i wonder

how nice it must be

to only battle yourself

but i am tired

of everything,

of everyone

of every word

reused, recycled

into another work

and i can't help

but feel

it's all the same

i am uninspired

by myself, by others and

their blissful bullshit

i'm my own demon,

my own heckler,

my own obstacle

but i wonder

how nice it must be

to only battle yourself,

i wonder what it's like

to still have sickness

and health

because my battle

has left me

with nothing.

1 percent truth,

   Knees, Chrysanthemums.

Give me more

         my face is numb.

Tatterdemalion-

Forgetting the things that were my own,

Missing them now, 

           the more that they become.

Ministering maw, 

my foreign paroxysm.

If no one understands-

             it has no weight

On the corner, cuffed, late,

Absence of what

Missing luck's fate?

Rain or valor's devising to devein  

             or just a realization you can't stay the same.

The Feelings are more important than the fool

Greeted with lore, shaved and lured

Overall it's better to have an enemy

           Never have to take that knee,

Death wafting obloquy

about your pathetic life

Youre constant lie 

            that you are free.

Oreendall pail lonter slooou

Callertesing potoninf-woo

Just make one up

Underground scaled and masked

Clawing, rank, Draconic Abomination

Size matters not, make it a nation

        You can twist the dial

        but cannot

not ever,

change the fucking station.

Chains, I keep around my air

It's mine, it's mine, 

It's mine 

is all I hear

Intrinsically trying to mime

Phantasmagoric leper pill

chased with a line

pointing any direction, 

silver-retribution-recovered-time

but it was never mine

Never had a say

Nothing that is complete 

              has ever took a breath

Or went my way

Arrogant! 

Hovering lofty above the fray,

Deleterious commiserates 

commencing to obliterate

absquatulate the squatter's dream

Just a fence about a folderol 

Clean sheets and some sleep 

             that is all

Give to love,

love,

     dont seem?

We fell in love in the war

             and something in the ether stirred,

honoris causa-

Yes, my lord.

homo homini lupus

and  everyone says 

        the fang's, 

        the cure?

All the world was made from naught?

Nothingness? Crowing now in stock?

If tis true indeed,

                    Then nothingness is trying to peak

                    And naught appears to have sprung a leak.

- o f f e n s i v e s l u r s -

❝ ＳＯＭＥＴＨＩＮＧ ＴＥＮＤＥＲＬＹ ＨＵＭＡＮＥ ＳＨＯＴ ＦＲＯＭ ＴＨＥ ＵＮＤＥＲＢＥＬＬＹ ＯＦ ＤＲＵＮＫ ＭＩＮＤＳ ❞

⚜

HE GRIMACED AS he made his way between gyrating bodies, cringed as layered sweat came in contact with the bare skin of his palms.

It was intoxicating, the air, clouded under marijuana blankets that pumped along to obnoxiously loud music. Something thick and desirable swarmed over him, defiantly stuck in the tousled reserves of his dark hair.

And the scent of unadulterated sex and straight Vodka encased him.

He had managed to let Lucia coerce him into attending the post-grad party for St. Kitts and Nevis High; which was a feat his cousin was abnormally particularly proud of.

Seniors were half clad in clothes, letting slip the milky flesh that bore freckles and inky tattoos; each showing off with practised ease.

This was a subtle type of beauty. Something tenderly humane shot from the underbelly of drunken minds; spilt darkened secrets into ears now open – but in the tired daylight of the morning would soon be closed, memories long forgotten; done away with.

"Izzy, my bro! You came?"

Lucia McKenna was one of those unfair people. One of those perfect people that played football outside of school and was bound for success in a good sports University. He was one of those people who had friends outside of social media that loved and adored his every move.

And worst of all, he was one of those charitable people - those nice people. The kind of people that were hard to hate, because they were just so good hearted.

Isaiah grinned in what was admittedly shameful glee at the pure mess his cousin looked.

One hand was curled around an empty bottle of Heineken, fingers pressed red and knuckles drawing white with the force he was clutching at the glass.

"Yeah, unfortunately. I had nothing to do since the flat's empty without you. Hey," Isaiah made wild gestures with his hands, letting his teeth chatter. "It's brick in here."

Lucia howled with unnecessary laughter, drawing unwanted attention from passers-by and nearby drunken dancers with dripping, yellow eyes. Isaiah thought the boy looked like a madman instead of a respected member of society, but went with it and giggled slightly.

"You've been hanging around those Empire Staters far too much, dear cousin of mine. What's the camera for?"

Isaiah glanced at the camera that was nestled on his chest; out of harm's way - and shrugged. Lucia's words had been unmistakably slurred, the syllables rolling over each vowel and slipping off his tongue in earnest to escape his mouth.

