Celebrating personal discordia and spiritual anarchy.



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"Anarchy is not intended to be sustainable. It is not a system of government, a codified list of rules and beliefs, or a mind set geared toward cultural constructivism. It is a spark, a flash, a small flame that ignites a paradigm-obliterating explosion. It is destructive by nature. It lies dormant and, like diesel fuel, can only be ignited by tremendous pressure. It deconstructs. It strips flesh from bone and grinds bone to dust. It is doomed to consumption in the conflagration instigated by its own primal spark. It is a catalyst. It is tinder. It is powder and fuse."

Rich Oliver



Exorcism


I had a horrible epiphany today. I am still disturbed by it. I have no idea why it carried such energy for me. I don’t generally believe in evil, but I may have stumbled upon it inadvertently. Very unnerving. Dark disturbing things are being dredged up. I am in utter despair. I am lost inside of my own thoughts. I am tortured. I am unable to shake it. WTF?

I pass and glance habitually,
In the corner, a figure tattoos itself on my retina
I watch it there horrified, grey and squirming
Writing naked and shining

Glossy in its own juices. Shiny like a black beetle emerging from a corpse.
More insect than man, barely discernable amidst the filth.
“Love me” it cries “Need me”
The sound of death, sticky and shrill, tortured and gleeful. Entitled and threatening.

Greasy head on nervous lap
Curled and crippled.
Cold clammy hands searching for others to wring the warmth from.

It lies contorted in orgasmic shudders, grasping at breast and arm, clawing at the empty putrid air made even fouler by its cries.
All the while gurgling and mumbling softly through a mucus filled purr.
Ceaselessly seeking suckle and warm embrace.
“Don’t leave me. Take care of me…”

Dark eyes glaring angrily, boring holes
Through any and all perceived competition
For mothers attention.
“Hold me” it pleads “Comfort me”.

Its mother shivers in disgust and comforts it with
Her unsteady, strained voice
Barely suppressing the urge to crush it
To end its slithering life
And bury it in the dirt somewhere far from her clawed bosom, far from all life as not to
Pollute the fertile ground with its seeping filth.

She sits broken and resigned to fate, unable to carry out her thoughts,
Unable to escape the horror draped over her own body. She created it; she must sustain its life. She must suffer. She must suffer. She is not worthy of
Freedom or
Redemption.

It shifts and our eyes meet. It hisses at me and postures aggressively. Then relaxes and Smiles.

I realize
With utter revulsion
My own soul reflected there.
In the mirror.
And I despair.