries to process all of these emotions... traffic is at a standstill and the motorists are restlessly awaiting for the debris to be cleared. Everything is cloudy and blended... it is impossible to take all of this in and come upon a conclusion. Some end result of the event that can be clearly defined, therefore allowing me to make a choice on what the most desirable reaction should be. It's hard enough to wade through the waves of emotion as they bombard me relentlessly, but with all of the noise, chatter and disorder being added by the voices in my mind, I want more than anything to swim back to shore... but there is none in sight. Even the simplest event is turned into an epic moment... what am I feeling, how should I be feeling, what should I do now, how, why, are you sure, what if? It is maddening. All of this manifests itself into a desire to stop reaching out... then the loneliness comes back, desperation settles itself within again and I find myself once more screaming inside to reach out. I have lost all ability to relate and communicate freely with the outside world... all that remains inside is the rotting company of my illness and the legion of demons that taunt me endlessly without mercy. I wish I could end this cycle of destruction... I long for the peace and comfort of my own skin. All the while, I long for my voice to be heard and for a day to come, when someone will answer me and reach back with the patience and compassion for me to express myself in kind. I suppose that is a lot to ask. People in the world today have many burdens to bear on their own... they need not be burdened with my dysfunctions. It is unfair to them and it is unfair to me... but the nightmare never stops. It will continue to play itself out over and over again... as hard as I try, I cannot stop reaching out. I cannot stop dreaming.

The Life of Alabaster Frank

Alabaster Frank was born in a remote, quiet place... not too far away from the tranquil land behind your eyelids. His childhood was non-eventful, compared to you, raised by sheep and self-educated- never having broken a dish or a promise. He would grow to become a beacon of Light and Goodness... adored for his purity and welcomed by all. He fell in love, married and soon raised his own family. He was a remarkable father and teacher... a loving, hard working husband. Everyone loved Alabaster Frank and he unconditionally loved all those he would come to meet... even me. In fact, his last words to me were, "I love you"... even while I was killing him and removing his face. Now, I am Alabaster Frank. As I wear his face, I can feel his smile become my own. Now I can see all that I was missing... all I was searching endlessly for... all I ever wanted. Everyone loved Alabaster Frank.... I can't wait.