Uncle Sam Says

Uncle Sam says
I want you
To die for me
My corporatocracy

Uncle Sam says
Give me your money
That I make you use
Nothin and no one's free

Uncle Sam says
I want you
I want your body
For sex on TV

Uncle Sam says
Take your meds
If you aren't happy
Don't blame society

Uncle Sam says
I'm watchin you
I'm powertrippin
Over what you do

Uncle Sam loves
The American Dream
Just eat McDonalds
Consume everything

Uncle Sam says
Foreigners aren't free
We should bomb them
To stop tyranny

Uncle Sam says
Be proud
Of your country's
Superiority

Uncle Sam says...
Uncle Sam says...

Modus Operandi

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen

My staggering amounts of simultaneous darkness&pain&self-confidence led me to viciously succumb to the illusion that a) I was a delusional two-faced megalomaniac and/or at times b) I was slaphappy with purely suicidal confidence, riding high with a devil-may-care grin at the Grim Reaper. Now, the latter may not have been entirely untrue. Flippantly saying "FUCK ALL" to my own cherished very life gave me courage in an utterly dark&sickened way -- in a way that said "Fuck you, I care more about retribution, about causing utter horrific pain in you you sick fucks, about saving my sister's life and sparing her of my own violent fate, more than about my own pain... my own life..." Like some manic Jesus story gone awry. Because if I don't even give a fuck about my own life, I have nothing to lose and that terrifies the predator. What a childhood.
But I was not a megalomaniac.
And I was not confident purely due to a self-sacrificial suicide high.
So neither assertion a) nor b) was perfectly true.

I felt like the spawn of Satan. I am the spawn of criminal sociopaths intoxicated with narcissism, solipsism, and pure carnal evil. I feel violated, violent, torn, manic, sorrowful, agonized, but above all, enamored with the beauty of the life-force in myself and the world. And simultaneously disgusted at the depravity around me. I have witnessed the spiral of the darkest evils in humans -- raging necrophiliac pedophiles and other nameless horrors. And I have come to understand the inception of perversion that evolves into such evils. [And so, darkness&pain&self-confidence.] But they have not infected me; I am my own person and my resolve never wavers. Merely my soaring&plunging, imbalanced, sense of self-perception: that wavers. But never my resolve.

In writing this, even, I am undergoing catharsis, shaking off the suicide high. Retaining the high, the slaphappy high, but healing at long last. I want to treasure my precious soul, to feel the trembling immediate, charming beauty of life, feel it all without the self-betrayal that has plagued my soul for aeons. The self-betrayal that led to self-mistrust that led to self-misperception. I am only now fully realizing the absolute existence of the suicide high that I have harboured in my soul as I write this, and it wears off. A sickening vertigo lifting.

But I know with certainty, at this moment, I was never a megalomaniac, never grandiose in my conception of myself. That was merely the pain speaking.

My darkness, my despair, my confidence, my deus ex machina.
And the beauty of it all is, those who see the beauty of this feeling that has been my salvation -- they are they ones worthy of experiencing the beauty. And those who cower at the darkness, they have chained their own souls. And my integrity is forever uncompromised.

Spirit fled the body, took shelter in the mind.

I wondered if something grave had happened to me.

My spirit had relinquished itself, in an ancient tear of cataclysmic proportions. Torn at the core, a great fissure. Grinding teeth, whispered tears of a child in the darkness. Body from spirit. My spirit fled to unknown refuge. Stomach turning somersaults that never landed. Spinning and spinning until severed, and the momentum increased with time... because the physics of the soul don't follow the physics of the world. Because the greater the numbness, greater the pain, and in turn, the greater the numbness, and the greater the pain...
Imbalance fuels itself. Little chance of return.

And in the process my spirit lost awareness of itself. Lost awareness that there ever was a loss.

Because that is the nature of loss of self.
Was there something to crawl back to? Was there ever certainty, foundation? Was there, was there...

At times I gleaned a glimpse from somewhere within. A sensation shivering through me, a forlorn knowing that the pain of numbness was real. A tension so terrifyingly immediate in my muscles it snapped back to numbness. And the drowning in my eyes turned to back limpness, paralysis from pain.

