I pledge allegiance to the United Corporations of America

The truth is that I feel infected, infected by the plague that is American extravagance and consumerism. I try to tell myself no way, no way in hell does the media and the idea of wealth or excess affect me. But that is a lie, A LIE. Undoubtedly my lifestyle ally's itself to the undisclosed notion that is the "United Corporations of America." It affects me every day, every day I swipe my debit card, every day I use my iPhone to check my Facebook, here and now, every blowout sale I ravage for discount shoes, every promo code I abuse for sleek leather bags online. GOD. I am INFECTED and its killing me, my spirit, my humanity, tainted and mutilated into a robot of consumption. Although I do have awareness, a lot of awareness, and I believe this a good thing; it will account for nothing if I don't take the next steps to become a more simple living balanced person. I don't want this iPhone, I don't want this debit card, I don't want this Facebook account, I don't want any iTunes fucking gift cards, I don't want a corporate ass soggy subway sandwich or mcdonalds fries (jesus i just ate some last night) ARGHHAAAAA GET OUT OF MY LIFE. Get out get out get out get out GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE NOW. I'm making some big changes starting now, and I'm saying this on a social networking site because it should be heard, it needs to be heard. I am an individual confessing my addiction of Sociodigital corruptness and Transconsumerism; An absence of tendencies to predicate happiness on acquiring material possessions. And if any of you feel this way in the slightest, than I encourage you to acknowledge it as well, because we are humans, not machines.

Adjacquetayvious Patroclus Abramikas

My mind is on fire.
My creativity is in such a drought,
although theres no famine,
its not like I'm starving.
I'm just so dry and lacking of motivation or spirit.
My art is in a lull of toxicity,
taint and poison.
What is the difference between Hunger and Thirst?
This.
My mind is on fire.
Indecision and so much energy,
ambition.
Sexual Frustration.
Certain forms of insanity are good for you maybe?
The sun is out today.
Today,
its nice out.
Tomorrow though,
it is totally different.
Tomorrow isn't up to anyone,
say for God,
Tomorrow is no one.
So I should make something of myself,
today.
Tomorrow is the mislead hope and lie of all depression in existence.
Absolutely nothing will happen,
tomorrow.
Tomorrow,
can suck it.
Today your expression does matter,
it always will and it always should.
You may be afraid of how intense you feel about so many things.
But what is fear,
how does it manifest?
I don't think its possible to dismantle it,
is it,
necessary?
Can fear be good for you?
Is this fear good for me?
How can I,
monitor the moderation of fear?
I must because it is I who decides the checks and balances of my life,
not fear.
Opportunities and success may be staring at me straight in the face,
but I will fail;
If I cannot discover some sort of control or grasp on my own vision of destruction.
Obstruction.
A plight of obscurity.
Ambiguously bound to chains of logic and reason.
I crave for perspiration,
a drop of purity.
Where to go,
what must I do to break these chains,
unlock the doors and ascend the ladder to pacification.
A quest may be in order,
a rising act or journey,
mission,
solo,
and free.
Face demons of a haunting pass into despair,
via a new found tranquility of the present.
I will climb,
I will rise,
I will,
I will.

Hidden Burial of last Summer

Its like when your soul saturated wet heart gets wrenched out of you, 
and you stuff your mouth with microwaved mac & cheese, 
listening to no doubt on your bed, 
chain smoking out the window, monsoons of tears ripping life out of you
...and then,
you stop for a second and try to make things a little less serious, 
in your sisters room putting on her eye liner,
lipstick and mascara,
take your mummies' bottle of wine barefoot into the forest until you come across a shimmering pool of water; 
a reflection like shattered blood and glass all over your face or some nightmare, 
you plunge into the mosquito infested swamp and try to scrub it all off of you, 
but its burning,
and theres sobbing, 
and the bottle's empty,
and its getting dark, 
so you lay there in your own toxic filth of remorse,
you close your eyes, 
all you can see is his neck,
his chin, lips open calling out for the bottle, 
broken, 
his soft coy jaw lined with scruff, 
brows striking a dark bold fury, 
but his tan skin and brown eyes seem lacking true color, 
desolate and foreign as if they don't know you, 
no,
they never will know you ever again.
A beetle flies by, then lands on your leg, 
another, two more. 
You're so sad and sweet the insects love it, 
you say so like locus for a scrap of brush,
they swarm you for your pity and you're on fire, 
absolutely ablaze,
with a red,
wet passion, 
they're biting you they won't stop biting you it itches it hurts it bleeds you choke, 
drowning in the flames of your own unrequited love for something or someone too bitter,
like this wine,
to even comprehend how much they matter to you, 
burning, igniting, finally Exploding, 
you wail out a terrorizing shriek of anguish, and to your avail, 
thy vale, 
of clouds appear, 
puffy, and grey, you could sleep in them, 
like llama's wool, they descend on you, 
flake, after flake,
cold, 
icy, 
comforting, 
snow,
death, 
you're so tired, 
so, so tired, 
covered in what looks like dirt, with dirty patches of snow, 
nibbling,
you lay down and sleep but just for a little bit, 
soot like snow, bugs, they're all the same, 
and sleep;
you won't think of him any more, 
because you'll be asleep, 
and he'll never find you, 
no one will ever find you, 
so pretty with your sisters makeup, 
pretty.

childhood

Huhhhhhghh
I want to,
To rip apart ALL of your barbie dolls
and feed them
to my newfoundland bear dog off the tree fort top
by the swing set
outside
when you're still at school
and I'm home:
 "sick."

