my adenoid shakes hands with the devil

Cut, cut, cut, another line again, to the pit of hell, to the adenoid within,
You feel its power, burning desire to control your every word—or lack there of,
To hold your feelings hostage by its chemical devices, the weapons you hold
To fight off the tumultuous terror, you can smell your fear, only help to mask
The real disguise: original sin, for it is not your fault you’ve become what you are,
It is genetic, heralded as perfection alluring another’s lost soul, it is hereditary, you
Tell yourself at night, this is not my fault: but then, who’s to blame? You seem to think
That the justification is in your suffering, you’ve come so far with it, so far it seems to be
Without the medicine to cure the ailing cry for a cartoon freedom, the howl for a smooth
Transition to the next world, a scream to enter the place where all will fall at your feet,
As though you are some junky Jesus, healing the sick while riding the horse along the ranges
Of retreating stars, and although there is nothing to say while the play continues, the harvest
Of sadness has died, and the elation of the fabricated emotions pushing their way through your
Thin, dried, aging skin, helps you forget all in all this is what you are. Another victory for the
Elixirs, another loss for immoral purity.

these barricades can only hold for so long

Your oasis waits for you, beckoning
For you to come along, join the skeletons
Dancing inside your head, your diseased head,
Filled with vertebra longings for a sordid dream,
The loquacious mumbling ghosts within—
A sullen victory of the senses, to leave, leave it all behind,
To the end of the world, deadly and smarter, faster and slow,
Again you falter when they mention the words of above,
To crash your opium den of fools, singing along with the range
Of stars, the heavenly music of the spheres chiming
In the conversation like a rugged piece of cloth, brittle
But sturdy, fragile but strong.

Do you not see?
The aquarium thoughts you’ve felt creep under your felt skin,
Do you not see?
The aural pleasures of a future dark and dreary as the day
Of your wedding, when all went as planned, and all was lost to
The raging storm of havoc, surprising the bride with the empire
Of your own fabrications, so now, where do you go?
What do you not see?
The sea’s waves shimmer and shine, while skeletons
Dry in a closeted sandy dune.

hallowed hollow anesthetized

Salvador Dali

insulin coma

Broadcasting over the radio, to her,
Alone in a crowd, portraying the human
She used to have been, tranquil, emotionally
Adhered to supporting the War, reasoning
The walk in the dark, stepping on dried
Leaves crumpling inside her brain,
She takes a walk, for the earth is shaking,
And she wakes up in a shaking panic,
She can not feel,
Senses only pain, but acutely aware
Of her senses, twisting the objectivity
In the science of mental illness:
A function of the state, driven by affectations,
And rage,
She can feel her bubble poked,
The reason why she’s hiding from the
Piercing stingers, claws and beaks,
Seeking to devour her liver, Prometheus,
And the god’s singing in mercurial relevancy,
Pushing the boundaries, disguised and thrown
To the filthy green sea, where there are no birds,
Only aquatic sadness, and lonely dreams
To come, when she finds herself alone,
Listening to the radio talking directly to her,
Referential ideas, rockets of professional
Doubt, screaming across the maddening sky

each with a specific desire

The play with time was so uncanny…an alien time seemed to dawn.
--schizophrenic patient



Throughout the ward, patients, each with a specific desire, talked incessantly of freedom; some from the physical constraints of their captivity, some merely from the shackles of thought. Suffering, yes, of course, but madness itself is an escape, and if not a dismissal from their institutionalization, then at least the satirical fantasies of the morbid dream bends the world, shaking away the empty cobwebs so adherent to the passersby, worshiping their logic, denying the pain of understanding those hidden from the world inside box cars racing through tunnels, discovering that there is more to this existence than the pounding pressures of modernity.
These men and women speak in foreign tongues now, disguised in atypical methods of dissembling the puzzle pieces, breaking the picture, holding the gold; they wait, in verbose chatter while the nurse makes her rounds, delivering the chemicals to straighten them out, to put the world back in perspective, to see the falsehood transparency overlying the truth of insanity.
Psychosis, a dream in which they could not wake up, and feel the cycling of the sun piercing the sounds of lucidity, an insomnia of the soul. The plague of consciousness pulling downward on their brains, wanting so badly to reach out and place God in light of their suffering, but they simply laughed in hysteria at the distortions of their senses.

Paranoia

Together we swarm the bee hive,

Poised to sting, to puncture the

Thin skin of the collective consciousness,

Where all lies dormant, needing not

Pinning one’s blight upon the

Mosaic of veracity’s pompous virtue,

To befriend the loneliest shades of grey,

And fall into another gyre, twisting and

Rapidly firing neuron after lugubrious neuron,

Into the brain of the communal whole,

Catching insanity as if a bee keeper,

Selling us as if we were commodity,

Bartering for a beseeched request to leave,

Depart from the under-current, and live

Forever above the languidly rotating wheel,

All while the eye watches us, seeing

Emptiness of these times as though

It were a comedic affluence,

All and all, all for Them.