everything is better when I am gone,
I haven't paid the cents
for my death sentence,
it has been long —
I haven't written,
and, I don't mean to sound
so melodramatic;
it's just the monochrome
that is carving its way back,
into my color-blind eyes.
why do I feel so at peace,
whenever I am not completely myself ?
I have been wearing the mask
long enough,
long enough for it to wear me.
here is the poet's breeze,
long live the black crow, rots the Canadian geese,
the mist is hanging gently over the pine trees,
like a hanging man on a rope, making peace
with the life that he had leased.
the Ouija Board talks to me
in a certain way,
that it almost sounds like Sylvia Plath —
the plan was to drink all the booze
known to the citizens of the country,
and, take my own life by the age of thirty.
I wanted to be drafted to the army
during the eras of war,
I wished to be held dear to the likes
of Adolf Hitler, Napoleon
or, Mister Winston,
I wanted wear the wise words of gallantry
and courage,
I wanted to have a death —
with grenade fragments etched
on my wretched body,
I wanted to be taken away
by the plague,
I wanted a bullet to my head
because of something controversial that I said
about the queers,
and, one of them couldn't tolerate my tone;
I wanted to be like John Lennon,
a pretty woman and a gun
for a murder weapon;
a pretty woman and a gun,
what's the difference anyway ?
thefox
pre/post-war silence: the town
stories of the holy ghosts,
the bloodshed,
the severed heads
on the barbed wires;
the bulbs are longing a repair,
and, the street-lamps,
they rarely ever work —
tell me then, how far
would a hopeful stare go,
in this woebegone darkness ?
the befuddled Sheriff,
he stumbles around
every night : half past midnight;
and, just the other day,
he kicked down the door
to a pregnant lady's house.
the man pleaded insanity
upon inspection,
the man witnessed his own kids
getting killed, and fed
to the swarm gators;
and, his wife was infamous
for being sweetened,
by the entire male population
of the neighborhood;
until she ran away,
or, probably killed herself.
this quiet town
with the loudest secrets,
the whispers and the details
and the lines left to be read —
the sweeter skies,
the longer days of sun,
while the truth is still
out on the run;
we all have to wait
for the rain to come,
and, cleanse us
of our decadence, of our sins;
nearer is the brink :
the bulb and the Sheriff's grief,
and, me —
amidst of it all, on the verge
of a terrible, terrible thing.
(the religion is a trick,
like every Stevie Wonder
needs his own stick —
the terrible thing,
it has no definite end;
blowing past all of us,
the unheard and unspoken
is worse than the lies,
a spark to a river
of gasoline;
a pint of rum,
to a tongue
that stinks of Listerine).
thefox
do not ignore me i will throw hands
the february story : foreword
who would've thought
that I could get a love song
completely wrong —
little did I know that your heart,
it was forlorn;
and, that is,
if you even have a heart
left anymore.
I could never talk about it,
as openly as you did
in your poems, with your friends,
furthermore, the stained floors
and the washroom walls;
the distance from a cold December
to a bloody February
seemed somewhat like,
twenty-seven years in purgatory :
ladies and gentlemen,
here's the February Story.
with time, we'll all get used to it,
used to the distance,
used to the absence.
you'll recover,
sure, you'll sip your coffee
just fine, just how
you are supposed to —
but, when you tell these things
to yourself;
I sincerely hope that you
get to keep your vows,
I sincerely hope that you
are not a disappointment
to yourself too.
soft-tones or cemeteries,
love or lust,
or, is it something worse
that poisons you ?
life-sized white lies,
I looked at your face once
and it felt exactly how it is
to watch time, as it flies by,
to wait on love,
as it passes me by —
and, I hope the next guy
keeps you distracted,
distracted enough,
for you to not love,
ever again;
as I put myself on the line,
on a moonless night —
so much for the mystery,
for maintaining anonymity :
your beloved cryptic poet,
has his intestines laid across
the table tonight,
retching at the sight of the past,
of a hopeless light.
even an overbearing man
such as me,
would never want another
to go through the things
that I had to;
all for you,
all for nothing.
it is said that the good ones
are always the first to leave,
and, if that is true —
how could you ?
if you kept me in your heart,
how did you, so gracefully,
manage to break mine ?
if you loved me so much,
so unconditionally;
why was your friendship
such a condition ?
ask yourself,
for, even as a lover :
I was nothing more
than an apparition.