Smash your precious little china doll on the windshield of Mommie's Minni van.
They should've known I was strange,
when the found me handling the Beannie Babies with razor blades in the upstairs playroom.

Daddy says to kick the dog in the head to get her to shut up, 15 years later.

Regional Multicultural Kiss My Ass

My hamster was the daddy of my brothers hamster,
my brothers hamster was the son of my hamster,
my hamster was the daddy,

we got them at a tag sale near a round'a'bout,
My mother loved to shop at tag sales,
sometimes she'd take us with her.

My brothers hamster killed my hamster,
and there was blood,
loTs.
my brother named his hamster Dangerous.

Orestesian childs play

Its not a fucking a joke.

One more piece Mommy, one more piece,
of gum,
that I could tarnish
with my teeth
cause I was teething,
or was I?

If you found her candy would you eat them?
I found her cigarettes and I ate those.

SpAnk me Spank me,
Spank me.

Leave me in the corner,
and forget I'm even there,
all day,
did you really forget?

Go to bed early?
Take the eegs,
take the apple juice,
make a mess,
on the floor before dawn and blame it on your brother.

I took his favorite fishes,
and left them in the strawberry patch next morning.

a true friend (w~Margaret)

Im gonna carve you a dildo out of cabot cheese
pepperjack bitch
wednesday after work
melted butthole shoving
thats what im looking for
a good friend
my grindr profile
gogay cupid
watch it melt
eat it
organic fucking good for you
cabot as a company will go for it with you
mouth dick following cabot cheese lover
supported by cabot cheese

Looking

Spoiler Alert: in the most recent episode of Looking: Pat is serenaded in bed by his beautiful scruffy naked latino lover; eloquently sung to in Spanish, while he strum slaps the bass guitar, "the instrument of love," with a gentle force, in bed on a sunny morning...I can't even make it through the first 4 minutes without crying tears of joy. If I've ever shared a dream with anyone, this is definitely it.

what do you want to be when you grow up?

Blood stains and glitter crust in your sea salty hair, gelled up with your farm sweat, scoffed knees with oil paint in your scabs, goat cheese and ash in your uneven stubble, grit on your dirty damp clothes, charcoal on your dry crackled fingers, lips like a cheap cabernet, breath of a dog mop, but a smile that kills and a spirit that never dies. I'd like to think I met him once trudging down the Costa Rican rainforest at night in a downpour that epitomized the phrase that God is in the rain, or panting up a mountain in Vermont, fatigue by a smoking rate of too many tobacco products and to many troubles being left behind all at once as I climbed higher and higher. Actually maybe I met him skinny dipping in a blizzard, or maybe even numerous times we may have met amidst driveway dance jigs or betwixt stackings of wood cord after cords of your guitar sounded so relishing I relished them to the point of spilt booze and heart pumps, throbs, bumps, beats, beat, skipped a beat here or there replaced with a deadly absence gasping for air glaring at the glare of the mirror distorted; tears dropping like hydrogen bombs on tiny patches of snow melting them away even more so with futile vomit just like how the earth pukes all over itself between winter and spring, summersaulting down the concrete stairs at the beach to a fall. Maybe I met him when I fell, maybe I'll met him again in Hell, or up that golden ladder in the clouds like once thought to be seen at some Catholic Bible camp in Michigan? Or not at all, could possibly be just a spectrum that combusts like invisible energy in the wind when I'm alone, a bold fixture composed by rotten ideas of what I'm not, yielding what I appear to be, lusts that transgress practicalities in a tightly sewn chasity belt that opens up to hopes and dreams and closes in shame. By Him I mean God, whatever kind of overriding consciousness you want to call it that calls me out and says my name whenever something seems to have gone absolutely right or terribly wrong, egging me on. For all I can tell He exists as some metaphysical entity of absolute sex appeal, carelessness and grunge, that survives much a shit for just picking up after someone else's. Maybe its his bane or burden, there is a chance we met on the river styx once perhaps as I the closeted Pariah cursed himself for nothing and nothing, well he just stood there and laughed. Laugh.



-> I recently wrote this with the title: <-
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
And Its basically a shit show of experiences that I just started writing about, pieced together in a mess of personal symbolism, mocking my feelings, ideas, and extreme things I have done or care about. Its interesting because the more I wrote the more I recognized how similar these strange feelings, ideas, and experiences were; In all of them I thought I had either been spoken to by some spiritual being, or that my mind came out of my body, laughed at me, and then went back in to take control. Weird right? Well then I read it all in one sitting and I noticed it looked more like I was talking about some Devil or Demon inside of me rather than God? But then I came to the conclusion that Its basically just a small piece of writing about some young, confused, horny artistic gay man in his early twenties.

[personal literature found buried in sketchbook, proceeded to share] ~

Do you ever have that experience,
some time, someday, walking
in the frigid day and wind vortexes before your,
sacred class time.
Stop it I need
to smoke a cigarette,
smoke your deepest pains away,
let your thoughts run wild.
So you start running around, dorm dancing,
eating your feelings,
singing your heart out,
drawing as fast as you can think,
like that will make your art any better.
But,
I feel this day already is,
artistic,
because thinking back to days like this;
the most beautiful thing these-
insane irises ever saw;
was the smile that I could make you smile,
at least,
for awhile.