Automatic Writings

Fine Cuts

for the discerning individual

seasoned to taste, served with a smile

a part of me, as solitary as i am, as uninterested, disgusted, appalled, apathetic, about almost every one, and every thing,

i am still, quite terrified of being alone
not because of the solitude
but because i quite literally become some one
or some thing, entirely different
and i fall through the earth

Two worlds. I couldn’t even begin to describe to you the second.
One stretches and spans, wide, like a giant balloon-shaped man, pink-faced and imposing.

The heights of delusion. Ego. Queer ideas. Excessive risk. Take a stab. Where? Out there. And away (of course).


i am mostly dying inside
hoping, and waiting
on the string
head, in a noose
tends to crack the wrong way.
intense fear, cavernous feelings
trying to feel better about it
while holding onto the edge of my seat
sitting backwards, gripping it
rush when i think of the precision in which i may describe this
rather, the desire to do so
as precise as i can be
it will alchemize
giving birth to something, an unknown creation
i shall never know

i was digging into myself, and pulling up things i didn’t know
looking back it sort of feels surreal
and i do miss it
and when all my writing is about myself, how can i escape the desire to change it?

oh it’s true i was wound up, wiling in my own way
slaying, on the top of that hill
living in a fucking cloud
those hills
the sky stretched, beyond comprehension
stuck in it
still barricaded
but on that mystical hill
im so far from it now
it doesn’t even seem real
and everything around me now feels like death

soon ill be on my way
and while the (worldly) circumstances have changed (for the better)
im no better off for it
my life feels like it’s always coming full circle, but this is an illusion
(i know that portal, there’s no need to go around it)

but the world’s in the mood for more scars
celebrating its wild thoughts
solidifying them into the population
it knows just how much, how to arouse, how to titillate
every article, a psy op
every talking head, a professional fake
but it’s no conspiracy, no means to an end
other than your own unseriousness, dramas, and turmoils

your emotional routine, is mapped out on their drawing boards
it’s just a matter of dressing up the words, to play on them for the day
your mind? it’s the same as theirs
and in playing themselves, they play you

psychopaths calling each other psychopaths
mainstream media are mainstream cultists
perusing twitter is like swimming through an ocean of cults
ways to think, what to think, how to feel
my god, you guys just can’t stop it
when’s your next dose?
swaggered dogs think it’s becoming
and i can only think
what have you let yourself become