Colossal weight of being

Spaced out visions. How I hate the corporeal clacking of plastic words and computer keys. Yet the mad dirges in my head drive me to a frenzy: anything but the numbing madness of my mind - I would rather bear with the bicentennial artifice of silicon pixels and scrapped knowledge. Beggars cant be choosers.

Sometimes I think that the world has already ended, apocalypse come and gone, and I am still in limbo deluding over my own version of what should have happened. The proverbial petulant child, with her pouted lip incessantly complaining about how things did not go the way she would have wanted. How the stars and sun must be realigned to suit her needs, and why should they not. My silent reproach for the Almighty. I have done nothing - literally. I have never screamed, never broken hearts, never delved into passions sans regret. I have not yet lived.
"Whose fault is that? "
Still, I demand my chance to ruin, to self-distruct, to finally and for once make my mistake; some colossal, all encompassing blunder that shakes me out of my silent, serene stupor.

Truthfully I have been robbed out of my chance to fatally fuck-up. I have listened to the arcane idiots of this world and been a good girl. I am now blank, thank you very much! I have yet to conquer my milestones, have done nothing of any consequence and the world is ceasing to exist before my eyes: politely clapping its doors shut, folding itself away and neatly shelfing itself in some dark, damp and lurid corner of some distant nebula I am yet unaware of. Hoop La! "Well sorry dear we’re closing soon, folding out of business. You’ll have to fuck-up some other time."

But I demand this one thing of whoever or whatever in hell is up there, or down there or somewhere in between...who really knows. I demand my shot at my mistake. Fuck the random propensity of incoherent thoughts and images. I curse my inability to scream and rage, and so I silently wait for the torturous tides to pass my being.

Basically I am bored, my idle musings, my narcissistic meanderings… are all backhand consequences of idle, impervious, merciless time. Quite perplexing - am I glad it’s over, or terrified that its about to be and I haven’t yet gotten any of my ducks in a row, haven’t done all that one is supposed to do in this life?

Then again what is it that we are supposed to do? What is the purpose of our ontological dilemma - this eternal dance back and forth between who we "are" and who we are "supposed" to be.

“Being” is bloody hard enough.

The Ballad of an Evangelist

I sprawl the gallows of myth galore
Singing my sacrament through selfish folklore...
My grown up childhood
My defecated Deities.

I fade through my feast of fidelity and fate,
Seeping through the cracks of my past into my father's arms of peace.
The demented demon, clawing at his own hide.
The sodden Fairy of misplaced dreams.

A marriage of bicentennial conquests-
My father wore an executioner’s mask and wrote poems.
My mother bound in diamond chains, sang Thorn bird odes.

"I" the trinket of festive glory
"I" the subsidial ornament that told their story.
"I" the priestess of Forbidden Forests: Fame and Fortune.
"I" the pirate of Past and Present: Persecution Pitfalls.

My father cemented the cathedral walls with hideous heresy
My mother painted pristine ponies of freedom.

My honorable bloodline-The Emir's of Amputation
My Ancestry...
"I" the Evangelist Puppet.

THE JESTER

Puppets on strings
Dangling, jangling, strangling…
Every drop of sunshine, every note of music, every dance of love

As people laugh with joy, the puppet marvels at their stupidity
Do they not see?
Do they not feel?
Do they not know?

The helplessness of being the effervescent pawn,
The jester, the joker, the chameleon, the clown…
The agony of happy faces, of cackles and painted laughter
The abject misery of manufactured beauty
The illusions of “life” created, reiterated and dissipated by lifeless holograms

Are they blind?
Are they deaf?
Are they dumb?

To ignore manufactured mirth,
To wallow in hapless joy
To be taken in,
by a toy….

How the cookie crumbles

There are times when I try to vindicate my existence by coming up with obtuse algorithms for why I am the way I am. It never helps trying to explain oneself, because no matter how hard you try sometimes there is no stamp of approval. You remain un-sponsored, faced with the choice of caving in or going it alone on the beaten path.

Somewhere along the lines however the Gods turn and grumble.
The corpses and critics tumble.
And I alone, stumble along my solitary path to self-righteous self discovery.

I pave my way towards rebellious right. Oh! How I pray I was a bohemian flower child singing my redemption songs of freedom.
But I fumble- the world will never be ready to tolerate flavors so exotically opulent.

So you remain silent.
Silent and still.

And that my friends, is how the cookie crumbles.

Gospel

Permanent scripture of facile truth
Acrid rapture of forbidden fruit
Demonic duplicity that trumps angelic favor
Divine seeds that reap sardonic flavor

Savior of souls
King of Kings
Lord of Lords...

Eternal survivor of perils untold
Cosmic puppet master, idly waiting for your script to unfold
Lonely child of your own creation
Angry father by your own vocation.

O' Magnificent orchestrator wielding your flaming baton
Seize your liar's chair of paternal deliberation.
Grant me MY shred of hope in YOUR game of perdition
In your paradox of justice- YOUR unblanced balance...

YOU make the rules
YOU roll the dice,
YOU spin the board
YOU tweak the price.

Why am I here?
Fumbling along YOUR forest maze of unanswered questions.
Why am I here?
Stumbling forlorn in YOUR quest for acceptance.

Eternally ignorant in your theatre of vaudeville vindication...
What is my purpose, Dear Lord?
Why am I here?

For YOUR lowly, cheap thrills?
For YOUR cackles of sodden laughter?
Admit it, your Grace!
I am here because YOU are lonely.

CHECKMATE.

Madness that has siezed me

What is this madness that has siezed me, this inpenetrable force that has permeated my normally sensible cerebellum and eclipsed all reason. Why am I clumsily clacking at hard plastic cubes to state something that can have absolutely no consequence or bearing on the larger scheme of anything, in this small world.
"Why the sudden urge to express yourself, Maria?" To lay your mind bare to cyborg marauder's and float in cyberspace abyss. "Are you really that lonely?" To set aside your calm pencil and ash white paper, to turn to treacherous technology for ill-found solace. Are you really that lonely?

I suppose I am that lonely.

Spartacus

They look to me,
My band of "merry" mad men...
"Oh, lead us deep into treasure troves of truth, dear Galahad".

My ego and I,
we guide the guides
As I set sail to my Never land of nuances
I venture forth into Sherwood forests of feeble will
My lost boys and I.

We walk the yellow brick road to an Oz of our own making,
Our own colloquial Camelot
Our asinine Avalon

My Ruby slippers turned blue
My faded delusions burned true
My Pegasus prairies of hope;
Hear my hymn Beethoven
Pass on my shield Sophocoles
Mirth on my way Tinkerbell...Pixie dust all the way.

Indefinite pause on my doorstep of bliss
Athena cease the dance of the cosmos
Be silent dear Sancho; wait by my side
As I face my demon- Peter face your shadow.

Goliath to my David
Brutus to my Caesar
Hades to my Zeus
Balthazar to my Gabriel

Epic battle of truth in deceitful shadows
My own Sodom and Gomorrah
Be still my knights of table round

I have waged my war- I have killed my killer
Have no fear-for I shall lead you to glory
Have no fear for I shall lead you there...
You see my friends
I am "Spartacus"