Headlights

What we want is to be an individual. And we go through great pains to attain that individuality.

Like when it's dusk and the sun is setting, and you're stuck in the peak hour traffic.

Several cars around you have already turned their headlights on. But you refuse to follow suit. You wait awhile until YOU think it's dark enough, instead of relying upon what other people think "REALLY DARK" is.

I mean what does that say to you about yourself, if you just turn your headlights on when other people do it?

They would call you a sheep, that's what. An obeisance, meek, follower of trends.

But what if it gets really dark? Who cares about individuality?

I'm going to have to turn on my headlights anyway. I don't wanna die because I crave the feeling of being special.

But no, you love that feeling. Okay, let's reach a middle ground. Turn the lights on, but slightly later or earlier.

You can't turn them on too early though, they'll think you're a nutter with the headlights on at 4 pm.

If too late, then you'd be driving blind, unable to see anything.

God, but this is a terribly important decision.

Never mind that 80% of the songs you listen to are listened to by millions of others around the world, the value of which is corroborated by charts and album sales.

Never mind that you delete jokes that don't get enough 'thumbs up's on your social profile.

Or that entertainment television has inevitably monopolized your conception of aesthetics, telling you what's in and what's out, while you tell yourself you don't really believe in them, but at the same time you feel embarrassed when other people don't conform to these standards.

All of those things don't matter.

What matters is that when you turn on your car headlights, it's because YOU want to. Not because other people are doing it too.

My Pearly Gate Was A Car Wash

Died in a car crash.

I had nothing when I died. Everyone left me to scrap in the junkyard that was my last few years of living.

Everything except my car.

My car stuck by me as I ascended into the clouds waiting for Accountability and Judgment.

I drove up the Stairway to Heaven. I wonder how many people ever got a chance to say that.

It was a wonderful feeling. That lightheaded feeling that nothing could do you any harm, or even more so, the feeling that you couldn't do any harm to anything.

The exhaust pipes spouted clouds instead of smog. I drove through layers of clouds, and more clouds, and more moisture and more soapy suds drenching my car shiny.

And then there were cherubs - handy with a cloth and a container of polish wax.

My car was getting the VIP treatment. I could see it slowly coming into sentience, its headlights for eyes were more alive than they ever were on mortal Earth. It grinned with its fender for teeth.

"This is it, Michael! Best day ever!", said my car.

St. Peter was waiting at the gates. There was a queue. People waiting for their turn to find out whether it's oblivion or God's Dominion for them.

"Hey, Ford!", St. Peter exclaimed. "Vroom on in! The sky's yours my sedan friend!"

I smiled.

Until we reached the gate and I was asked to step out of my car.

"You were a blasphemer and a murderer, sir. I'm afraid we can't let you in"

And there were suddenly no clouds below me. No solid surface to stand on. I was falling.

Falling.

Jesus fucking Christ.

By Your Leaves

She crept into the valley,
With her hands across her chest,
"I am now awoken,
By the scurry of the pests"

She took my hand and told me,
That I am the one she needs,
As the wind and sunlight,
Smirks at the scene and heed.

We never die from sadness,
Only the action that it breeds,
Embarrassment scares us,
But only ignorance defeats.

And the sound of hurried man,
Play on across the ears,
Of calm and complacent boys,
Who's counting down the years.

To when they'll finally see the world,
And say "There goes my girl"
"The one I'm going to marry"
or "Bury with her pearls"

The earth is only thinking now,
For whatever I should be,
A simple wall for every thing,
A floor for those whom are free.

Or for the captured bleeding men,
In chains they trudge along,
I don't need your sacrifices,
Your blood is not my song.

But yet we slay in perpetuity,
Yet by your side I would love to stay,
For eternity.

'Cause trees will sometimes make a fuss,
And fall unto our knees,
Entrapped by all this nature,
And freed only by your leaves.

The Press.

Such a pretty thing to have a reason to feel sad.

Or the wisdom to be mad.

Or the slightly bloody pretensions of sacrificial relief, half-tired half-glad.

While wars go on for miles around, why can't we hear that awful sound?

Headphones. Wear them.

Sphere is what cocoons you and what continuously binds them.

Your deafness.

This is not a call for help.

Or a wake up worthy of two seconds yelp.

This is an elegy.

An adulation.

Oh, such a beautiful thing to have a reason to feel sad.

Instead of having to feel sad for no reason.

My prison.

Rewirings

"Doctor Chaucer, the robot needs you in the emergency unit."

The many footsteps that reverberated throughout the corridor got closer and closer to me.

