Hieronymus

I.

Tragic dying mess, an endless flow in the veins of the mind, we spill forth unto the world, crushingly. We are a blur, the smallest invention, lost to indifference, and what becomes of the stars and the world fixed perfectly between our infinitesimal eyes? Our thoughts are worn, conflicted, and idiosyncratic—melting and blending into the abstractions of memory in the form of repeating devastation. Oh, how the mind churns on itself, inwardly, never capable of capturing the infinite reaches of life! We are tired, yet we are always moving, and there is nothing in the sky, and everything is already here. Everything is already made, waiting to be destroyed; repeat, system. Decay holds so much consecrated beauty! All tangible things of tragic lust and abusive blood, lost explosions we can never see, lost exploding hearts we fail to feel. We sense the loss, and we asphyxiate in ambrosial arches, bending the mind beyond distant dreams, carrying that ephemeral disease of subconscious oceans of colors! We cannot control our erratic hearts, our nasty little habits that flow with temptation. We experience the void and all that derives from it. Lascivious feelings, invisible touches, and false promises, chiseled deep in the symposium of fading, desirable dreams. Is this our only world? Are we surfacing from our abandoned and quivering bodies, in its own fortress of nothingness, never reaching past dying angels? Can we burn? Can we trace starlight scars? Can we finally become and make one less singular error in common places?

II.

We keep the darkness in us from every pseudo-heaven we’ve ever created, some sort of hellion connection. Then, an unbelievable trance happens, a glowing, pulsating enigma in the mind! The darkness is like an all-consuming cloud, tracing futuristic opportunities in the wake of forgetfulness; that blurry and fuzzy fog, like a cellular fountain! We can surf into these new states simply by shutting down (make sure all the lights are off). Then, the darkness may disappear and open up a grand illumination, in warm welcomes. Sharp, pounding respiratory systems increase, alive and here. In dreams, still present in the state of now, the past becomes a sad and lethargic ghost which we can still feel, somewhere inside our fleshy grey walls. Our minds are heavy, and we sometimes want to destroy ourselves and welcome back the darkness. Dreamcatchers are greedy little things.

III.

Our words carry on, unperturbed and ethereal, thin echoes in meaningless measures. Apart from our words are the visuals of words, distorted along the surface. Random events, particular in this mess of the raving melt of dreams. Violent phases, alarms, chases. Fireworks. Sharp hems with new feelings, maybe a lover without a face; skip to a better place that we always wanted to be in. Our heartbeats are familiar, exciting. Expressions and emotions are all wrong (no one may care about you). Sometimes, we surprise ourselves with that thick thunder in our soul! Troubled youth, over time, finally revealing itself, and then we are tested in this world. Briefly.

IV.

Lover, lover, lover. Our orbits of desire, in a mixture of skin and flesh positions, just right, but only from the inside, a psychologically inversed fiction. Trickery, the self is an animal, and fantasy is a sick word. A wandering trespasser in the void of the mind. We make up my own warm fixtures even as nothing makes sense, and we are forever lost to the poison of the porcelain skin. We are a trick, a flick of the wrist, a couple of seconds longer, and ejaculate into the flush. Nauseous steam, cloudless, and even more broken than ever before, still sickening, still draining out completely, stirring in the mess of a pseudo-eclipse! We have ruined our minds under the iridescent lights that still flicker in sick waves of baron emptiness. What dismal voyages! What a sinking self! What are we truly after, spinning down, always spinning? Don’t forget to wash your hands.

V.

In speaking of sickness, of indifference, of uncaringness, the way we move away from one another, like absent magnets. Of all hemispheres of the mind, of the landscape of reality. Of the distance between us and the stars, of ourselves. We worry in concubine-thinking, like fire, ageless, caving over time (or without time). We are not eternal. We are hellish, ghostly, and exist in ephemeral moments in broken time, in a blink, on the verge of nonexistence. So, on indifference, it is not that we don’t care, it is just that we can’t keep carrying on this way. Have we really given up? We’ve already made up a world because all the world is a dream.

VI.

We do not belong to the sun, to the mystifying enclosures, the bedazzling sphere. Our nights are simply made of the tears of the false self. Serpents and other creatures howl to us at night. An underground chasm; worlds within worlds below the skin. We do not belong to ourselves, even as we stand on the ground of the dissonant world. Euphoria and memory and everything else firing off to the remedy of the fantastic! Do fires have any true meaning? A combustible delight, our shadows fade with the sun, growing cold, blending into the darkness.

VII.

It’s hard to write about the sameness in the form of ever-changing abstraction: the shapeless nothingness of hope, enduring. Great daggers of the mind cut us every time. Our vision blurs, our breathing is rapid and frantic and disappearing in silver disappointments. And in ourselves, a hollow crevasse with missing pieces, stranded in earthy miasma. An indolent, somnolent mechanism with no purpose. With empty eyes, we cannot see past the darkness in our dreams. In habits and conditions, in wild bloom, haunting and withering and dancing like fucking electric! We need to see more of that transcend seed in the ether of actual meaning. We make up a lot of the self-inflicted isolation of the world. Colorless thoughts, all pointed to the desolation, all with the turn of the cheek, the hark of the tongue. Shun, shun, shun! Everything is intense and colorful in the mind, but most colors are not real. Our ears keep ringing, intensely.

VIII.

A panorama; the neon exhalation spins in wild memories, in wild dreams! All that junk twisted in us, gripping our complicated ideas and ruined passions. Derelict motivations, fervid trembling of the soul! Great hues of despair, with demons, close at bay. Our haunting abyss, stirring in our own consequence and filth! A panorama; the turbulent twists and turns that crash into us like bad ghosts with sad expressions. Mirrors are grave inventions. Is your shadow not enough?

IX.

So, we shun the world, and darkness tastes just fine on our idiot-tongues. The nothingness sits well in us, so why are decadent thoughts always so close to our weary flow, our endless departures, lasting beyond the wake of us. We are the error of seconds. Everyone wakes up, infinitely like dreams. We are the sorrows of counterfeit legends. We are next in line.

END.