Rene Descartes

(no subject)

How are you feeling today? Miasma. Turning, churning, blurring. I am half-sick, half-tired, half-yearning. Whatever is forming forms without my consent, forms with its intent intact but the execution bumbling, unfulfilled. Uphill, I heave my stones at night, I drop my guard by day and let my idle wit play devil's advocate a little too well to be practice anymore. I didn't used to be this; you didn't know me before. I give up. I thought that would mean that I'd stop--yet I've started. I've only begun. (I'm just having some fun with myself--) when I'm done, remember me not. let me forget, and be forgot. let me rot, let me go back to life before humans. all the science we've mutilated with sensation and thought. I can't do this again. This does not help.
Rene Descartes

(no subject)

all around me I look, is the mess of a life left behind, lives I'm not living any more. chrysalis exoskeleton roaches or butterflies transforming, I'm in the cup they trapped me in left behind the counter, shedding shedding, shedding until I'm piled high in my detritus, feeding off my old skins for sustenance. The new things I want to be are only things I imagine in my glass cage, and I crawl crawl, push the glass further along a floor I'll never leave until the glass tips, shatters, I'm powerful in concept, in comparison, and weak weak, a nuisance to the casual observer, a disgrace upon the host. Go ahead and scream when you find me. Go ahead and open the glass and crush crush, whatever you see inside. Dust upon dust and dust, blood and guts and dreams. No dreams. Dreams were never anything but thought-stuff. Ephemeral, the closet-kept, the closest thing to spirit we can get is impulse built upon impulse. Behavior. In all these years, I've de-evolved into an insect - or realized all along I was never anything but a bug. The only will I ever had was to impart upon others. Lacking that, I'm nothing but the remainders of what I'd been. Eating itself into starvation. Struggling towards the impossible light between the cracks where all the real people live, a light I've never been permitted, seeking safety in darkness. I've never been anything but a pestilence upon myself, against all I'm meant to integrate into, represent. There is no resurgence. There is no achievable existence within an incontrollable light. Only condemnation beyond repair or comprehension beyond disgust.
Rene Descartes

(no subject)

Useless, useless, useless. Char your love into the deadened tree. (A thousand different lives I could've lived, and all, they've haunted me). A presence who never learns better than one that has to. The gossip more, the consequences less. The less involved, the less expressed (though more involved, the more impressed); I'm depressed, forgetting verses or just stuck on the refrain (so I mouth the words and hope the singers compensate my claims). Too much I'm worth to so very little, and their loud word of mouth beats the breath out of me to speak. No matter what I remind myself, it's always in the same three chords - I'm just wasting my own time & everyone else's. I'm expensive and largely unfunctional but for the novelty of having one. It's only a matter of time before something else catches your eye and I catch dust on my extended neck. I'd break my back just to forego this debt, yet no-one but hucksters and archaelogists do business in broken things. So until honest living offers living wages, I'm croaking and sparing my lungs, and hoping they sing louder than I do. Check the video after: my mouth is still moving once the sound has stopped. An applause starts, and if I glow, it's only from the lights. Otherwise you should find me in the shadows to the left of Center Stage, hand on the door, casting a nervous glance up your way because I know you saw but don't know if you'll tell. Inhale deep to speak but let loose a breath. Life was easier without a legacy, when it all ended in death.
Rene Descartes



Redundant and inactive, underfund and underground. I used to hide under tables when the silence was too loud. A shifting nervous shiftless that runs itself aground. A hole too deep, I never meant to dig - but in its depth, I'm found. Useless meter counting measures I can't pay for: not to astound, but costly nonetheless; a reproduction causing stress more than value. Paint a smile that's more true but more simplistic. Realism is cheap because it's everywhere. A reality distorted is worth more than time will share, so let the black bleed into yellow and the sunset fade to gray. The end of a day is just the end of today; yesterdays leave me less wise than before. 'Less is more', but there isn't much left. So much longing for so much bereft; running circles into a trench just to let myself drown. The end, as beginning, is no less profound but for a finish. Nobody wants to hear something repeating itself. They'd rather it talk, or beg, itself to death. So be it - a flourish preferred, I'd rather clean out on a pedestal than deal still in words.
Rene Descartes

(no subject)

I can't hold it in, can't keep it in, I'm disemboweled. The monster inside clawing, clawing, clawing, now is clawing out. My biography is sentences from another author's mouth. A speaker, just through speaking, and a talker, killing sweet silence. I was never meant to be here, no more Mondays, murderer of possibility - a thousand different lives I could've lived, and all, they've haunted me. A headless coup without violence - The Menagerie, the Kaleidescope. Autobiography that I wrote to cope with writers with their feelings more than facts wrong. Swan song, an audience like a zoo, exploded view, turned inside out, like it's ready to spew, all the things I thought I knew but I don't know. I have this shelter, but where is home? Lost, or alone, I manage. There are things that won't be that I bring in to salvage. December like March bares wind, time and time again, I find myself friendly and lacking in friends, and I hope that the last time is truly the end. You say it bleeds in colors other than red. Yellow or blue, a corpse remains always better off dead.
Rene Descartes

