OverStimulation////////////////

OverStimulation////////////////

Thursday, November 30, 2017

Untitled Collection



Untitled Poem No. 5

The lungs are a tired machine.
They take in smoke,
and put out lies.

Is there a cure for wickedness?
Is there a single being without vice?

Let me weave some words to
mend you, dear lungs;
let me give you relief.

The leaves fall to the earth
every year, and become the earth,
to give life back to the trees.
Likewise the the bird’s bones
give way
to make the bird's eggs again.

Even the most distant comets
fall to the sun
to make it just a wee bit brighter.
So breathe, dear lungs.

Take in reason
and put out  the absurd.

For there is no cure for wickedness,
or a being without vice.

Take in free air
no matter the price.





Untitled Poem No. 7

they say failure
lets you learn
and loneliness
makes you want to speak

but i've failed plenty
been lonely
and never learned a thing
or felt compelled to speak

so then,
shall i simply
make everything work?
shall i simply seek
the greatest company?

come close, ancient poets
come close, wisdom that eludes me
teach me your way with words
fill my heart with the lightness
of being

"fuck you" the poets say
"get a grip" reality agrees

fair enough
that's certainly fair enough

suppose i'll try another path
the best ones are too dirty





Untitled Poem No. 11

far away 
but not too far
there is a moon called Rhea
every day 
the light of our star 
shows the way from here to Rhea

I think I left my heart there
even though I've never been
I fell in love with a distant light 
I think
after I hit my head
falling
I felt my head hit the ground
and I looked up, far away,
upon Rhea, the distant moon

and she said, "I watched you live and die a thousand times.
I've watched the trees grow a thousand feet and burn down,


and you can still join the light."

aaand when i woke up
the n urse said her name was R

R what?
i said

"R," she said
"General said'n you took a shell 
in the trench,
screaming, 'Rhea, Rhea
please fix me.'"

so they sent me there with cannonfire
and i wnet far away





Untitled Poem No. 38

here, take this flame
let it light your mind
and home
and stove

let this fire 
into your heart
so it can burn away
your ill intent 

trust me 
this flame came 
from ancient trees

ancient rain
could not kill this holy light
I hand you now
there is no devil 
deep below 
there is no reason up above

take this flame
and light your own sky

make it so
none of our flames die





Untitled Poem No. 63

laying here
among the wires
the condor considers its prey

but it knows
you can't eat a spark
despite how hungry you are

so it looks on 
beyond the wires
flying high on golden wings

up there, far away 
an angel sings
sweet slumbers to hungry birds

"sing," the condor says
as the angel looks at the sun
"it's already singing for us,"

she said
"but if you're hungry
feast upon the tears of the ear
feast upon fear."

and the condor got
z app ed
down
to the 
sp arks
where we lay





Untitled Poem No. 57

what happened before time existed?

well, something made time.

fuck knows if we'll ever figure out
who or what did it
but it's done

the best moments,
like stretched strings,
build tension and snap

and when those moments snap
what are we to do?

stretch new strings
make them sing
and if nothing else,
use dreams to become a king

god knows we spend so much time
in dreamland
even when we're awake

so go to bed 
and wake up for once







Sunday, September 10, 2017

The poem you wrote for me in my dream that I woke up and wrote for you



You don’t have blood in your veins.
You have cataclysmic ancient fire
going through you.

And every time your heart pumps
that fire is born again,
like a supernova.

And when the cat brought a mouse in,
I wasn’t sure if you empathized more
with the killer
or the killed.

But it didn’t matter
because you were telling me about
this palm reader you knew,
who takes months to read a palm,
and in the army
he lost his arm
and he had a sculptor carve him a new palm
with a perfect future on it.


Monday, June 5, 2017

Local Man Banned from the Seventh Dimension After Bad DMT-Trip

DETROIT, MI--Citing a series of scandalous and damning violations, a being from the Seventh Dimension told reporters Monday that Aaron Thompson, 23, was permanently and irrevocably banned from the Seventh Plane of Existence. “His feeble mind could not fathom a single moment from my realm, let alone understand common courtesy and basic rules,” said ̳̻̳̠̰Щ̞͈̦͡倪͈̹̥ψ̺͍̮̣̪̟̘ὼ̯̠͈μ҉̳̪̻͕ͅί͎̥͎͖͢द̯ु҉̬͓ख̗̱ा͕͘इ͓̟̳̗͝ͅ an ancient presence from the Seventh Dimension who described how Thompson smoked more DMT than he could handle and entered the higher dimension without any sort of invitation or goal. “He was blind, deaf and dumb. In a fit of agony and confusion, all he could do was scream unintelligible pleads for mercy. It was pretty damn rude.” The being, whose name could not be uttered or comprehended, went on to say that Thompson’s unwelcomed visit would be his last, and that was “really going to fuck with some of his future incarnations.”

Sunday, May 14, 2017

Public Service Announcement from Your Local Friendly Tax Collector






That magical world they told you about

was wearing a mask all along.

It’s ugly underneath,

and it’ll bite your throat like a hungry dog,

if it gets the slightest chance.




That’s right, there’s not a single unicorn,

treasure chest,

or castle in the sky.




It’s just cement roads,

faulty streetlights,

and the inherent suffering

that all living things share.




It was all a lie.

Jesus and the easter bunny,

all of it was a fairy tale,

or at least gross exaggeration of the truth.




But now you must join in the elaborate charade.

You must look upon the rotting foundations beneath the world, all that you hold dear,

take its weight upon your shoulders,

and do it with a smile,

while you tell children the very same lies

that blinded you.




The skies may darken with ash,

and the rivers may run dry.

But even so,

you mustn't forget

to pay your taxes.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Alzh

I met a bird today, and I forgot its name. It told me that birds need more than just wings to fly. They need hearts to pump the blood and skulls to hold the brains to make the wings flap. Without those things all birds would fall from the sky, it said, just like rocks. A bird told me all of this, and i forgot its name.

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

The Third Grade Music Teacher

A million dying screams ring out in unison.
Ms. Allison sits on a worn-out and uncomfortable chair, with a stale cup of Folgers,
trying only to blink,
and remain conscious.

The third graders hold recorders, drumsticks, and tambourines in their hands
with sweaty palms and itchy trigger-fingers,
the same way criminals hold a gun during a robbery.

She thinks about the whisper of rain on the windowsill that she loved as a child. She thinks about the first time she truly appreciated Mozart, and the years she spent longing to share her passion with younger minds.

But every day is the same.

The third graders are a barbarian horde, far more subject to their personal whims and desires than her central leadership. Musical notes are ancient and forbidden symbols, and instructions are nothing more than the sound of sand
shifting in desert wind.

So she sits on her worn-out, uncomfortable chair, and she tries to embrace the chaos
with the third graders.

On the few days she is not incredibly hungover, she plays her flute with their cacophony. She glides along the discord like a kite in a hurricane, sometimes opposing their noise with melody, sometimes joining in like a jazz musician stricken with madness.

She hears Tchaikovsky’s cannon blasts ringing in her mind.

One time
she even screamed at them like a deathcore vocalist.

And on those days she simply can’t cope with the madness and nihilism of the third graders,
she just has a substitute come in
and play a movie for them.

Thursday, February 9, 2017