A mouth that no doubt tasted of dried vomit and Heineken swirled in Vodka.

"The school needed a relatively cheap photographer, and I'm their guy." He tried not to gag mid-speech as the unfiltered residue of tequila and tangy vomit invaded his senses.

The hall was a hazy mess of spiked punch and predigested drugs, and Isaiah spun in slow circles, tried to take everything in through the lens of his DSLR. Tacky silver stars made of cheap tinsel grew down from the ceiling in waves just short of brushing everyone's heads, the floor was a bleached hardwood birch coated in teenage desperation and sexed up fantasies.

So, Isaiah pushed the black hair from his wet forehead, all things the school would have a fit over if they saw.

He turned the camera, peered into the illuminated gloom as neon light filled the screen. In the far left corner, behind glass tables filled with trampled food and lined up bottles of pure spirits, someone had hung a line of obnoxiously green string lights that wrapped across the wall.

A fort of blankets, chairs and pillows had been diabolically planned and made up in front of the lights, where empty souls lay.

If Isaiah stepped closer, he could see from the camera's slight glare the discarded bottle of tequila they had all gathered around - like it was some sort of statue to their god.

A slight shiver trickled down his spine, and yet he continued on to the group of swaying bodies, watched as glowing green eyes gazed upon the spinning bottle.

He sat beside someone he didn't know, ignored the blank stares.

Isaiah realised he didn't know any of the gaunt faces and sunken eyes that glared at him.

The bottle spun.

It stopped.

On him. The glowing green eyes watched on eagerly, watched as someone stepped from the inky darkness that had surrounded the fort, watched with hints of amusement and disgust as that someone was a boy.

All of a sudden Isaiah's camera hung heavily in his left hand, and he lowered it to watch along with the other empty husks.

"Sinclair, you're not actually going to kiss the faggot, are you?" A husk spoke.

Isaiah hid behind his veil of thickened hair, frowned, and chewed on the inside of his cheek. He wasn't a...he wasn't gay. Something along the lines of bi-curious. And yet that didn't stop him from watching the stranger advance, towering well above everyone else that was standing.

He was dressed in simple cashmere, a black turtleneck and dark jeans that bore enlarged holes; showed off the milky expanse of his thighs and rosy hue of his knees. He smiled toothily.

Isaiah couldn't help but think it was the most gorgeous thing he'd seen since the corpse of his Mom's evil cat, Mc Puddles.

Isaiah didn't know what was happening, all he heard was his heart trying to escape from behind his ribcage, all he felt was the way his fingers gripped onto the tanned skin of his arms. The scent of blood, copper-like and pungent, was the only thing stopping him from ripping the flesh to threads.

"Hey."

The stranger was blond.

How Isaiah had missed that, he didn't know. The blond bordered on a sort of white, a platinum mop that had been trimmed at the side of his ears but left to gather delightfully in his face. The hair obscured the boy's eyes as he grinned lazily.

"Sinclair J. Mullaney, at your service."

"Oi, Mullaney that sounded fairly sexual there, mate. What kind of service do you offer?"

Sinclair threw a finger in the direction of the voice.

"Fuck off, Howell."

Howell - Dan, Isaiah's mind supplied - made a noise of contempt, spread his lanky body across some other dude that was busy on his phone. Dan's hair was a decidedly nice shade of chocolate brown.

Isaiah was very aware that he was just sitting there by the left hand of the fort, pressed against pillows and soft duvets; held under the intoxicating spell of Sinclair Mullaney.

"You do understand that we have to kiss right? So it's only good manners you grace me with your name before I brutally attack your lips." The blond had a drawl that blurrily resembled Lucia's drunken slurs, husky and deep that reared from his chest.

Everything was moving too fast.

Isaiah stopped breathing and stayed that way as scents of fresh pine and musky rainfall enveloped him in an icy hug. His mind whirled heavily as cold hands, soft and sporting fingers the length of oceans, gripped the space between his throat and his shoulders.

"I - Isaiah." The raven haired boy managed to spit out. At least he thought that was his name.

He couldn't have been too sure with the way the world was spinning around him, swirling at his feet and sliding over his skin in brisk brushes of reality.

Sinclair seemed to be an ethereal being in this state of mind, the scorching heat of his ivory skin, free of blemishes, not even a freckle or birthmark dotted the pale flesh, was messing with Isaiah's body.

"Isaiah." The blond exhaled ashy scents of smoke and a world full of Vodka, his grin spreading slowly across the eves of his face. "Isaiah Fannet?"

The heavens fell.

