Tyler Durden told me once, after we had fought, that death doesn’t punch a clock, so it’s its own boss. I say, my biological father died at 31 when I was nine— I barely cried. All the paradigms vying for time in my mind made it hard to unwind. Got angry inside until I watched Jonathan Demme’s Something Wild. The catharsis arrived at 18, manifest in the guise of Ray Liotta’s bad guy. All the hate I had kept stored in muscle memory released during that first mid-life crisis. Escaped edifices of stone; now I roam with felines behind a pale horse, utilizing John the Baptist’s skull as a vessel to quench my thirst and proclaim my will. Technology’s a social malaise. I know it puts you ill at ease, but I’ve traveled through many centuries and galaxies. Here, in reincarnated form, I’ve been brought to my knees by emotional pain. No, I don’t know you and I don’t love you. How can I love someone else when I hardly love myself? So I forced omni-presence on both rich and poor. What a drag, to be clad in a destiny softly cloaking the graveyard black. Walk the Queen of Hell’s path of tantric sex, as ultra-terrestrials laugh at mankind’s feeble attempts to reify the quantifiable array that history’s weight displays; it is a tangible trait.
Somewhere a UFO I created flies.
Somewhere a UFO I created dies.
Putrefying a phallic death in crone’s eyes, weeping lilac soul of mauve tones frescoed on grotto walls, shimmering under a lunar grove of Spanish moss and silvery decay. By the words that I save, I can gauge my fate; manipulate ontology into more than 4 planes.
Twist the top, pop a squat and let’s talk. Unpack the third mind, see its fats fluids and salts. Add an electrical charge and watch the Ego become the lies it constructs.
A knot in my chest, a burning of skin, in the end no one wins; just more grist for the mill. Diminished dreams and aging piano loops affect a limp like Keyser Soze. A small part to play, limping away… No kids. No keys, just a bar stool called home with a gold plaque; engraving on it says, he sat here a lot. Sat here a lot and let his life go to pot.
A knot in my chest, burning skin, my voice vibrates a nourishing sphere around an offal intent of blood bone and flesh. Viking quests to know thy self. Let the bland taste my sword, which is my word and the bond to never status seek. Become who you are there are no guarantees. Drinking mead with impassioned souls like me, passing thru life only to expire in funeral pyres of dissent against corrupt keepers of fours; encouraging us not to explore exalted states beyond corporate memes hemming us in to positions low on the food chain. Yet as a species we possess free will wasted in the swill of dollar bills. The advice of this song: sometimes you gotta say fuck the sun, leave the solar phallus at home and hang out with gnomes eating beets. Kiss your spouse on the cheek, rub their feet. Keyboards fly to be free of the beat, unchained from the drums they become melody.
Bare bones, the anima returns the prodigal son. The princess takes the throne. Checkmate pretty hate machine, find comfort in this critique. Show adult and feminine mystique in the personal Qabalah that you speak.
© James Lee Van Horn 2013
Born in the thresholds of dial-up and hypertext James Lee Van Horn, aka Teenwolf, stalks the Rust Belt as a trickster and a pundit’s worst nightmare. Nourished on the teats of Maybe logic and ontological graffiti he searches for the silver bullet that will signal his PERICHORESIS.