And they mistook the paralysis for peace.
Paralysis for peace...

I would wonder, wonder... muted dreaming. "Perhaps there was some great evil that occurred, in my past, knowledge of which will save me yet. Perhaps my pain will be vindicated and I will know why, why... why I wonder why..."
Perhaps the ghostly images with whispy trails, and the shadowy warped blurs at night, and the shrieks ricocheting in my mind were real...

The eternal mocking silence of such thoughts. The derision of emptiness, the scorn of the internal void.
"You sick fuck, you wish for such evil upon yourself to perpetually justify your inability to cope with pain. You are weak."

And the horror of that thought would return me to the limp paralysis.
The eternal mocking silence.


But finally the searching, the searching, the clambering, the faint embers life still licking and burning in my eyes found something.

A memory, a vindicating memory, finally told. Imparted to my sister, in it she saw her life too, her own memories restored. The same ghostly hands, terrors of the night...


And soon my spirit climbed out of its shell. One day the sparks of the embers caught. Alight. One day I felt the return of my soul.

"I did it."
"Did what?"
And my sickening pain reared inside myself, and this time my soul tremoured, joined, fleshly impact. It returned.
Just a split second.

But I cherished it, and held onto it, and grappled to return to it, to the reassociation.

At whim, I can induce it, the spells of being inside my body.
But it does not stay...


It never stays...

The Perisher [lyrics]

I have faith: faith in decay
Faith in the rot
The spoil
The grave

Degenerate & deteriorate, curdle & rust
Maggots in marrow
Defile the hallowed in their bloodlust

The filth of abandon
Inevitable
The stench of entropy
Interminable
Of quasars & kings
[Of cadavers & cosmic rings]

The almighty irrevocable mandate,
That what once was
Will be
That the dust of cause will not be denied its restitution
None will defy fate

For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.

The Perisher (repeat)

coronary insanity

i was drinking up and looking through a glass, darkly
weeping i just have to make it through this evening
pulled the curtains i heard them speaking in tongues
about a naive no-one who never tried who was barely more
than a twinkle in his old mans eye but slightly more than
a suicide who met a good listener with perfect words a
closed lipped ventriloquist heart all-a-slur either you
are still with me or you never were either you are still
with me or you never were either you are still with me or

~loveless

The Irony of the Egotistical American

They are marvelously American traits: to lavishly power-trip, to mindlessly lust for domination!
Be it the frat boy slovenly drunk and barfighting to establish territory over his girl... or be it the pigs driveling as they grope you to meet their quota.

And then to ridicule pain, to view it as weakness. Go to any high school around the country where they smell fear like hounds and crucify those who exude it. Or check in with your nearest psychiatrist who will assuredly tell you your pain is a disorder.

To whitewash everything until the notions of pain or darkness become threatening because "it'll lead to another columbine" ["they were always outsiders"]. It's no longer just unaccepted, it's punishable.

And then to numbly embrace the resultant botoxed smiles plastered on every billboard and ad online or on tv because you don't want to be the outsider, to be weak, because you want to consume-consume-consume material-material-material too until the American Dream [read: induced hallucination] becomes yours!

And there will be no pain in you to ridicule, you think, because material indulgence equates to happiness, right? And you can trod on the heads of others, now, because you're on top! Because you're in control now! Because you've dominated, you've succeeded!

It's disgusting. It's catastrophic. And it's spreading.

And the irony of it all is that the blind egoism, blind ethnocentrism, the blind patriotism, and the incessant urge to dominate are precisely what the American elite breed in our population to ensure blind compliance, submission... "I'd do anything for my country..."

God is the Machine

Global synthesis of humankind
Doesn't mean you have to be synthetic and blind
If ignorance is bliss then I'll give 'em hell
Don't let this Brave New World ever quell
The vision, the passion, and most of all the urge to resist
and to rebel

Disenchanted with false Utopias
And the masses' minds' mindless myopias
I know real questions are better than false answers
But they'd rather peace-of-mind be bottled, priced, and handed over the fucking counters

It's God. God is the Machine.
We worship the corporatocracy.
God is the Machine
And if God is the Machine
Then I choose hell

In the pursuit of happiness
We've manufactured it
Though they're callin' us Generation RX
I'm callin' on you to resist
The proverbial soma
That'll put you in a coma
The "American Dream" is a fucking hallucination
Of a nation, of a world, of humans who've sold their souls to miscreation

If ignorance is bliss, then I'll give 'em hell
And if God is the Machine, then I choose hell

So while klan members commit crimes of hatred
And suicide bombers go and meet their maker
And half the world earns 3 bucks a day or less
We can proudly say we've conquered the "disorder" of sadness
No, it's bourgeoisie psychosis!

