Fall of a Prophet/Cormac Era

I am possessed by the spirit of the pen, recast in a new, comically unlikely and unlikeable role. My rival has met an untimely demise. There’s a sickness in the city. See it in all the beasts and brethren. My nemesis trafficked in their auras, and now, black balloons at his wake, his sword but a decomissioned blade. Girls are supposed to ask questions and be attentive, but he let himself be flattered. Who knows now who said what? Who even cares? Every pair of lips in this place has an ass to to kiss and I’ll be fucked if I can’t find my tongue. When I go to the wake to pay my respects I’ll be shunned, ostracized. I’ve killed for less. I’ve stared a beautiful future down the neck and walked away for both our sakes. I’ve suffered fools lightly but never gladly. So noblesse oblige, meet signal. Here you go Anna, I brought garlands as promised. I mentally promised myself this would be the last time. Gotta keep all my promises. It has been a long war. 

Now I’ve pulled up right on time to wear the crown. Anointed, he absently nominated me his successor, days before we should have met. There will be fierce competition, an internecine war of succession. It would be wise to keep sage counsel and tender company for the leaden march of rust. The diabolism you reckon with will be overwhelming, by orders of magnitude force multiplied, storm of swords. You will face down mirror neurons as bladed shafts of light. Women will be the death of you. Unless you course correct and recalibrate, militarize your social ecosystem, you stand to lose your inner circle. Do not acknowledge the woman’s humanity. Call her the bpd, it’s easier that way. They’re not like you and me; they don’t care about others. Expect the worst and hope for a memorable blowjob. These vamps crush organs and appendages. They’ll claw into cavities you didn’t know you had. If you’ve made contact with one, heed all advisories—

Still I felt his end like any other at the time. He was simply caught in a state of nature, which no one left unscathed. He was beloved. He had touched so many lives. His poetics and aesthetics were uncompromising. We had more in common than all the rabble mourning him. Ernesto though, he was drifting in the wings. He was visibly upset about something, chafed at my humor, projected his shame on me, thought I was laughing at him. This is deep reification and I’ll shamble along but I do miss him. Vacant sexpot. Maneater. Cackling crassly.

They got inside us while we slept. Easy as squeezing a trigger, a whole counterculture razed. They locked us down to tamper with our auras. Crawled into our depths and laid their eggs. Honey do not assume I’m bitter. Life is what you make. I’m just writing, rough raw and tumbling, rawdogging emotionalities to perfectly preserve realities in all their brokenness, personalities crises of faith. Tonight we’ll all sit here in solstice, and talk about the ecliptic event in mumbly tones, all of us with wildly disparate visions and recollections, egoists flaring up nakedly, preconditioning ire while dispensing niceties for extrajudicials already begun in earnest. Consider yourself christened. A rite has been blessed. You’ve been heckled aggressively by a mob of brilliant edgelord trolls, they have vigorously conspired to dox you, brainwash you, murder your kids and they think it’s funny. Disagreeable times, prelapsarian. A sportive torment, agony in waves. Hold fast and hold still while I hold you down and under undulations of psyche. I’m back and I’ve found my tribe. Look at this masthead and tremble. Unbreakable, come for one and come for all. 

I’m writing a really long lyric poem. I’m building a dynasty of rubble and shambles of windowsill, ruggedly lurching through life like a warlord, incapable of empathy because I long outlived its use, long been cast in its implicating glow, sober now long as I remember. Before now the faces and names and details were a constellation of interchangeables, runny in their shambled disjecta. Now I’m actually grieving and it’s terrible. Give me the pill and put me back in the box. The throes of this nightmare are bone shattering, I am ossified necrotic. Center stage, blowhard. Bow. Proceed with appropriate disdain. The audience is dead. Their eyes are gone. The light persists but it disperses into blips of relief in a prefrontal cortical sea of neuronal empathy. Cortisol intimate ibuprofen chic, bath water and a baby. All the enthusiastic raw sex I am not having. Writing is rewriting. Please face me when I speak. Please say something to me before you leave. You’re too casually cruel to be polite. DD214, served in the military in some capacity. The undead are here, the occupation has begun. I’ve seen psychosis on the streets. Sudden moves are threatening. Be adept, not abrupt. Feel out the contours, flesh out the plan. Insomnia is coming. China is already here. 