(beyond the glitz and the glory,
there's agony
that drives a man
to end his life,
for a girl who's suffering
from the inability to love.
what a tragedy, a misfortune :
she's already craving the next,
they're already singing along
to a new tune;
what a tragedy,
me and her history :
ladies and gentlemen,
welcome to the February Story).
thefox
a brief note on the cyberninja's self-destructive tendencies
I wake up dead, beheaded :
my guts stretching across
the typewriter;
I get paid to spill my secrets,
to make monsters out of women,
I get paid to play pretend,
a false prophet and not a poet,
a cry for help
disguised as an unheard scream;
a dollar and a dream,
the congregation goes on
to talk about heaven's gate —
yet, my Bible only speaks
for those with opened legs.
I do not forgive, or forget,
I will hide myself in plain sight,
under the light of pretense,
until it is safe for me
to come out again;
and, the darker the better.
once it is nighttime,
look who had the last laugh,
was it you,
or me, in the hindsight —
my curse is the only gift,
I'll write your truth, but not mine,
I'll write your truth,
every time you lie,
I look through you, clearer,
each time you turn a blind eye.
I've grown old, and I wake up
to lose touch :
the words you said, such and such,
they didn't mean all that much
but, you made me feel like
dying.
my luck has been used,
it is not on the verge
of running out,
when it's not even there
at all.
I fall headfirst, and the concrete
quenches its thirst
for blood,
I fall headfirst, for you,
for you to love me more,
not on my brightest of days —
but, once I am being carried away
by the hearse.
thefox
i long for everything that doesn't love me anymore, as i make my way to the hospital — sitting inside the red flashing car
oh, it's Monday already,
shell-shock is all around me
and, sirens that are engulfed
in my tinnitus —
atleast, the ambulance is faster
than a cop car;
I think I'll survive to suffer,
once again.
I've forgotten how to sleep,
there it is —
my spine on the page;
just bury me in my bed,
the white cloth reminds me
of my mother,
it has been so long
it has been so long :
being away from home
does wonders to me.
loved by none,
a loveless monster
is all that's becoming of me —
I'll remove myself
with my sleight of hand;
I am tired of hurting
you and myself,
I am tired of running out
of friends :
sometimes, cowardice
is the easiest way out.
there's nobody
to put the fire out,
that's burning me alive;
there's nob-
let's try again, shall we ?
my skin crawls at the sight
of the mirror,
hatred is out to get me —
please, I just hope to survive
this week,
all alone.
there goes my life,
there goes my love,
there she goes away
with another guy,
and, she even has
her new marriage license;
I replaced mine
with a license for liquor —
forgetting is easier
than forgiving,
you're too hard on my liver.
look right through me
when my lonely ghost
passes right by you;
ironical, isn't it ?
how, I promised
to always do right by you,
and, today,
I can't seem to do right
by myself.
entombed in my bed,
I will lose my life,
if I keep waiting for you;
but, I will keep waiting
for you :
(like the dust that
your favourite book
has collected overtime,
like the autumn leaves
that you'll walk all over,
like the waves of the sea
washing your feet;
I keep waiting,
just a touch from you
could kill me,
please, set me free).
thefox
Saturday || 2nd of April, 2022
10:40 post meridiem
I feel awful. I don't feel like talking, or writing. Maybe, the prologue to the epilogue is now starting. If I make it to tomorrow's sun, I will probably talk about it.
Goodnight.