His heart stopped midway up his throat, and Isaiah suddenly felt cold. The fact that Sinclair J. Mullaney, someone he had never met before in his life, knew exactly who he was, was something short of terrifying.

Fingers dug into surface veins of his neck, nails dipping into soft skin and drawing blood to the epidermis of his flesh. That beautiful grin was now all gaping hole and hot, tepid mouth, glistening teeth winking like ghostly eyes in the dark.

"Isaiah Fannet, basically Isaiah the Faggot."

"Isaiah's Fanny." Stressed laughter. "As if Sinclair was going to even touch his gay mouth."

The husks' whispers were quiet at first, barely above breaths that drew like feathers across his cheeks, but they soon grew.

Isaiah couldn't breathe. His palms felt sweaty and far too small as they tightened around Sinclair's wrists.

Laughter swarmed him.

The blue haze of freshly smoked weed drifted in and out of his vision. Fingers stuck into veins, and soon Isaiah was screaming over the chants. It hurt, it all hurt and he was starting to wonder when God - a being he hadn't believed in since he was 12 - was going to take him.

He was filled with flashing eyes, gaping mouths and grins that split faces into jagged halves. His heart stopped. The world paused.

Were breaths meant to feel so short? His head was a murky temple of waters that convulsed and arched, a temple in which his thoughts went to die.

And his body a prison in which his soul begged to be free of.

⚜

the weight of fatigue of push and pull 

i tear my clothes against the steel and plastic 

that harnesses the course of my life

to which i yield

we think so modern and so we are 

by standards of the age of stone and stick

but in terms of pain of outcome are no different

our ancestors of that age

our turn, 

our weary muscles, 

our tendons burn, 

our nerves buzz, 

our joints ache, 

the force of nature is strong

it will never change

i reach for a drink at end of day

the push and pull go on without release of hold, 

no free of grasp to it 

as i reach for more of the same each day 

the chatter 

the clatter steeped in countless matters, 

its a wonder the overload doesn't tear our hearts apart

or does it?

i find myself in a stupor in the morning of that day 

followed without mercy by the night 

into which i plunge,

to the moving treadmill of life

i am broken, 

i trudge, 

i fall, 

i crawl

the treadmill drags me away

hidden tears of grief restrained 

take their toll on my soul

pain of helplessness of the pain 

the thoughts in my head are pierced, 

assaulted by jagged bits of sand and gravel, 

shards of glass cut and hurt my thoughts 

impede my work at hand,

my urge for peace, for rest

is insulted by the fiery darts, so disguised 

are hurled by the foes that surround us unseen 

while angels fight, help us resist 

while measuring the scene

i fall 

and fall again 

and rise 

and push and pull, resist

every weapon i have,

employed, 

still, 

fatigue weighs my thinking down, 

the onslaught is unrelenting

fatigue makes the assault stronger

hard on mere flesh and blood 

i would otherwise be forever destroyed 

as is for some, 

parts, or all 

no one goes unscathed

perplexed and vexed 

i am distraught at wit's end 

i fall again unsure and fragile, 

my heart can't take much more i know

i must walk, limp or crawl another mile nonetheless, 

make it to the end of yet another trial

among the previous millions from the start 

to my present life, 

in this world,

in this time 

in this age

with everybody else

i must make it to the end nonetheless,

somehow

despite my wounded beaten heart

and anxiety called fear

until he said:

My presence shall go with thee, and I will give thee rest

i heard this morning at the start of another day

Mind Riot...can't think of two better words to describe where I've been since hearing the shocking news of Chris Cornell's untimely passing. It keeps replaying in my head: "Candle's burning yesterday, somebody's best friend died, and I've been caught in a mind riot." Chris was inspired to write those words for his late friend, Andrew Wood, and they are sadly so relevant 26 years later.

I never knew Chris Cornell personally but it sure as heck felt like I did, considering he wrote the soundtrack to the best years of my life. He expressed what I was feeling in my twenties so eloquently with poetic imagery and edgy dark melodies, the likes of which we will never see or hear again. My Chris Cornell soundtrack to life played for well over a decade, with parties ending in the basement of 92 West Street in Albany, NY to Soundgarden's Spoonman and Rusty Cage and culminating in my wedding day first dance to Sunshower in Montreal, Canada. His loss is tragic and incomprehensible to me on so many levels. As the elder statesman of the Seattle rock scene, he had emerged from his darkest days of depression and substance abuse years ago, to become what we all aspire to achieve in life--a loving husband and father, a philanthropist, and yes, still a true rocker in his prime. His latest release so clearly articulating the hope he felt with the Promise, one "to survive, persevere and thrive." He spoke of an historic nation emerging from genocide just as he emerged from his personal struggles to become the man he is today.