It was a group of Fixers, claiming to be of the best assistance to me, or that they will be.

I pushed them aside and told them, "He only needs a jolt. I don't need any help."

It was a hospital that housed all types of sentience.

The robots and the humans were sitting side-by-side in the waiting room.

Medicine was a field that went beyond organic beings, but now involved the study of any one with a consciousness.

Basic robot anatomy. Human heartbeats. Robot rotors. Every med student needed to learn the basics of both.

I was a Fixer. A colloquialism to refer to Robot Specialists.

I walked into the emergency unit, expecting it to be empty. But 'lo, a man was sitting by the side of the Robot, holding his hand with his right hand, although the other hand busied itself playing with his hair.

"Both of these people look like they need some serious rewiring", I thought.

Paper Flames

There is a silent harm emanating from those disarmed,
Tracing jet-streams to the monocle of the Man alarmed,
Shooting blanks into the caverns of what once was charmed,
Fields lay unfarmed.

I can't make you love me, Mr. Love Me,
I can't make you stay. When the sphygmomanometer grabs you like the octopus of assistance you suckled your pathetic alien mouth on.
Long gone yesterday

I creep into the crevices of the atoned,
On my own, burying bones.

Destroy the man in khakis,
Later on the man in jammies,
Of empty words,
And loud refrains,
Come hither to these paper flames.

Send the messenger into a pit of cuss,
Or better yet invite them all with lust,
There is a hole they'd like to fill,
With angry men on madder pills.

Fucking snakes, fucking snakes, fucking snakes, fucking snakes, fucking snakes, fucking snakes

Extra, extra READ ALL ABOUT..

Let's gather round the sewing ring,
A thousand echoes of a thousand things,
Of people who can't listen to anything,
But the sound of the midget in'em,
Fidgeting.

Of newer oldies,
And moneyed shame,
Come hither to these paper flames.

Lying about Lying about Lying about Lying

I lie on the marble floor, thinking about words and what to do if they decide to haunt me in my sleep. What to do if what I hold inside suddenly decides to speak to me.

That all I am, all I ever smile about, and all I ever cringe at, becomes the many shells of which I become a shroud.

And then I think of chameleons. I think of it changing colour. I think of how people think they do it to adapt to their surroundings, when half of the time, it's merely a reflection of how they feel.

They're not teenagers trying to be part of the cool clique. They are reptilian beacons.

They're the guys who can't hide their "happy"

And the fair who can't hide their cheeks when it's coloured cherry.

You are...

Your sense of humour,
The reason why morning is a misnomer.

How can I possibly be mourning this morning,
When jokes about calamities,
And laughs about atrocities ,
Make me giggle when I'm yawning.

Because I just woke up.

Not because you're...

Boring into my soul, like a piledriver,
That British singers croon about,

When they're not singing about sleepy towns,
Or whores,
Or when attractive mothers of which you have an affection,
An American exception.

When vampires go out on a weekend,
And colloquial slur becomes the new trend,
A colloquial slur that makes things clurr, (I mean, clearer)
A colloquial slur I've never said before in ways sincerer ,
Before I...

Met you, I haven't even,

Confined by walls that call us heathen,

"Do you wanna go to hell?", they enquire,
And you mock them with your love of fire.

Lie. Coz that's what the word sounds like if your name was abbreviated. Simplified.
Some are pronounced "Lee", Unfortunately.

They call it a suffix
The suffix in Helplessly, Hopelessly, Inevitably, Early, Daily, Nightly, Sweetly, Madly, Hilariously,
But I don't want you to be put Simply,
Really.

I want your many skins. And no that wasn't a fat joke stint.

I wanna be..

The company in your sleepwalking dreams, the antiseptic to the cuts you wake up to on your skin.

I'll hurt you too, there's no doubt,
But only like the occasional cigarettes that you'll eventually put out.

I want the space-time fabric your atom leaves as time in letters and sentences passes.
Past tense, present tense, future tense, mildly tense, intense, pretence, sometimes not tense at all.
Your Aderall, your thoughts like trippy coloured bubbles in a painting, possibly by Chagall.

I wanna hold your hand better than any 60's hit,
I wanna make the cogs in your heart spin a thousand revolutions per minute,

Like how much I think about revolutions per minute,

Like the thrill of kleptomania in a small homeless street kid,
The way a toxic mind doesn't quit,
The way you make me smile like you did.

This is probably not R & B at its best,
A very Jewish attempt at being Mr. West.

Or maybe just to be your glasses,
And to be the lens you talk about when you're in your classes.

Coz then I'd be with you,

And literally,

Everything else will just be scenery.