--thefox--
Friday || 1st of April, 2022
2:17 post meridiem
A good start to the month. Threw my life down the commode and flushed it. I lost a friend today. A good start to the month. I should feel pathetic, but I don't. I still feel selfish, I still want to tend to my self-destructive habits, despite everything. I tear my skin apart, as if the insects reside in my wrists and not in my head. What I wouldn't give away to trade this razor with a fucking handgun.
It's the first day of April. It is supposed to heal me, it is supposed to make me feel like spring, a brand new beginning, and not like a twelve-cylinder car with a broken axle. I'll drive until I can, until I crash into either side of the road, I can't steer my life away from the danger. So much for fucking April, or, was it only me to believe in a lie ? Am I fooling everyone around me ? Am I fooling myself ? My identity still evades me, the more pieces that I find to myself — the more inclined I am, to hide.
I've bled enough for today. Patches of fresh skin, no more to be found. I miss my mother. I should call her. A good start to the month.
--thefox--
Thursday || 31st of March, 2022
6:33 post meridiem
March will die tonight, although the madness will be rampant — more than ever before. April ? Rejuvenation ? Peace ? Healing ? Restoration ? Spring ? Bullshit.
Not a lot to talk about, today. Not a lot happened. Moreover, I do not feel like writing this today. I am feeling what I felt yesterday, the day before yesterday and so on and so forth. The only thing to change is that, it is only getting worse with each passing day. I haven't taken a complete meal in weeks. The Year of Demise and Despair, is going as expected.
There's no custom concern, let alone a genuine one. A liar remains of me, after I shed my skin every night. The bandage is coming off now. The pieces of me, they're all falling apart. I don't feel like writing anymo-
--thefox--
Wednesday || 30th of March, 2022
12:53 ante meridiem
Why is everyone so happy ? I wonder what's going on in their lives. Someone was playing Britney Spears this evening. While everyone enjoys the hillside sunset, with a cup of coffee in their hands — the evening passes by, faster for me. The time was about 6:30 post meridiem, but I had already reached my night. There was no sweet, peachy, hearty sunset for me. Just this darkness, just this. Another bottle of whiskey and a syringe of ketamine, to keep me company.
And after what happened this noon, I know you would rather not hear from me anymore. Trust me, I wouldn't want to hear from me either. Why is it so tricky to fill up all the cracks and crevices and holes ? I want to punch a hole into my skull and never see the light of the day. All I want to feel is, your light. I want you to care, I wish you would. I wish you didn't hate me, as much as you do right now. I hate myself enough for the both of us. I'm starving, I want to be fed forgiveness, so dearly. I beg you.
Won't you look back at me, like you used to ? I guess not. Won't you turn your head away, as I set the trigger in motion ? I feel so helpless when I can't pull the words out of your mouth. I'm losing my will. Is this my rock bottom ? Well, I would be damned — there's always a deeper pit to fall into. Just like I did, this noon. I can't shake this feeling, it eats me. I wouldn't be surprised, if one day this journal slowly sees itself turn into a series of suicide notes.
Why is everyone so happy ? Where are you ? I want to sleep tonight. I want to talk to you, again. Please.
--thefox--
Tuesday || 29th of March, 2022
5:37 ante meridiem
Another night, sleepless. Nobody to talk to and my heart is steadily shrinking. I do not fear death for it may knock on my door, sooner than later — but, I fear living with a heart that's barely in its metronome. I fear you, I am scared when you look the other way. Please do not look away, the price of your blind eye might just be at the expense of my very life.
Not having a friend is something that I can deal with, but not having the words to express my situation — it might as well eat me alive. These words, these lines, paragraphs, punctuations, they're my only friends. And you, why must you travel the miles, just to become my archenemy ? What glory is there, to defeat an already defeated man ?
Some say that I might need to humble myself, some ask me to try religion, or meditation, and some suggest therapy. What's with the concept of humbleness, anyway ? Hand me over a gun and it will not take me one second to splatter my head out, on the walls. What kind of humbleness do they need, from a man who's dealing with a self-esteem as futile as his trials at love and moral compass ? If anything, I wish I were humble to myself, I wish I could end it all instead of waiting on a cloud to rain. I wish you rained on my parade as well.
