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My Muse is Bipolar

It comes sometimes, inspiration, in fits and spurts, short starts and abrupt ends. Other times it flows like a raging river and must be dammed or run out of control. My muse is bipolar; and just like that the faucet is turned and the flow of words stop.
Let me catch these last few drops
before they swirl away uncaught
to join the main stream
which is thought.

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Staring into space

Unfocused and Unbound, staring, not seeing.

There is a distant space that grabs at my attention, pulling my sight towards it; through my Eyes my Soul flows. Out, flying Out to meet my vision’s gravity, pulled out of Here and Now drawn to invisibility.
My Eyes are magnetisized. Seeing; traveling so far out that I return through the back of my head. Always it is quicker to retrace the light years than pass through my mind. Inside is more distance than all of Outerspace, Innerspace is far more of a vacuum. So much empty area; floating, gently colliding and rebounding.
A dark maze with but one end: down the rabbit hole to the fields by the river Illeism to the mountains against the stars, the land of frost and forest to the tip top where the still lake is a silent mirror. Up here there is no wind, up here the only sound is the sound you bring with you. Shout and the lake shatters the stars and you fall up to meet the broken pieces of the sky to fall back again to a plain surrounded by cliff walls. You awake to where you were all along, the Here and Now, only you have been absent, on a journey light years away to the edge of the universe where it bends back on itself and you ended up lost in your own mind and only just now retraced your steps.

It Ended

It ended
Not in flames or fury
In silent agony.

What was to have been
Was
And then ended.

You thought too much
And said less.

You thought you said
You never said.

And so because
What was was
And then ended

As Bukowski writes

I can feel it building, damming up in my head, ready to spill and thrill and destroy and, and, and… I was reading Bukowski today, probably not the best thing to be reading. He has a way of making a good day bad. Not the happiest of people but that is what makes him so compelling I think, here is somebody who has it worse than you, who can make your good day shit and you love him for it. Says something about you doesn’t it?

All these double letters in the middle of these words which are completely meaningless and what was I saying?

It happens sometimes, after a long period of no text, of a blank page and a full mind. It happens that all these thoughts build up and overflow into one-another. The girl I am fucking, the girl I used to fuck, the dog and her bad habits, the job I don’t have or the one I do. Till it becomes one big ball of dog-fuck-girl-job-fuck-etc. In my head and NOTHING makes any God Damned sense. She doesn’t like it when I say that; God Damn. It bothers her, as if God listened to me and would personally damn that which I condemn. As if I haven’t fallen out of His sight.

It’s spilling out of me now, into my fingertips and onto the page. A giant ball of damned thoughts and forgotten essays on the vulgarities of a meaningfully meaningless life. And if that makes any sense to you than you are worse off than I am and better for it too.

a bit o’ whimsy

I looked to the sun as it rose.

I looked to the sun as it set.

I looked to the sun and I asked of it,

“What precedes your coming and your going?”

But the sun did not answer, the sun did not know;

It’s ancient rhythm set long before it’s existence.

So I sought to chase the sun,

I went to seek  it’s resting place.

Now I am there before it rises

And there before it sets.

My own ancient rhythm set long before I existed.

our arrangement

Stupid Me

Stupid You

Weren’t  Supposed To
But We Did

Stupid You

Stupid Me

3:00 AM

It’s three o’clock and all is not well.

The half imagined sounds of ghosts and ghouls send images of nightmare skittering across your mind. An empty house in moonlight is an unsettling place, it is better slept through than be awake in, but sleep is elusive when your brain convinces you of impending horrors.

Images, stills, grainy half-remembered scenes from scary movies prey upon an overactive imagination. As a child you could throw a blanket over your head and it would all go away, or at least it couldn’t touch you. Whatever “it” was.
As an adult the word IT brings to mind Steven King and that brings up a whole host of unsavory thoughts and images.
As an adult you just lie there and calmly tell yourself that it’s all in your head, that everything is fine and nothings going to get you.
As an adult you can’t hide under the blankets and you know no matter how much you whisper sweet nothings to yourself “it” is not going away. “It” is going to prey on you, eat you up and steal your rest, your sleep, your peace, your sanity. Your just a tasty morsel on a feathery quilt-top plate. Prey for the irrational fears of three o’clock in the morning.

Sweet dreams; sleep tight don’t let those bugs bite and pray that you can get to sleep before “it” comes for you.