Chris Cornell still is that man. We all share in the responsibility to celebrate that man and his legacy. Forget the medical examiner's report, which reeks of pharmaceutical industry interference and political coercion. This was a substance-induced momentary failure, a horribly clouded decision borne out of frustration and irrationality. Vicky knew him better than anyone in the world and her incredibly poignant open letter to her husband only confirms that this was not intentional nor premeditated. She and his children forgive him. Therefore I owe it to Chris for all he gave me to respect his memory in only the most positive of terms and refuse to call it suicide. I owe it to Chris to promote his prolific contribution to rock music as the greatest songwriter and vocalist of our generation. I owe it to Chris to work to create awareness around the severe side effects of benzos and other "legal" substances. I owe it to Chris to pick up my guitar and Blow Up the Outside World with every E and C chord I can muster. Only then perhaps can I somehow escape this Mind Riot...

The music box sat on the shelf for years until he walked in. It had big brass turning key spouting organically from the intricate carvings on its side, and was tied shut with a white ribbon. Subtle dips and twists in the wood caught his attention, especially the design on the lid, and he reached out to feel it. A layer of dust clung to his curious fingers.

“Do you like it?”

The sudden voice in the seemingly deserted antique shop nearly made him jump out of his skin. He snatched his hand back and looked around guiltily. “Yeah,” he squeaked, and the stupid high pitch of his voice made him feel even more embarrassed.

But the person who’d spoken was an unassuming figure, short and bald as a cue ball and dressed in shapeless gray clothes. A little name tag clipped to one lapel read Mo in large letters, with a smaller Owner inscribed beneath it.

Out of deeply ingrained habit he tried to peg Mo as either a man or a woman, but came up blank. He felt his cheeks redden even more when he realized that he’d even tried.

“It’s all right,” Mo said kindly. “There’s no rule about not touching the merchandise. Although, for that particular item, I have to ask you not to open it and look inside. What’s your name, if I might ask?”

“I’m…” He looked down at his sneakers and shoved both hands deep in his jeans pockets, still blushing and adopting the sullen slouch he always sank into when asked that question. “… Allison,” he muttered.

The shopkeeper paused, head tilting to one side in contemplation. Then in a lower, conspiratorial tone, Mo asked, “What’s your real name?”

His skin prickled and he came out of the slouch a little in surprise. Warily, he asked, “What are you talking about? Is this about my hair? Because girls can have short hair these days.”

“Girls can,” Mo replied evenly. “But you aren’t a girl. That box wouldn’t have drawn you like that if you were. It’s… special.”

Ordinarily he would have kept scoffing as a cover, but a feeling of relief was bubbling up in his chest somewhere behind the loathed C cups. He blurted out, “I was thinking Dylan.”

Mo gave him a small smile. “Then this is yours.”

The shopkeeper reached out, took the music box from the shelf, and tilted it to a better angle in the low light so he could see the carving. Although he could’ve sworn that he hadn’t felt any kind of pattern a moment ago, there it was in elaborate curly letters: Dylan.

“Take it,” Mo urged. “Never look inside. Every night before you go to bed, turn the key three times, open the lid without looking, and spin around the room counterclockwise until the music stops. Then close it and go to sleep. Do this for a fortnight and it is good luck.”

“What happens if I look inside?” he asked skeptically, but still he reached out to accept the box.

Mo put it in his hands and shrugged. “That is bad luck,” the shopkeeper replied simply.

Later that night, he couldn’t believe he’d really taken it. He also couldn’t believe he’d gotten it for free. In the dim light of the antique shop and covered in dust it had glinted a bit, but at home all polished up and in the direct light of the bedroom lamp it shone as though inset with abalone shell… which probably meant it was expensive.

He felt silly following the shopkeeper’s weird instructions yet, he found himself turning the key before bed. Averting his eyes and telling himself it was just because he was curious about what tune it would play, he finished the third turn and opened the lid.

From out of the box poured the smallest and most perfect music he’d ever heard. It was simple and true and it wrapped him up in a warm feeling and spun him in circles. Twirling like that in the middle of his bedroom he should have felt like a little girl trying to be a ballerina, but he didn’t. He felt like a guy being clumsily bad at something but not giving a shit because it was what he wanted to do. The music seemed to whisper all the things he’d needed to hear but always been afraid to ask for, gently giving him permission to be himself.

It felt as though, after being constricted all his life, the invisible bindings were ever so slightly beginning to unravel.

When the song ended Dylan dutifully closed the box without looking. Then he crawled into bed and used his smart phone to google how long a fortnight was.