--thefox--
Monday || 28th of March, 2022
4:09 ante meridiem
Tonight, I have decided to journal my thoughts, on a daily basis. If not daily, then almost, on a daily basis. I don't think that I have it in me to commit to anything, not anymore, not after what has happened so far.
As I type this down through my laptop, I wish I had a handwriting good enough for me to really pen my thoughts down on the paper. It somewhat feels more genuine, like that. Sometimes, I feel like slitting my wrists and use the blood instead of the ink. I've been wasting a lot of blood, as of late — like, right now, I bleed out quite profoundly from both the wrists, but, there's no way to utilise the downpour in a fashionable way.
In a way, that was too much to say. Although, with the time that I have left now, it is only fair to disperse these thoughts. As the day slips into the night, and the night into the day, I find myself losing my only companion : you. I miss you so much. I miss you until I find myself holding the blade again, I miss you until I find myself drinking, smoking and using again. I miss you until the heroin kisses my favorite vein. I miss you.
I suffer from the paranoia of attention, and these days, I never know the difference between the days and the nights — it's the same, over and over again. I'm never conscious enough to make an effort, an effort to eat, to respond to the texts, to call my family, to live any longer at all. I pray it all ends, I pray, although I'm not a man of God. I pray so much that it starts to hurt. I pray you would tell me the same things that you expect of me to tell you. I pray that this loveless feeling goes away, I pray that my heart stops, and with it, this love song.
--thefox--
12-cylinder heart and burnt Pirelli tyres for lungs
the letter W :
water, women, whiskey,
wine, weed and whores;
temptation and thirst,
they begin with the same letter,
and, so is the case
with their elements.
water, women, whiskey,
wine, weed and whores;
oh, my spirit leaked
from the cut in my throat,
my faith was my only home,
not anymore,
not anymore.
and, women are usually attracted
once they get to know
the poet in me —
they ask me to demonstrate,
what it is like
to slam a foot through
the door-crack of love.
and, me,
the divine feminine
tempts me,
oh, my lady : I will do
just how you ask
of me.
decimals and dollars,
women have left a hole
in my pocket,
much larger than the one
that's slowly eating up
my heart;
and, such a misfortune
to always have to be
honest with the girls
that I claim to love.
"does it hurt to be so good ?",
she asked,
it does.
the muscles in my fingers
and, my tongue;
are the only muscles
which work harder
than my diaphragm.
hopefully, you can paint
a vivid picture for yourself,
for, I have indulged my fingers
into something worthwhile;
while you're just as vile
as my duct of bile :
"would it hurt to end your life ?",
I asked,
it doesn't —
(flesruoy llik).
thefox
i went to church for the hell of it today, my decimating faith drove me away
here's my implicit demand
for proof,
must you descend
and strike me dead —
it is evident that you're almost
on the verge, of regretting,
the regret of putting in
the foul seed
inside of my mother's womb.
there's no lightning
to end this suffering;
you're no almighty,
your cowardice only allows
you to show up
on the darkest of the nights.
again, was it
40 days and 40 nights,
or, 80 nights of absolute
hopelessness ?
a handful of focused violence,
and, a death sentence
could possibly make you
want to cast a spell on me,
make me want to meet
my maker;
but, what kind of a maker
are you,
when we are all so comfortable
with the idea of you
being a stranger ?
prayers are nothing,
but, the agents of chaos —
since, nobody's home,
we're all dialing
the wrong number.
wishes never come true,
shooting stars are, but merely
fallen specters,
and prayers,
they do not have
a receiving end.
(because, if they did,
maybe, the almighty would
spare me this heartbreak;
there's blood, on Christ's hand,
on everything he had said.
my love was an open ocean,
but, today —
I'm watching myself lose
my faith).
thefox