keep worshipping your idols. praise them on your bruised black knees with bleeding hands and torn red nails. lock yourself inside your room with nothing but your soul and blues, stacks of books by men you love and women you admire. beating rhythms to whispered words, heaving lungs so violent your ribcage bursts and shatters. do this. do it all and then again. then go to bed. sleep it off. your worship of the ocean–deep is precious but don’t take it all too seriously. perfection is a heavy burden and these immortals are already weighed down by the stones above their graves. “seriousness is an accident of time. in eternity, however, there is no time. eternity is a mere moment. just long enough for a joke.”



you’ll find better ways to die. a snapped slit neck by the hands of one you thought to be a lover. crushed jammed throat and shattered pieces of your skull. a nudge and side glance by a set of eyes reserved for friendship. no, child, chain those maddened thoughts of yours. put them back where they belong. you are too scattered and too in love with everything. alas. who knew that would be the way you’d go?



so then next time you slam your post–rock in your ears on that train of drunkards after nights of selfish disappointments, take the time and listen. blast the noise and concentrate. do this for me. listen to the echoes between your ears and how it vibrates within your skull and how its ups and downs grow louder like a chanting wolf climbing mountains to the skies. do that and now remind me of that thing you said about the sacred. about your violent rejection of the holy and your
forceful need for curbing of the mad. but this time do it with a straight blank face. this is the night, this is its woes, this is what it does. and?

i didn’t think so



twisted ankles broken bones. men with sharp thick razor tongues. I can breathe again but forgot to close my eyes. blinding lights on pacing patterned streets. familiarity. see what happens when you dare to stay behind? you're a futurist studying the art of optimal illusions. I'm no one in particular and I study your hands and eyes and lack of words.

reason on a limb again. too much headspace. you better keep it on a damn tight leash. no one's a hero. remember that you fool.



here it is, the world you made. white cold native land adrift beneath your eyes.
but you left your heart behind this time. somewhere by the ocean, a thick grey sky of winter damp and narrow streets of carved crushed stone. foreign tongues. beating drums. did you know they wrote a song about you? a world within your grasp and someone’s heart between your fingers. but you don’t care. trash their futile desperations. their peasant minds and hearts of snow. you can’t relate because you’re trapped within a world of forms. an escapism to abstraction or whatever else your mind decides to forge. impostor. false humility on a shallow drunk display. but I only name–drop corpses. russians lost somewhere in exile, a frenchman pierced in bleeding shatters and some german in a frantic panicked craze. you know the one. a man whose words have turned to axioms of which no one knows their source. that’s one way to immortality, no? not too shabby for a man who died in frenzy. 



stockholm, last week, blinded. southbound streets and cold cracked empty hands, a piano–playing man of words within a past too deep to swallow. now fever dreams are keeping me at bay. life on hold and anxious. how beautiful it is, no? how beautiful and precious and how easily demolished. and you did. of course you did. what else did I expect.