Ask the right questions. Make the right friends. Meet the right partner. Only now is real. The alone outnumber the awake. No one cares what you did or where you’re from. Are you solid now? What are you made of? I’m outlaw, I don’t care what you did. If you’re cool with me I’m cool with you. 
They buck a little but it’s now or never. Do or die time. The best writers have deep musical instincts.

I have insurance. People have been exhibiting bizarre behaviors, mental disturbances. I couldn’t get a read, you okay? Why’d you piss yourself? Come on shortie. Don’t throw your life away ‘cos you’re lonely. Sit there and bleed now, open a vein and listen to the shrieking voices. I know how fucking good it is and I know you be rocking to your own beat and it scares me. I need raw fear and sweat, fat burgers of it. It’s retarded how everyone is terrified of each other. Your heart doesn’t make you any less of a gentrified junkie. You got them bpd eyes. Bet the pussy’s good. Too good. The sex gotta be explosive. Too good. Why you acting like you ain’t got shit to lose huh? You look like you got shit to lose but you acting like you ain’t, or you don’t care, which strikes me as dangerous. And it’s a dangerous world honey, you can’t even answer the phone no more. I’m having visions of rabies. A catastrophe of the mind. And you access this higher mind at a cost. I’m a much greater artist than you, I smell like money and pussy, and I’m here still with you. Self pity, root of misery. Take this immaculate heart, do this in memory of me. Do not follow your faves into hell. You were more dead than alive when I found you. Come on and collect yourself, we have to build the ethnostate. Becker is waiting to announce. In old New York all the poets took qualuudes, now they take klonopin. 

The narcopath must know no limits. Angels won’t fly low enough. We need a sacrifice of nymphal nubiles. We need to flank the famous racist with e-girls. Piecemeal at a drip feed, we’ll punish the bodies and burn the victims. There will never be a night like this one. Communion with the seed, I’ll swear I was possessed. Put a black man on the bill. Now make sure the dolls look sweet. Not just tolerated but justified. An eye for a tooth. Longer than that, mutation is good, tie one on and off, I’m inside the novel where the world keeps getting stranger, fluid mobility flowing zoning, what did the seizure look like? Was he on his knees? Doom. That much was in the air, I knew that. Saw a guy banging his fist on a bus window. Saw other things too hard to believe or unsee. People dropping dead of cardiac arrest. Nosebleeds. Conniptions of crazed derangement. The fear is omnipresent, the crime and tragedy.

A black hole of fungal perfume. Jelly shoes or birkenstocks, fuck the fog if I can remember. It was chelsea boots. A nightgown, which you downplayed as a nightgown after I told you it was a lovely dress. A bold MET Gala worthy choice. You said it helped you sleep and you were unwiring the habit training by wearing it out. I invited you to dream. You chuckled in a breathy, tensile tenor, slightly mannered with a splash of panache, burning with intonational warmth, the connotative richness of your edges, stupefyingly severe. I’m chasing the parts of you I’ll never find, the things you hide from me. The mystery, the 99% rendered in idealization in my head. The lies, the subterfuge. The camouflage, the subtext, the innuendo, the conjecture, the disingenuous mind games and my reciprocity, an effort to control your mind. Snap out of it, Aurelio. Star crossed shards where the fantasy came crashing down. Disrupt my flow, crash into it. We’re eliminating distance, personal space. Departing the comfort zone. Leaving tension behind forever. A structural shift.

I like to make people happy. Take them apart and put them back together. Fate takes a hand, let the devil keep the rest. I’ve been writing so much about you. Very little of it is usable. No suffering is meaningless. Don’t you ever have something to live down ‘cos it’ll follow you everywhere. Temper that Aries blood. Love as violent renewal.

A liminal, hypnotic ephiphenomenon. A metaphysical sort of dance. Uncanny sometimes how blunt and brusque you were. Bang bang browse indexes. Of course it’s a love story. Asymmetric, unlinear growth, getting my flows off on flirtation. A scorched earth warpath with a belle in the center. A face to launch ships of fools. Tactile play. A little meatspace game. Take life as it comes but I wish you were dead, I’ll re-enact it twelvefold. Take life as it comes but I’ll burn you to the ground, tie one off and and turn you on and around. I have a rule rotten to its core. No pain no gain but no pain is necessary. No overcorrection, just charting courses through meridians. I hope you appreciate the necessity of solitude now playing 8D Chess. Love is war- it’s waiting by the computer. It’s throwing your faculties off to age out of a permanent place, tricking your mind, it’s once in a generation acmeism, spiritual subtance run over and raped. All the action filtered out in red cues. 