Chaos theory:
If a hurricane is contingent on a butterfly
A chain reaction can also come of your cry
For revolution, for dissolution
Of corruption, and endless consumption
Invoke the Chaos! Invoke the Chaos!
And remember the power of the atom bomb
Lies inside of the atom

And if ignorance is bliss, then I'll give 'em hell
And if God is the Machine, then I choose hell
And if God is the machine, then I choose hell
And if God is the machine, then I choose hell
I choose hell!

A Goddamned Messianic Tragedy of the Heart

O, you were always my messiah.

The collapse of will and fate; that the knowing flame in our eyes foresaw the descent, the demise -- foresaw this in that our very knowledge was birthed of itself. A goddamned messianic tragedy of the heart. That despite all the animal magnetism, the enchantment, the inevitability, and desire -- that despite will and fate -- we, two ships, sailed valiantly onward in the night... sailed silently, passing, and drifting on immaculately, never to pass by again. Never to touch.

When the mind, the microcosmos, the world, and the cosmos all pled otherwise.

Self-denial turned denial toward you. So consumed. Two selves meant to be entwined, such that one self is the other. And so to self-sacrifice is to betray.

Self-denial turned denial toward you.

And so, I ran. From myself [from you]. Tore myself away, anguish, agony, love. And when I died, because I did, because a self cannot be torn in half, you resurrected me.

O, you were always my messiah -- the messiah of my heart... my lifeblood, my cherished, fallible, mortal, living, pulsing messiah.

I breathe you, as though you pump the bellows of my soul. Your beauty sustains me, ever enamored. The more I love you, the more I am resurrected; the more your messianic stare pierces me sorely, the more the sweet joins the bitter. The beauty I see in you I see in myself. The beauty in you is the beauty in me.
Selfless self love.

And though I stand alone, my lone self is all I need because you live on in me.

paradox of perception

Conviction to one man is closed-mindedness to another; Open-mindedness to one man, hypocrisy to another.

"Let There Be Streetlight!"

Deus ex machina: god from the machine!

The primeval, glorious being came thundering down & cried restitution, retribution & redemption [oh, dark redemption]; smoldering sunset eyes & black locks of funnel clouds & a deafening roar heard only as the silence of the cosmic dark. & its fingers spun webs of immortal perfection ensnaring all mortal souls at once -- its descent, of course, made upon a rickety, wooden machine lowering with creaky drunken swings. Pulled by a rope. A cheap throne of human construction.
God from the machine: the last human hope.

& the plot thickened & brimmed with promise & we praised & were enamored & dazed: resolution of our ideals incurred... The drama unfolded; an ancient Greek god, sent to rectify, rectify, rectify! A concept relentlessly resonating through time -- that our machine god would save the world, render humanity salvageable. & it was a beautiful work of fiction. Bestow upon me your truly potent righteousness, Deus!


But history repeats, repeats, repeats itself & what once failed & lingered only in the realm of fabricatedfiction... remained so. Ever faithful futility. The tragic flaw that rendered the plot device simultaneously a cheap fix & a brilliant vision.

For, what is power but failed in the face of spectacular abuse?


God from the machine: try in vain to save ourselves with artificial might & behold the atom bomb, polluted skies, & the corporatocracy! It cried "let there be light" & we echoed "let there be streetlight;" "let me save" & we echoed "we shall destroy."

Impotent human righteousness. God from the machine. Reality a parody of a comedy.

No, god is the machine -- as we reify & deify our almighty man-made prince of darkness, lord of doom. Worship, bow before our legendary, cataclysmic Fall. Wrought by the very potency that might have saved the world.

