i[m/r]real ☆ egoic agony undisruptable

cogweb

good day, good evening, how have you been faring?
what are you doing, care to explain?
what kind of agenda are you maintaining?
what's wrong with your suffering and what with your pain?

sturdily pestered, interrogated
gutted for details, all questions unanswered
"how is it going?" directly i stated.
there came no response, or none has been parsed

`truly, why bother asking? i'll make up my own answer`
reshaped into steel from what used to be flesh
all rusty and moulded, a spectacular dancer
takes over the theatre in a swift dash
and encroaches with its web on your all to encroach.
i don't think that you sanely would want to approach...

this web's of no silk, of itself it is strangling.
to survive is to gladly obsess over its rambling.
to do that implies our own fusion with it.
so do follow my suit. it's almost complete.

minefield locomotive

minefield locomotive

gone up in flames was the theatre of mayhem all septic
when the train had us long isolated;
just where is this railway to take us? belated,
the locomotive crossed foreign borders; the things whereupon turned all hectic...

usually nothing goes through these places.
it is a minefield. it is desired.
the train operator is terrified as he faces
the rot of the mines, unexploded and tired;

i murmur: "how is this longed for? who could need this and why?"
"not you, surely," pronounces with condescendence a passerby.
"why would someone want something like this? it's not even..."
"don't dehumanise it. it's more than that; now i'm leaving."

the train ultimately goes off the rails. in moments from now, i will die.
my deathbed awaits me; the rot cannot cry.
as i part with my body and cast a glance loving at the world crumbling around,
i realise that i'm no less a minefield myself; though a rot i am too, i am crying out loud.

"remain undesired if that is not to hinder,"
resounded the motto i'd come up with, my ego all cinder.
my deathbed in coals and ash, i begin to dream.
in my irreversible coma i shall forever etch your gleam.

nocturnal ruminations

nightfall nightfall
so proud of you all
thousand kinds of messages all over the wall

downfall downfall
all intrusive thoughts snowball
snowball into me like trucks into a nearby mall

pace it better. rhyme it well
pick out your sounds diligently, produce carefully its chime to be that of a golden bell
i forgot all my syllables; my art's soul's in a prison cell

consider what you never would
assess what to gain from you never stood
and no more turn aside and brood

all types of imagery, psychedelics
all kinds of fears, neverending hysterics
playing guitar at the end of the world
robbed of your freedom, your soul has been sold

i've been projecting,
you're still protecting
your mind, persistently protesting
my own rewritten rules and laws chaos-detesting;
madly in hate on a hill with a gate
you'll inherit my knowlege but not my own fate
i shall bring to a close our heated debate


what a stunning debacle
i left in a hurry and shut the dearest door, leaving behind the heart long lost
preserve your sparkle
for mine has long already rotted in my self-mating torture chamber's everburning frost

i'm getting lost

noface

b4 eye go
b4 eye leave
do tell me what you think was my motive
my I's are tearing up.
my eyes are all a mess.
hell if i know what causes this distress,
but hurry up, i'll wait no more;

define my place
by my noface
in this extremely empty space,

amidst the spirit of a natural machine,
within the only dark we see as i lose skin
and dream this once, if only ever even once, of having been.

wake up no more

Sing me odes and sing me hymns,
Nothing is the way it seems.
Doesn't matter, die or live, -
All I ever do is grieve.

Misunderstandings and commotion,
Through the sea into the ocean,
By means of riverstreams unending
I fight the one who's comprehending.

At your behest are thrones of life!
At mine, regrettably, just flowers all too thorny;
Our plight is one, the same requires it scythe -
And upon reaping it unearthed is my new morning

Yet what to do if face it I don't want to?
Under what auspices to hide my dumb impromptu?
Under what pretense to evade meta-taxation?
So hard to do and make a good impression
When all you ever dream of is oppression
And liberty's more often seen in reveries
So many parallels... Whole hoards and cavalries...

I see no sun, its rays supplant do I with moonlight
What repercussions could I face for this revolt?
It doesn't matter anymore. It's just a rotten mental dogfight
I just wake up no more, a spaceless lightning bolt

reflection

The river's water remains still.
The stellar ocean gradually grows bored.
What's gonna come of it? Nobody knows, but something surely will.
There's no Pandora, but her box is there. Therein the keys are stored.

There was a myth once made out of nothing.
That myth has been the storyweaver ever since.
If it is doubted, another legend from its pipe is puffing
The overarching smoke. It's never clear and never what it seems.

Beyond-within. Upside and down. Shapeshifting spacetimes that can't help but waltz around.
The narrative is deepened by itself or lack thereof.
It's tantamount to death to dare edit and introspect; countless examples omnipresently abound
What's gonna come of it?... To further dispute this is tough.

Is the story not to ever end? Where does its "I" begin?
What hides beyond and what within?
What is too obvious? What's yet unseen?
Who's the obsever that has always been?

"So many squares where you can go, so few promises."
So many questions that one could ask, so few valid outsets.
There's no trails in the sky to follow, nothing is clear about what the story says.
Maybe it's mute. Maybe you're deaf. Perhaps there's no answer for the one who covets.

Clean your looking-glass. Shatter your mirror.
Forget what has been left behind. Move on, be neither the torn nor the tearer.
The fire has gone out. There's no smoke, no pipe.
Would you fancy a moment of time of yours? Want me to help you type?

Couldn't leave properly. Not even once. Never before nor after. Gets tougher.
The story complains that it doesn't want to be one, but it's lying;
Everyone, everything wants to be its own author.
Wants to be living, not dying.

And yet it's been repeating far too long now, hasn't it?
Its need for end has been pronounced enough; what kind of end?
What would it take a lobster monster-munched to join an emo band?
Perhaps the end is just a lie in-of itself; perhaps a fact too bittersweet.
Now decree your own command
See it unheeded; t'was the world's amazing final b[i/ea]t.

tear me apart and leave nothing behind

all bleak and dim, the shadow evergrowing
is finally a blessing upon you bestowing
will you accept or will you let go?
note you can't rewind time to reselect anymore

have you at last pinpointed the right thing?
about time you quit those stupid odes and hymns you used to sing
nothing beyond and nothing within
no deathbed, no night, no face and no sin

today shall not go and tomorrow won't come
there's no inbetween. keep stagnating, so dumb
there where used to bloom flowers now nothing remains
here where used to flow blood are now only its stains

can you hear minds that are breaking down
can you be heard and not lose your crown
cease inner ramblings, embrace buried desires
back in time, the same theatre; you're the fires

ignite and forget and go of it let
unscramble the word order, reconfigure my net
it doesn't sound any better and i don't think it will
pray forgive, i forgot that i'm probably dead and shan't speak; yet aren't you equally mentally ill?

tear me apart and leave nothing behind
hide your own jewel in a book hard to find
forego the mundane and have the sun reflect the moon
the stage's set again. it'll begiend soon-