Random acts of kindness go a long way because time is fake and you’ll forget. 

Who did it, who came inside me? Was it you? You sick fuck do you know what they’ll do to me if he finds out? No, it’s not fair. It’s not. Why would you say that? What did I ever do to you? I dream in high fantasy milieux. Pre-code coded burlesque. I’m a swansong, a showpiece, I’m all flair, mere fashion, you would introduce me as a model not just in New York, you’d do it in Georgia. American acmeism has stained the family. There’s no one in real life you can trust. Well now you’re just bending octaves, elongating your pronunciations, vile utterances. Outburts of clarity all in editing. Then I’ll really be shambling. After the dam breaks, and my schedule is upheaved. When I leave the shallows for the depths. Leave you spined, weak need. 

I am the kingdom and the name, the oracle building waypoints for you to find me. I’m writing through crystalline tears at all the loss I’ve yet to experience. Once I was a liar, and that’s where this account begins. Gemini force, feel like shit, just want you back. You called me the voice of a generation. I’m writing through agonizing back spasms, a crick, metastasized curvilinear prospects. Learned helplessness of risen rivers. I’ve played the field of foreign born miracles, BPD pussy on a pedestal, e-girl blindspot fascination. My paperweight heart, my punchy manners. A heritable erotomania. Blessing up and blessing down. Renewable femcel flippancy. Meet the moment equal to the cause, pin your hopes and dreams on me. Life is more exciting with me, I must self-preserve. I scrawl for the world burners, the acolytes I pass the torch for. A schlock jock, a deep bosomy heart. Submissive and breedable sublative fire pussy sedation as salvation hyperacute stress out here enjoying a renaissance in my style of writing. My kind of book barely exists. I’m bigger than New York but also a New York respecter. God’s gift to women. Live forever with a heart remiss. Sit down or you’ll get shot up. It was so good I couldn’t ruin it til I tried, and it’ll never be that good again. A songbook of menticide in my heart. The trouble with men is it’s hard enough to be a boy. The gendergoblin left a chicken bone on the counter, ho shit, I mean what a hoe ass thing to do, even while being an industrial grade hoe scarer. Thermal pulse, operatics and theatrics. Inactive tidings to your tear. Nothing a tiny pill can’t solve. Thermal pulse, hurricane force, gale winds. I can’t stop writing the counterfactual counter narrative, questioning. We’ve reached a safe cruising altitude. Scream a ration, a riot, where the cops grow the characters. Plastered grins. Deal you in, beauty and cheap cigarettes. Appetency we came all night. Fleet footed Wisconsin alone a joint where moths die in our mouths this American sadness beautiful kekistanies, spiritual epiphanies. If you can’t be with me just love me. A twinge to a plateau, the Cumberland Gap, the Mississippi Delta. I would fear you but I only fear God, sphinx-like stoical you chafe at breeders. Lifeblood of the earth, wild waters. End credits. Unipolar time, no magic bullet. Desensitized desiderata. Apperception: desire is undesirable. Salubrious pain of parturition of preterition one world government alliance. Censorship wrong we marshal the thrum. Ultraculturalism, I’m easy to love, easy to rib ‘cos I’m so gallant. Roots and vegetables. What America does to its children in their sleep. A threadbare hollow euphoria. Don’t miss your moment. Transplaining how to be trans to gender traitors. Bomb the feed. Ananthropa, the stroke is clarity. We subsist on calls from the asylum. These swinging living hells, based and basic thrumming quietism bad boy bald, fix your heart or die you prick you creature I know where you’re hiding in the wings. My pain is pure ‘cos no one visits me dialectics no one wants to. My friends are the clerics. Clarity is clutch blinding vasospasm. God made us to keep each other warm. You don’t need to be wrong to be right but sometimes you do OD except sometimes. God made us wrong, God made us wait. All in due time. Language based virus choked up the mentor artist relationship I’ve mentored the muse autist carrying water just to burn it all down. A maimed man’s as good as dead dead heat hegemony fire sign supremacy you can’t live forever but you’ll feel good again. Paving lanes since the road dropped you poor ass nigga. You ain’t shit on American Sadness agonizing heart like an open container buzz feed bombed don’t get cynical, the throughline is two birds one stone, death and rebirth, your life is borrowed time on this earth around people nervous and excited about art no nothing catch us between doses always crashing in the same clothes subsidizing the drip feed. 

