Iron Vice Sanity

 I thought only the insane could understand our “sane” society. I pictured a man with sharp eyes and tight lips rubbing his hands from the cold and within his mind lingered the darkening thoughts of the errors in our construction. So much was unconsidered and left for surprise upon the often helpless. Charles Bronson never considered one thing in his life. Living always in the present, in violence. But only enlightened professionals of a given trade or focus that have the capability of considering the future can give a mediocre psychoanalysis of Charles Bronson and believe maybe that some part of you is bettered or worsened by your viewing of such a dark, moustache smiling goat path of blood and knuckles stained with artwork. How much pain endured only to meet human eyes and only smile while you take eternal rage and malice out with the only weapons given to you upon birth? The only reason Charles Bronson is the most famous prisoner in Britain is because he let loose the gold and red eyed demon from its blood-iron stained prison. I would like to meet Charles Bronson. Maybe fight him. Cause then I could be certain if her truly enjoyed his violence or was just too emerged in a façade that was no longer in his grasp to control.
 We pour so much money into authorities and comforts for prisoners and the criminally insane, because part of us needs them. Conforming to financial strategists, killing off the wicked and insane would be ensuring, yet this would yield all strings to our minds and our humane defecation to humanly sick individuals; generating a 21st century twisted form of Equilibrium. Too much to ask.
 There has got to be some stable ground left to walk on, else all would be mirrors of hope in a paradox of Plat’s allegory of the cave in which sanctuary looms every on the brink of attainment. So why don’t you take steps away from being alone, when the insides have rotten away the dead flesh, pain was just another trial on the road to understanding all of life’s little treasures. Ah because, “Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris.” Mephistophilis dwelled too deep in the doctor’s mind, and what he released was his untamed dystopia to which he could cure in his mind. With knowledge, brought destruction of such a need or desire.
 Our memories hold the key to our futures, for surely we are doomed to repeat the tiniest of “mistakes” that linger in our minds and eventually demand demise from such occurrences, and the life-line is cut. The building beside me shadows my thoughts from the sun’s wisdom, and the cold shields its lust like a phalanx. But its just a crack in the surface. Expanding and splintering away the adamantine glass steal that will surely provoke our untimely end. But at least we saw it coming.
 Take this measure of peace, and in its warming orange aura in dark fall leaves, lock yourself against its embrace and be damned if you let go.

 And when the memories are all left behind and the days have gone forever, lost within my mind. I came to this once, and so I come to it again. The darkness ever fettering on the bounders of my sanity unscathed when in the eye of the storm. Glimpsing inward from neutrality, however, inflicts shame and bewilderment. When the steal doors close, when one is truly alone, then critique and judgement can be passed by the self alone. For none know the heart better than its benefactor. Such was Esther’s conflict; not knowing to whom her life-blood was being sent to when she awoke. But just as the Old Forest compares to Mirkwood, the tyrants of our world cross and weave, avoiding interaction with their creations amongst the trees. Then it hardly matters which fucking forest your in. But it does! It matters because we choose it does.
 Smoke before my eyes. I put it there. I dare its influence to stand before my degradation and my resolve. Satan had no fame in heaven, but now remains our fictional personification of evil. Why should Milton glorify Lucifer? He doesn’t have your sight behind his back. For faith, I give to you:

Why In God’s Plan
Did he make the
Devil so much stronger
Than a man

 Spare me the senseless babble explaining our trials for his satisfaction of our purity. I heard once that religion was meant once to be a shared illusion, bringing false assurances and peace of mind to the masses. The only problem with this plan were those who refused to participate in the illusion. They widened the cracks in the promises, and subtly split the fabric of the goal in half. So after the thousands of years of bloodshed in the name of faith, the crusades, religious genocides, warrrrr, terrorisssssssssss……
 All this and it turns out people such as myself are the problem and always have been.
 That’s if you buy this particular view. I don’t.
 But trouble not to decide which way to fall over the fence, for the grasp is loosening regardless of resistance. When the hand reaches forward, slow and tentative, and pushes away the film of dust, then they will understand why we loved, why we hated. Too many tear drops on the window panes, before you stop looking out.          

So this is a small section from the new novel I'm in the process of preparing. Pretty dark stuff but read if you please. The name of the novel is going to be Twisted Individual.

The Seasons

There is some measure of peace to be found in the changing of the seasons. Bleak white winters that burn the eyes with white fire. The fall unleashes a utopia of colours in the leaves of the trees; hues of red, yellow, and orange dance in the air as the leaves fall from their life perch. Neutral comfort and subjection to subtle truth stimulates my composure: insignificance… hate. I press my prior thoughts. How leaves except their demise atop the earth in the open air, when we humans proceed to bury our dead six feet under, just in case its windy. I laughed at human simplicity and ridiculousness.
 They represent only death, and yet what we see is autumn. Spring, traditionally recognized as “rebirth” in literary terms; when the ices of winter fade away and we are left only with life. Small streams run and cross, like a network of veins upon the face of the earth, as its heart once again beats, shacking away the cobwebs with slightly greyer eyes. People, pale and frightened, emerge from their houses as the sun promises reprieve, if only for months.
 Rejecting technology meant sticky, blistering quell of summer. When all the world seemed hot, destine to cook our skin. Thoughts of electrocution and blue-rare steak slap me in the face. Searing skin. Should my body temperature climb high enough, how long before the blood within me rose up and filled my eyes with red? I imagined the pain would be to great that if it occurred, my anguish would be too extreme for me to record the statistics.
 The seasons…
 Inspire emptiness in their midst, but upon the changing it is refreshing and forgiving. Chaucer must have been cold at least when he wrote half of the Canterbury Tales. Cold stone and cold flesh and quill. Chaucer probably had ‘mad’ bitches, as they say. I wonder if he had any type of lifestyle like the deeply homosexual Italians of Florence and Sicily in the fifteenth century? Who cares…
 Corey Taylor is yelling at me. The piles of work layer my desk, and I wish for nothing more than to wrap it up in a tidy bundle with string, and write in large, thick letters on the top: BULLSHIT. But such as this mind rejects outward intuition, I know myself better than anyone, and worse than none. So I’ll do the work, but not tonight, and trust that they meant what they said.
 Too many hours sitting hurts the spirit as much as the body, but how quickly we forget when after standing for five minutes after sitting for three hours, that we sit down happily when offered a seat. Somewhere, at some point in history, sitting was culturally incorporated into our daily lives. When all hope is gone, someone will need to mend the world. Will it be those who sit, or those who stand? As far as the seasons go, we can sit and stand until the seas rise far above our tallest buildings. Some will likely still be sitting when it happens. But lets pretend we not at the end. The end is final, thus we are not there yet, and amidst the chaos we pour into time solving this final end, some breakdown and sit while other, cramp-legged and blue-balled, remain standing. Chaucer would have a thing or two to say about that.
 A bulbous man passes me on street, above his dry, swollen lips, clung a rogue blotch of mustard. I observe his gluttonous, reckless figure and balding head unscathed of the sun’s warmth. I nearly vomit.
 Clenching my jaw and knuckles, I jolt my head to the left in a snapping motion and tense my legs. Too often this heart forgets passed purging and fucking remedies.