Diabolus Ex Machina!

The pocket watch inevitably slows to a stop with entropy...

And I turned to face the cold and damned

I swear to god, if anything, possessing sanity in a world of unmitigated insanity will be the trigger that finally drives me insane. Fucking irony. Fucking hell.

The more healthy&stable I become, the more alienated, alone I realize I am.
Alone and suffering.

And when it comes down to it, what good is sanity in the face of absolute aloneness? What value is a mental, emotional, and spiritual language that is entirely incommunicable? When do mere human fallibility and sheer insanity begin to bleed into each other? Am I sane if sanity, by default, is socially defined because knowledge is collectively gained?

George Orwell himself wrote that "perhaps a lunatic is just a minority of one."
[Granted, that line stems from a troubled protagonist's internal struggle to find truth amidst an oppressive, totalitarian society; the character is despairing, conflicted, confused, and his perception is obfuscated by the absolute tyrannical monopoly on truth... that is to say, the line itself may not be truth.]

Monopoly on truth... as though it were a commodity for humans to control, as though it is dependent on our existence and not the other way around... as though with enough sickening egomania, we truly become gods. Disgusting power lusting wretches.

Now belief, that's another matter altogether.
Belief is entirely dependent on human existence.
Belief is entirely subject to human control.
And belief itself is the root of all power, and subsequently all tyranny.


[The irony of tyranny is that the worst tyranny is the voluntary surrender of freedom.]
[The irony of tyranny is that the worst tyranny is the voluntary surrender of freedom.]

But sanity is tied to belief in truth, and who defines truth and thereby sanity?
The salient crux: no one transcends belief, no one is omniscient; there is only agenda; there is only those in power with more ability to influence belief. And sanity, oh sweet sanity, is owned by the worst possible demographic: power lusting egomaniacs.

Maddening. Enough to drive you mad.

And what are you left with when sanity in the face of absolute aloneness renders you as good as insane? Or what's worse your loneliness finally drives you insane?

Defy, defy, defy sanity; embrace, embrace, embrace your own wild ideals.

Bio

Call me Dorothea [it's one of my many names]. I have been kicked out of every high school I have ever attended... sometimes voluntarily [getmethefuckawayfromthosepreps], sometimes absurdly unfairly. Somehow made it into college, & incidentally attended Cambridge last summer. My IQ is in the genius range, but what the fuck is an IQ but a westernized capitalist system of quantification, standardization, & denigration of human perception, each of which holds a microcosmic universe unto itself. I got dem ol' kosmic blues again, mama, when it comes to playing slide, or blues harp, or piano; music infests my bones; & someday, you'll see my name in lights. Music calls to me... and it follows that one reckless, buckwild, rock star summer in my youth I took 50 hits of LSD [& tripped & blacked out for months on end, motherfucker; come to consciousness with no memory of where you were or for hong long or why, fight club style]. Have been diagnosed a beautifully large amount of disorders, including the oh-so famous & glamourous bipolar disorder among others. & Of course, it's all fucking bullshit -- just another one of those dumbass American trends. Stabilization is not my calling... Instability is a forte, but not a well-recognised or appreciated one... I narrowly lived through my turbulent, risen-hell, fucked up childhood. However, I am related to the Reverend Horton Heat, which could damn near compensate for the apocalypse. Ran away from home; plan on becoming an expatriate, already have been a few times. Wanderluster. I am self-destructive, self-constructive, self-loathing, self-righteous, repetitive, cynical, idealistic, repetitive, misanthropic, self-conscious, self-unconscious, agnostic, pantheistic, hypocritical, contradictory, disparate, dissociative, restless, tumultuous, brilliant [what?], absurd, & fucking ... just a girl. Too many people in too many places, I'm schismed.

man vs. god

There was no let there be light. There was just a timeless hour when vaporous abstraction, void of sentience or word or reason, deviated into something slightly more conducive to the inception of human experience. And light, the derivation of all life forms, the burning energy that doubled back upon itself into consciousness & brainwaves, the fulcrum of ferocious pink-ribbon sunsets... light, of course, remains so highly regarded among us, as our existence is contingent upon it. So the almighty Deus Ex Machina of the universe must have blessed such relevant glory with his most famous words.