        Live a little to the letter so sweet. Something so good you couldn’t ruin if you tried. People always ask me what I’ve got in store for them. I’ll tell you, everything in this world comes with a price. There’s no uncomplicated victory too pure, there are caveats in every promissory instance. The year we went back to basics, the year of your voice is here. 
      We should ask her.
      Let’s keep her benched in our backpocket, folded up like a crumpled lilac.
      I spend so much money on water. Free money.
      You reified my dreams. In love with your mind, everything I have I owe to you.
If you die in your sleep, the life of the mind takes over. We were scrumming, wolves, December in New York. My virtual girl magic machine. The swagless truth, I’ve been taken to task for my alleged heart of gold, pillars of salt turning. It’s killing me to participate in public life. Having a soul is dangerous. We don’t love having things explained to us. Waves of appetite rolling on a heroic dose. What I’m about is I like violence. I cannot subsist without disorder and pregnant silences. Inheriting the kingdom of eternal life won’t humble me. The quintessential constancy of the American family, I’m trying to enjoy a romance’s momentum without intrusive thoughts stalking.

Let me tell you why I hesitate to breed. There’s a hypnotic malaise, a dread widespread. Circumambient, pervasive. Bleeding into every pore.

To enter here you must first exit. A cryptic admonition. The people started to seem interchangeable, the conversations all running together. I couldn’t keep track of who said what. 

It’s time to step away from the metaverse. It’s time to put instant gratification, commodification of visual sight validation away. I’m writing to you because I never processed the grief sober. It’s my last road to walk, the final boss of mental illness. A spectable is insatiable, it craves endless affirmation. We need to save love. We have ten years. Menticide of eschaton, only braindead could you love me. Trust me I will hurt you forever. I saw you and I knew. That slowly I would destroy you. It’s what I do. 

I come up with good idea. You, lazy fucking imbecile, just want to drink yourself braindead. I’m not in the sticks. I’d like to be but I’m not there yet. That’s why I’m in the metaverse. Wake up you’ve been under a spell. Love isn’t a joke. It’s poop and blood. What I’ve had to become to take what belonged to people much worse than me. 

Can’t get at him ‘cos he always rolling 12 apostles deep.

I like the brain damaged mongrel mongoloid maniac music of primal grunts and pained bleats.

Sometimes we are imprinted with energy. A psychic told me I was covered in red from head to toe. A mark of passion, emotion-based energy. Somewhere inside I believe I deserve love, but I made a killing today and I only want to share it with you.

No offense, but you still have to go after what you want. Angel in the lord with your sword, schizoid, zooted, I’m the love of your life why because my birthday is before yours. 1 in 366. You find that person you never let them go, heap burning coals, broke doors you drew that phone now the opps won’t even talk to me red letters too busy getting busy with intentions, but I don’t want nothing, I don’t care for nothing, I don’t try nothing. But no one will ever love you like I do. Anyone between us is a stopgap. You were an awful servant, but I’d still call the one I love after mass. Now I understand junkies better than anyone. Now I know what it’s like to be undead, it’s the end of the fantasy, a godsend, a real killer. Life’s too short and it ain’t that serious.

Because good works and prayer can’t be enough. By nature it is the practice of purgatory-bound disciples. Saints aspire to give all. To be so divested death can’t take it, for the spirit is with the lord. One body, a temple. Nonzero possibility of redemption. 

It’s completely appropriate for me to feel this way. People who care about things are the worst. Why in God’s green country would you risk your heart when the church of Christ desires a humble one, undead smoky and heavy with the hands dirty, but everything I touch gets hot. A sensitive man on that Cormac flow, my feelings are inappropriate. I thought I heard God but it could always be the evil one. I’m on five percent me time as it is. I come enough. When I pray my contrition is pathological, it’s generative of a generalized fallenness, and sin is emissive. Pulled under by softness, indeed give me my drugs, my perfect prescription, and leave me alone. Finished the mission, took it as far as it goes. 

Who knew Pluto would come to dominate so much of our lives? I’m back in a martial mood, angelically fraught.