Author: Pisceanesque

"It's not from within that I emerge; it's by emerging, that I am truly within." www.pisceanesque.com

Protected: MIND IMPLOSION #4

DESTINY

Without your eyes
to fall into
and your mouth
for me to desire
this soul
would still
find a way
– like a compass –
into your center
and you would
still
find a way
like a magnet
into my dreams.

I KNEW

I Knew

i knew
that i would let you
swallow me whole

so i pretended
not to notice
and enjoyed
you watching

JIGSAW

part of me
is lost
in a jigsaw puzzle
where the image
i am putting together
is looking more
and more
like you

LESS ONE

Every mistake you make
is one I will own
with you
because
every one I own
is one less
you shoulder
without me.

HAD

You had me
at ‘yes’
–
and I didn’t even know
I was asking

CAUGHT

you captured me
with nothing
but your very
existence
and i
didn’t even notice
i was escaping
mine.

MAD

each of us
as insane
as the other
– you, more so than I –
we both repeat
at once

THE CHEAT

I may believe
that you
and I
would be loyal
but
in truth
your job
is to
prove me wrong

COMMUNICATE

both high
– desirous –
in the space
between
our connection

waiting
with a nervous dream
for the red line
to be crossed

Protected: Mind Implosion #03

NIGHT LIFE

somewhere
beyond the outskirts of my dreams
a Sentry
distant
– marking time –
watches as my soul escapes
eloping while I sleep
– awakened –
with my fictional
and very real
desires

SECURITY BEHIND INSECURITY

Instead of foraging around making connections
with cables and wireless systems that
bluetooth and sync their way
into our pocket technologies
and portable screens

(tablets of which we self-prescribe
and regulate through overdose
and comatose seedlings of stillness
and waking dreams)

why, instead
don’t we fool around
making connections
with others of like mind and brainwaves
instead of radio waves and
the mastered minds of computer waves
and lift an arm and
really wave
beyond our windows to
real people
in real time
rather than peeping
like a holographic Tom through
tabs and browsing windows,
multi-tasking time in a state of mime
like it’s about to expire

(like the wireless wires will break)

and all that we’ll have is
all we can physically take
from this moment awake we call ‘life’
– a mistake.

What else is left now
in this vegetative
one man / one woman state
where we live to close our eyes
and shut our minds and wait for
the modem-router to re-dial and
get our avatar back online and
our friends back into our
multi-dimensional realer-than-time
time?

Pseudonyms solving identity changes
emerge without birth with designer non-faces,
as
now that we no longer need imperfection
or meaning or privacy
or even perception
we alter ourselves to impress our connections,
to bond in the moment like a drug we’re ingesting
while hiding as one almost fearing detection,
and tip-toeing straight past
concern or reflection

– invisible firewalls at our protection.

Where IS the affection we actually share
in this digital age
that we turn off so rarely?
This internet craze has become a new God
that we dial to be saved far more often than not
while we race without feet
over networks in haste
with the spambots and viruses
to infect and defile us
– and not without mention
the ads, and our logins, and
passwords impassable if ever forgotten.

And yet
we grow fonder
of pics and of pixels and
texts of expression
(the emojis by which we select our impression)
– and all of it
coded to task like an errand:
the reality of which we could lose in a second

NOVEL DISTRACTIONS

“In a novel world, man would simply wake non-committally, stroll vicariously through a perfect day, learn nothing knowing everything, and melt into an active slumber of taboo regard. Pleasantries aside, one should move on from parastillness and obscene milestones of excellence, and be afraid at times of what lies ahead, knowing without knowing why that it will all end in the finality and loneliness of an ever untimely demise, but resume once more with an abundance of possibilities; each new direction scattered like confetti across another bridge between dreams.”

TRANSHUMAN

“Once the fault of man, this short-sighted vision of detachment – now the fault of mankind – carries an irregular and desperate longing to evolve into something obscure and unreasonable, hastily seeking every excuse gatherable – hidden and apparent – to move beyond the limits of nature and into the promiscuous dreams of a science fiction writer.”

Featured in:
The Transhumanism Pandemic: Sub-Humanity’s Messiah; Humanity’s Annihilation – Page 13

THOUGHT #206

Adjacent to indecision lies one potential so lucid that it exists without ever becoming aware.

THOUGHT #204

One can strive toward a goal, but failing, also, is a path to reaching it.

SOLDIER

The Man who never brought hell home
was wise beyond his years.
He suffered long
but lived it loud
imprisoned by his fears –
and those were thus:
that those before him
came and went
with nothing left but
pain and name
and more of same
who went and came
from seed in soil
to root and stem,
to fallen branches, time again:
a family tree to fuel the flames
on cold and lonely nights.

Embodied by the coat of arms he wore,
this Last to hold his name,
he swore,
– in vain, perhaps –
to stand at ease no more.

The Man who never brought hell home
encased himself in spite and spirits:
ghosts of generations gone,
encroaching deep within.
He sought for answers,
fought for reasons,
questioned why his bloodline grew
to fall and rise
and curse and kill
with secret lies
and stolen rights
and ties he could not sight.

The Man who never brought hell home
had died
the moment he arrived
– or so he thought –
he always said,
with eyes in search of something else . . .
perhaps that love that once he’d felt,
despite the years of crime he lead.
And what is left, again, but holes
to fill with buried woes and
broken war-like games and
shattered dreams
and darker still yet, nothing.
Nothing, as it always seems.

Not a sliver shall him by, it pass,
of hope,
of love,
of peace –
not until the very last,
this Man who never brought hell home.

And so, this Man, with blind belief
declared his story would be brief,
atoning for the sins he cast
in other’s lives
in years that passed,
and spent his days in self destruction,
free from want, control, and need,
biding time with bated breath
like men, before, who longed for death,
entrained in mind and soul,
until one day,
the hell that never came,
came whole.

For every man,
and son of man that once there was,
who sharpened knives
and counted tools
and cleaned his guns,
and polished pride, his moral compass
by his side,
who now lives to wake and wakes to die,
repelling faith, repelling truth, and
cussing lies –
this Man has died.