...If anything, there was only a feeble human parody of Deus that cries "let there be streetlight!"

All praying to that mighty Deus Ex Machina to spare us of the human drama yet.

Never in the throes of a human’s soul was there suffering if not alone. No sorrow without the solitary confines of a single human body. There is no other inside.

Sometimes I wonder if my godlessness means I am alone; I wonder if it is my suffering. Or if it is a belief [read: defense mechanism] that really does assuage cosmic disappointment.

How can I trust in an omnipresent but invisible, uncannily humanoid but eternal/vast/unfathomable, loving but alone GOD, ULTIMATE, THE ONE?

Yet how can I subsist without it?

Man versus God: is our existence contingent upon god, or god contingent upon us?

...Nothing left but to nurse my ripped ego with lonely promises of time-ripened knowledge, incessant learning...

The farthest I ever get on the infinite path of enlightenment is a delicate awareness of something perpetually on the horizon [forever dawning, forever dusk]. The farthest I ever get on the infinite path of enlightenment is a string of trembling hopes of attainment that only shatter when I become aware of them and futility washes over; endless stunted epiphanies and consequent unrevelation. And the horizon travels wherever I go; my perception never escapes to something more, to the light.

...Starving for god-ness because of my loneliness, destroying my god-ness because of my loneliness, knowing I will never know...

Retreat to the blinding light; retreat to the blinding dark.

There's no way out. There's no reason to fight it.

Yet we all do, anyway.

Music sweet music

Blues pourin over you like a heat wave--a heat wave in the deep south, one of those shimmering and sweltering waves that intoxicates your mind with a groan.

Body
That slide dragging lazily back and forth and back across the fretboard as fluid and natural as the blood coursing through your veins.
Heartbeat: a stomp, stomp, stomp on the slouchin old wood porch.
Music infested bones.

Mind
Lyrics chilling and haunting and full of bravado and triumph, truth and lore...
A flourish of the finger executed perfectly after years of time-wearied concentration.

Soul
That wailing, unholy beauty. The painful drive. Singin always singin [whether there are feathers and angels in your voice, or a dirty barrel full of gravel spilling and grinding into the ground].

Yes, that is the blues.

The Story of a Million Faces

I've surrendered.

I've surrendered the to fact that I won't surrender; that no matter how futile, how inane & abysmal it gets, that no matter of fucking foolish & delusional & absurd... I can't surrender. I'll fucking love you.

It is fucking absurd. It's the most ruthlessly laughable tragicomedy you'll ever hear of. Heartbreak.
I applaud you, Almighty, that was a truly magnificent one. Really beautifully executed. Touching, really. Did you see how skillfully the dramatic irony was employed? She really believed him! She really did! She thought love would last forever!

Obdurate, blind, tragic.

I haven't been able to eat a full meal in days.

I'm alone.

& yet, I know I'm not alone. I know I'm no different; as insignificant as every other motherfucker out there who fell prey to those goddamned inescapable human tendencies, to the inevitable & doomed human drama, to [yes, yes, you guessed it] L-O-V-E. Blessed with the natural capacity for it.
This is insanity, my god.
My pain is the human story that has unfolded over&over&over for millennia, told & untold, remembered & lost, the story of a million faces. Beaten weary by the hand of time.
& it still reaches fresh, unfathomable depths, it still is the biggest. thing. in. the. world.

& it is incommunicable.


Is it denial if you know you're wrong? Wrong & defected & hopeless?
Is it denial if you can say "I'm in denial"?


& it will hang over me, the irrational hope. The years will go by, & I will live in triumphant dreams, find respite in the false oblivion, breathe the slaphappy delusions, until I will breathe no more.

Dropped from the Zenith like a falling star

Depravity, the Great Equalizer

I was calling it an ineffable sadness, but I heard that it was called "poetic despair."
...Depressive slump works, too.
They descend erratically, the spells, like a staggering drunk, completely unstable and untrustworthy. And completely sickening. If his fix is alcohol, mine apparently is dauntless, zealous, unmitigated self-sabotage. Makes your head swoon and reel. [But it's more fun to participate in the pain than to let it slap you around!]