(no subject)

please let me break, let me fall, let me go back in time and do it all again. let me say goodbye to my friends before they each leave, doing what I want--not what I believe. wear my brain on my sleeve. my head's weighed down, like the weight of a crown. I'm a crooked king of poor reknown. some higher hand pushing me back to the ground that I crawled from, I'm sore. I'm naked and poor; I'm alone in this building--I've rented the floor. But if anyone phones, well, I don't know who for. A mask that I stitched to my face and grew in place, and I can't cut it off without sawing to bone. I'm home, but I don't know which is my door. Words that meant less less confusing than more. I'm a good metaphor but a junky auteur. A grief that's too great for the one that it's for. Honesty, nothing beyond is ensured. I can't do this--then again, I always do. I guess we're back to you being... you (except now I have no-one to talk to.)
Rene Descartes

(no subject)

Spiders left undiscovered, generations of impersonation. I used to be a person, now it's just personification. We don't do filler, except for blood between the vessels. Fat and muscles under flesh, I watch you slouch against the papers and drool across your genius because you lack a spine. It's not a change but it's a switch, nothing ever left behind. I watch her get obsessed with her own fallibility, subverting who she is with all that she's supposed to be - substituting meaning for originality. Selfish, no matter how hard I repress I can't contain me to myself - papers left askew on the shelf, music crawling under doors. Greedy, I am always the villain of my own story, and yours.
I am alone.
I am alone,
but I am never lonely.
Rene Descartes

(no subject)

Do you know what a corner is? It's made out of glass so that they see can through it; they scream at you to move as you're pressed with your back to it. I was fixing the frame but then broke the mirror. A shard shattered in the shape of a gun. I'm just having some fun with myself (it's not fun). I thought...--but then I don't know what I think. Don't know what I am, don't know what's in this drink. The truth is sad and lonely. The truth isn't interesting, or poetry. The truth is, and I'm not--we are polar extremes, and I'm scared so I'm scary, spinning nightmares from dreams. We have to move fast, because the thoughts move faster. This is life & death, gore & spirit, then & after. I ask them for "help" but they don't know what that means--I'm a mutt snuffed out by purebreds, bitten more from distant drums than by vicious intent. Misinformed kindness is more than cruelty could invent; I have to get away but it means cutting off--(it keeps howling, when I ask it why? keeps screaming, when I ask it to stop)--Hard press, and quick movement. Do you know what death is? Don't tell me about death as cancer, as war, death as a burning and ash and effigy. Tell me how you feel when you are trapped, what you think in the throes of dying. Tell me something as something other than myself, for once. Tell me more than what I am, because this is all I am--everything I once denied, all the the dusty lies, all the benevolence turned violent with frustration. It stops the breath in my throat, stops my heart a moment, makes my soul cry out in union, and I die. But then I wake up and go through the motions, without life, so I must be a ghoul. I must be. Because I must be something. [You're the only person I'd ever do this for--cut myself into whatever form was most appealing; bleed myself into the likeness of a corpse so that I could become a ghost that haunts you]. If a ghost is forgotten truth, then a lie is mistaken trust. I ask because I don't know any answers. A strawman gathers crows as it's waiting for genius, I gather the mold of misguided interpretation. I was told to wait to be found when I'm lost, but I'm ready to chew my own arm off to escape. a fool gathers experience waiting for acceptance (they can't reciprocate), journeys (they don't appreciate). You were supposed to leave. You were supposed to leave, and I...I wasn't supposed to stay.
Rene Descartes

(no subject)

an oppressive static weighs me down more than silence (I can't tell when a room goes quiet). a too-eager echo will answer each question in the same voice that it asked. suppress it like a gag; a concentrated delusion that heaves your brain out in dark chunks-- you must strain everything out, open-mouthed and gasping: drawn like a metaphor, quartered, torn into semi-digestible pieces. I don't rhyme anymore because I can't keep a beat, because I can't remember how words are supposed to fit together instead of being smashed into place.

(There's a tortured artist in me
who's very upset
that I've been torturing her.)

I drag myself back here, half-aware but so painfully obvious, as the only place I admitted I knew a truth but not what that truth meant. It thinks it knows love--this is so much more dangerous than believing in nothing. It thinks it is dying--so much more desperate than a thing trying to live. explaining with et ceteras, it burrows into the holes you only think you've filled. it takes the way it gives, a reference nobody put down the number for. it doesn't know its own strength : it doesn't know it has strength : it doesn't know what it means to be strong. for my displacement and denial, for my anger and intimidation, for my distractions, for all the things I've done to every one of you, because I couldn't accept the responsibility of the things I've done to myself - it comes back here, maybe not because it can't leave, maybe because it's afraid of what it might be leaving behind

(This is penance
for redemption I don't believe in
and never deserved.)
Rene Descartes

(no subject)

I've been thinking about it and I think I'm supposed to not be there. I'm not supposed to say anything but succinct statements. Not supposed to lead them on with false feelings and withdrawn anger. I'm supposed to smile with my lips closed because I have fangs. I'm supposed to cut it out, supposed to feel a sharp gasp of electricity before the power breaks. If they want it, they'll have to drag it out of me - have to tie my tongue to the hoof of a horse. They'll have to talk it out with a wall because I'm tired of being human so I decided to stop. I am a broken analogy only finding meaning in its own absurdity. I am nonsensical - a word salad coated in frayed dressings. Connections only I can make because only I can catch the ends of the strings. I am simple, little more than a series of lights - spiritually. Physically little more than an assortment of parts in a meat bag tied with charged wire. I'm sitting on the counter, leaking, leaving a stain across the marble. A shock of feeling between long stretches of nothing. A miracle of intent more than coincidence, and only a miracle because existence itself is miraculous. If I ever meant anything to anyone, it's a relief to know that it isn't long before I lose all meaning. I'm already senseless. If there wasn't meaning to begin with, at least it kept your attention.