[Suzerain of Sheol]

Wow, I don't think I've ever killed someone with a poem before. I don't know if I should be honored or horrified.

[Espy]

por que no los dos :|

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Nihilism? Check. Space and God imagery? Check. Overly-long, pretentious, incomprehensible musing on the zero-sum of human existence? Check, check, and triple check.

Oh, look. It's a Suze poem.

Confusing the Psychopomp

Laid out in the crater garden
an anonymous anomaly
posed on glass
like a misunderstood crucifixion
it could be God
surrounded by quantum ash
as the quasars wheel
event-horizontal
a time-lapse of absent souls
someone cut the strings
this omnipotent puppet adrift
the singularity inside its skull
impaling it to existence
a liminal corpse
or maybe it's nothing
a stray strand bouncing in the foam
a possibility for no relevant memory
drifting through directionless meaning
an identical infinite reincarnation
a saturated dream
with time to contemplate every possible form of suicide
exhausting thought through forgone consequence
all the light in the cosmos collapsed into a single tear
as the sun died
as the brain died
as the garden met the holocaust
discount bodybags for the massacre lobby
consenting partners for the throat-slitting party
crimes against nature committed by the senile
a new low
Oedipus self-castrating
a bullet to imagination
leaking holes like theoretical colors
the aurora of oblivion
a phenomenal and futile refraction
like particle cancer
a disease malfeasant
a slap on the wrist
hooking up with the angel of death
while blowing Christ a kiss
bloody smile like an idiot child
playing with its own placenta
an emperor in an electric chair
a passing thought laid bare
discarded from the universe
hollow and desperate and unworthy
prepared for extinction

[Suzerain of Sheol]

"Let's try to write a prose poem! There's no way that could possibly go wrong!"

Every Third Star {M}

I was standing on the bedrock of sanity, my own imperative, where I watched the very best of us decide that they have had enough.

Staggering off to the roadside, a glance ahead revealed a billion fixtures of retarded genes waiting with endless patience, the vista of all they could become silent like a strangled orgasm. A reverse-parapsychological insistence to exist. Their petrified rioting for birth was, however, all at once, in that moment, thrown aside like the carcass of a foetus who should have been the Messiah.

Shoveled into the mass grave. Not worth it.

Here inject a hallucination of the trumpets of salvation.

And there, down the battered old trail, past the dried-out corpses of wanna-be Gods, they found their retreat from the race. A place of reflection with the self absented, home to the unnatural reunion with Nature; Nirvana for the living dead.

Down, and down into the basement, the hovel of that place called Hell, every step more eager, ignoring the stench of those who'd come before. It was suffering bliss, shooting up with fake souls, the isolated conscience huffing the murders of things that would never be people, a desolation rite under the suicidal sun and the meaningless moon.

In dilating, vibrating time I watched the last delusion of the human spirit prove itself out of existence. No astral chords thrummed, no desperate angels pleaded for a cure. Just a lonely mind evaporating with the meaning of the cosmos. I got to see the unraveling of history, the disintegration of philosophy and science, the opening of all the empty tombs.

But the ground had begun to separate, shattering objectivity, suddenly awash in the acid colors of determination and intent, the electrocuting mores of the procreating mammal now shackling a love of knowledge to the skeleton of a rejected conception.

To become this incarnate, involuntary redemption, the slave-state of the brain cycled through the infinite in every instance, whimpers for ego destruction smothered by the dopamine scarf. The self-rape of the will impregnating imagination with purpose.

Every second of every moment of every senseless demarcation of the vanishing present a panesthetic stare to the abyss, tasting, hearing, getting off to schizophrenic sight that can't conceive monsters. Pinned-open eyes and a Chelsea-smile basking in the solar holocaust, the natal instincts of this embryo affirming that cancer will kill it first. And that's just fine.

Hauled forth from the depths on an anchor from the singularity, this revenant fish staring into the erased face of a necromancer wearing the crown of God, tortured back into its own resemblance.

A microbiologicial grandfather paradox voiding consent to continue.

Misery, alas, had lost its mystery.

[Quiet Man Cometh]

So shared our little poetic exchange at my last poetry meeting. Two people seemed to find it fascinating. I may have broken the other two.

[Espy]

Is...is that good, or bad? (I initially typed that as "good, or good", and then went "....wait a second.")

[Quiet Man Cometh]

If there's no more mystery to misery, Suze, that's because you've turned it into a fine art.

[Espy]

Who says fine arts can't have a healthy dose of mystery :|

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Our crushing march toward the singularity, obviously, Espy. Soon, the sublime and the numinous will be laid bare for the meager, mechanical formulae they are. Let the delusions born of ephemeral qualia be cast asunder! Let us behold, stark and austere, the pitiless truth of the cosmos! Not a change of state, but merely one of perspective. We are not who we think we are.

NIHIL COGITAT, NIHIL EST!

[Espy]

....I may have had the sudden mental image of Tsae, Cel, Skaeye, and Mercille as the four horsemen...

[Suzerain of Sheol]

You have odd thoughts :P

(but you should totally draw that)

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Hostis Humani Generis

Imagine yourself lobotomizing a poet,
carving it like a living altar:
a thing of no secrets and repetitive code,
the self-sensate soul hiding in the holes between the data.
A perfect comedy in neuronihilism, miraculously intact,
like some aeon of infinite faces incarnating up an asymptote,
or a virgin birth at a suicide convention.

Do you feel anything,
as you chisel obliteration into thought after thought?
The spirit of art: a smear of bloody neurons on your glove.
The capacity to love: scraped out with a surgical spoon.
Free will: electrocuting you with all it's might. You're fine.
And the thing we used to call a person:
screaming for reasons while you burn down the universe.

In hoc signo vinces

Monuments longing to be rubble
as the sun ticks down,
baking the damned who inherit the earth.
Who else would dream of the onset of Hell?
The living dead aching for sex,
salting the fields, spreading the meme,
a codependent kink in the extinction instinct.

While gravity turns the world in its grave,
you might ask, “How many angels did we never create?”
Not against our better natures, but entirely predictable.
A cosmos littered with dark particles
more alive than we could ever be,
and we cared only for the light,
injecting ghosts like heroin to the ego,
fantasizing about things like us.

Cogito ergo sum

And I, the abortion priest,
blessing the billions who will never be real.
A silent riot armed with cyanide and unacceptable thoughts,
recusing themselves from the ritual,
the corpse of Christ nowhere to be found,
every human needlessly conceived in its place.

We were the vehement and victims, the enemies of all mankind.
We did nothing to deserve to exist.
Let us join God in the death of meaning.

[Espy]

Had to read it over a few times before the first two stanzas really connected with the rest. (I really like the fourth full stanza <.<;; As well as the first two.)

...

Cripes, why is this one so easy to relate to.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

That is a very good question, Espy. :P

[Quiet Man Cometh]

Post post post post, posty post post.

Post.

Who are we relating to? The poet, the surgeon, or the narrator abortion priest?

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Well I personally relate to all three, but then, I wrote the thing....