And then it lifts, remarkably, miraculously, and unreasonably. And I am painfully aware that I am at the mercy of the same cosmic force that governs every single other member of humanity, alike. No different.

"Pain is worn so beautifully on other people."
Oh, if only we were all other people. Then wouldn't we be such glamourouslittlebabydolls.

Poetic despair. It must have been said about other people. I think mine has something to do with my misanthropy. My disgust at Valentine's day, at weapons of mass destruction, at Christians oozing with self-righteousness, and above all else, at this sexual, alcoholic, drug-binging, hedonistic nihilism that neither class, nor location, nor time does escape.

Depravity, The Great Equalizer.

Headlong to Doom

This is a country/western song I've been writing in the style of Johnny Cash:

Headlong to Doom

Verse One:
Red, white, & blue scars across your face:
The crest of a hero in love with power's embrace,
Oh, sinnin' saint.
So patriotic, young, & full of fight
For any god & country, destroy & delight,
No end in sight. So blind, no end in sight.

Verse Two:
Seein' stars, & stripes of bloody wounds.
No man is victorious when gunshots make you swoon
Headlong to doom.
Oh, once a soldier also was a groom;
He fell, never grew older, cried "Son I never knew,
Still in her womb... forgive me, son, in her womb."

*Dobro Solo*

Verse Three:
I roam down the highway on dirt the colour of rust.
The air shimmers before me. A mirage that I mistrust
Forms in the dust.
I see myself a shining stallion,
No scars, so naive. I sought medallions,
but no war is won--I know--no war is won.

Refrain:
Headlong to doom.
Headlong to doom.
Headlong, headlong to doom...

megalomania is sexy

[addressed to a nameless no one}

I said, “I feel invincible. Do you?” You said yeah.
...And I faltered.
Absolute megalomania looked good on you.
Usually the joy is impenetrable, dangerously slaphappy and naïve, and completely erroneous. But such is the paradox of everything I encounter—as soon as I assert its definiteness, a jolt of knowing opposition erupts. Destined to falter.
Troubling, really.

I suppose it’s just some youthful high—and it’s strong as fuck, cause it’s lasted for twenty-two years and still going strong. Giddy with life, in denial about unconcerned with unwilling to process death. Rationally, yes, of course I’m going to die. I’ve been told. But basically, aside from those morbidly obsessed poets and cancer patients and the odd wise-beyond-your-years prodigy, youth are invincible against not feeling invincible.
Ergo, delusional fools. But resilient-ass motherfuckers.

And then it crumbled, for a moment. I don’t think for me. I think it was for you. I could feel all the precious vulnerability of your naked pride, your triumphant delusion; your mortality in stark contrast to your words of might. My throat burned [threatening the onslaught of tears], vice grip in my chest, uncontrollable buckling of my knees. You will dissipate, disappear, descend to the dark of the cosmos. And I feel that, so much more than for myself; after all, when I'm dead and gone, I won't be there to miss me. That, and I love you more than myself.
And then the slaphappy, lovesick, ever-persistent euphoria took hold... ever faithful, on cue.
[Destined to falter.]

Throughout my turbulent, risen-hell, fucked up childhood, I was invincible. Against repeated, methodical, almost mechanical near death experiences; in fact, furthered by triumph over these experiences. I retreated into the mind, with the profound and awesome for my comfort. Death-defiance because the cosmos were on my side. Then daydream and wonder made way for sex drive, though pain still lingered.

And sex drive doesn’t just ignore, it literally attempts to counter death. Someone will live if I don’t—and they’ll be like me dammit[!] and someone I love even more than me[!] And it governs everything, from your soul mate to ads on TV [pin-up girls?] to the way you curl your toes. But yeah, yeah, yeah we’ve all heard that, well-familiar now… if not at least by experience.

But then even that goes away. Whether the attraction stops for you or in you. And then you’re left facing an old demon from the back of your mind, only friend, alone.  A sad knowledge that you've always had, but somehow only just now realized.
And I guess then you stop feeling invincible?
I don’t want to shake it off, but I don’t like being so profoundly wrong. Or so aware that I'm not really aware.

There's no reason to fight it.
Megalomania keeps you sane.