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i am the dissident poetician...i tear down fences with sardonic sardines and metaphysical cucumbers

Friday, June 17, 2016


Self-immolation. A not so uncommon vocation these days. For those dissatisfied and disgruntled in each and every way. Such new age bliss shit is tied to this transcendental. Urge to escape from things of this world. Desires pushed under. Surge forth without faith, what rings in your ears. When the earth's been blown asunder? As we start to wonder why we filled that jerry can full of petrol. Lightning and thunder in the mind that barely was in control. Always drifting off to better times promised that never came. Sun rays lifting up rigid rhymes which sound the same. Syllable counting, pressure now mounting to flick that match. Can you smell that gasoline blended with human flesh? No turning back. As the well of dead libertines beckon you to become more or less. A martyr for all those who never quite fit in. A brother whom his siblings liked to spit on. Unable to see any redeeming features in humanity. Though we are mostly free, we keep receiving propaganda like it were the truth we speak. So, do we reap hell's invocation, follow through with planned self-immolation? Done with political intent perhaps. No amount of wealth or preaching on commercial TV stations can hold back such pivotal dissent, and please, no hats allowed. For fabric does not burn quite like flesh burns, leaving a mess. Not so tragic after all as the wheel of time turns to the left. To reveal a method to the madness. Like monks shifting the focus to their own burning flesh. In order to protest the insanity of the Uncle Sam/agent orange blitzkrieg that kept producing yet more dead. It's the ultimate statement to set one's own skin and bones on fire in an act of finality. Sticking one's middle finger up to a cruel, uncaring reality. A world that shits on us all and laughs all the way to the well filled to the brim with the blood of innocents. Now condemned to earthly hell: life force removed by the hands of those who do truly smell. Because they've stuck their heads so far up their arses. That they delight in bringing about misery and creating a growing mass of cadavers. Generals calling the shots as young boys stand frozen in their assigned spots. Ready to turn the enemy into toast at their masters' beckoning. Using up excess energy from the narcotics the government has been feeding them. So this is the picture that we keep painting over and over again. Even as we evolve, we keep tainting the legacy of progress. With acts of state sanctioned mass murder we can can't morally defend. Now, the question beckons: to flick the match or not? Of all the lessons we've learned, we're sick of our collective lot. Condemned to be spectators. In a never ending reality TV show about terror. But the truth could be our crutch and saviour. To set us free for ever after. There is much truth in the burning on one's flesh. It's a big "fuck you" to a sick sad world more or less. The collective karma of the West. Always thinking we are the best. So flick the match if you must. May your soul be released from the dust of the aftermath.

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