Wednesday, March 25, 2009


Written: April 28, 2006

A few weeks ago, one night, in my car...just sitting...with a close friend, pondering life, high as a star,
A morbidity came my mind. Where else? The usual.
An equation beginning with the facing of my end, and the end of all, and their facing.
Then of course the feeble attempts of human being the only creature in perpetual awareness - fear - of this, to perpetually do and act as if the day will never come – hence a futile suppression. But something is missing to trigger this desiderata; that is inevitable loneliness – being alone, and fear of it – the one thing worse than death: loneliness.

It is this which has us desperately fight for life and make loneliness untrue, unreal, by searching for others, by scouring for love, executing talents, dying for praise, money, misery, problems, more people – eustress – anything to squash any possibility of any hint of loneliness. That is of course if we are healthy – or just deemed so.
Through all this is that former fear of expiration forgotten:
Death and loneliness assisting each other in assisting us.
The former causing the latter, causing living – granting ease...or as much as realistically feasible.

Fear of death => Fear of loneliness => Existing = Subdued or eliminated fear of both.

And there it is: life’s equation of nihilistic existentialism.

My buddy: “dude, you’re seriously tripping me out.”

Like I said...I was high.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Whether it Works

Whether it works out or not, I got to drive here on this sunny day,
Weather willing it to be this way,
This beautiful blue-sky sunny day.
How I adore days like these,
Moving swiftly, carelessly through days like these,
So perfect such days, so filled with life and spirit!
See? Even the birds agree; you can hear it.
Stressed and cleansed of all stress such days gift me,
They are a true gift; expecting nothing in return,
And for their allusion to a perfect world I do always yearn;
To travel through and be through,
To know through and see through,
To love through and grasp through,
That swishy sound of ripe May trees,
How I adore their uninhibited leaves,
Still calling my soul, always calling all; assuring me, wanting me…
Oh, this gorgeous day, what gifts of delight it brings me!
A reason of reasons I live for, a mother of heart,
It beats and resonates through all,
How lucky I am to have flown here (through this day) as the breeze embraced me,
It was well worth it, whether it works out or not.
And now on my way back I know this glimpse of a heaven will again surrender its gates,
Oh, the smell of nature…is there anything better? How we take for granted nature’s glorious traits.
I once again allow the breeze to whisk me away;
To kiss me and love me on this ethereal day,
And no matter what has and will come from what I’ve just done,
This day holds no vain,
No shame and no grain.
A bird again agrees in its appointed slot,
For the weather it was well worth it, whether it works out or not.


Saturday, March 14, 2009

Godless Under a Godless Sky

Thick, warm sheet high above my head,
Endless, whole, and invoking me.
The moon almost full – my only holy leader,
The first summer of my freedom.

Me, myself, and I,
Godless under a godless sky,
A true romance, my final stance,
The nightmare is over, my soul is sober,
Intoxicated with my being's chance,
Life and I shall have our dance.

Behold my mighty immunity;
To tenets, tricks, and hypocrisy,
No hoary eye with its tyrannous stare,
Burning me, torturing me, leaving me bare.

So beautiful this white-black-blue bed it is,
The moon its only sign.
Acknowledging and affirming what this life it is,
A trail of fire I leave behind.
No specters left to encramp my entrails, and turn them into my noose;
Now the specters are my slaves - toys I rightfully abuse.

Do you madly love life? Inexorably fervid for it as me?
Hold fast to the fathomable, believe your will, and know that you’ll be free.
Tell me heartily, are you like I?
Godless under a godless sky?
Then show it what you have,
Its time for the long embrace.
Break loose the fetters once and for all!
The clock says “Yes! Do! Know! Enjoy! It’s time to have our ball!”

Twilight rains its swarms of stardust,
Dare to cup your hands,
Splash it all upon your face,
Let it seep through your eyes and mind,
Then you’ll know what man has done,
And for once you’ll dance alive.

Are you like me?
Godless under a godless sky?
Are you like me?
Godless until the day you die?


"The concept of 'God' was until now the greatest objection to existence. We deny God, we deny the responsibility that originates from God: and thereby we redeem the world." - Nietzsche; Twilight of the Idols; The Four Great Errors; 8

True Vice

This poem was inspired to me by aphorism 29 of Nietzsche's beautifully vitriolic, brilliant, and earth-shatteringly incredible Antichrist. It reminded me of a loved-one who has never been happy with himself in the world, and so turned to Christianity as a defense-mechanism, and a place to hide within himself, which is a common, self-empowering mistake for people in sick states of mind to pitifully do out of desperation. He uses his faith not only to justify and sanction his illness (what Nietzsche would call his decadence), but uses it also as a weapon. A weapon to spread his disease, a weapon against the world which he is physiologically abortive in, against the flesh which he cannot gratify, and even against the joy of laughter if it is from mockery REMOTELY to do with sexuality! He became a REAL party-pooper. Too bad, so sad; one more person willingly victimized at the depraved hands of Christianity and all the conscience-rape it has to offer a self-loathing ascetic masochist. Not to mention the reward-aspect of it, which offers so much "divine" gratitude to someone UNABLE to grant himself anything – but denial.

True Vice

Attacked from all sides or just feeling so,
Too weak for the world, for reality, to know.
No substance will do - bringing more out of you,
The last thing you need – an anti-numbing,
You’re screwed.

So you burrow within,
By reflex, at peace,
No matter where you’ve been,
Consummated physiological grease.

You’ve found your way,
On warm, rocky paths,
Buried is where you’ll stay,
Loving sweet hatred-Mass.

Don’t hate me for being of this world,
Happy, complete, jaded, bold,
I’ve made my choice to live, while disdainful angst has you cower,
You cannot be reached – an unblossoming flower.

I see you ostentatiously happy in your masochistic misery;
Self-made content in a world that can’t be broken,
A self-denying vice, so hollow, unspoken.

Nothingness has prevailed!
The imperious lies were made for you!
This is what it’s come down to!
“The Kingdom of God is within you!”

Seven months after writing that, I came across the following passage of Nietzsche's in his autobiography. It turns out, HE considered puritanical attacks on sex, lust, and life to be vice within themselves, as well! So I’m not alone. I was really blown away. I guess great minds think alike. :) Not that I would DARE compare myself to the man, of course.

“And lest I leave any doubt about my very decent and strict views in these matters, let me still cite a proposition against vice from my moral code: I use the word 'vice' in my fight against every kind of anti-nature or, if you prefer pretty words, idealism. The proposition reads: 'The preaching of chastity amounts to a public incitement to anti-nature. Every kind of contempt for sex, every impurification of it by means of the concept ‘impure,’ is the crime par excellence against life – is the real sin against the holy spirit of life.'” - Friedrich Nietzsche; Ecce Homo

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Haunting Name in Drops of Rain

I hear her name within the rain...
As it pitter-patters on the outdoor floor.
I feel through grain her eyes have lane...
In the longing of my pores.

My mind flits through the clouds
To escape and hide from the unflagging sounds,
But the rain pulls me back to consternation with a jolt,
Her viciously angelic name overtakes me behind a lightning bolt.

Oh, what do I do with this mind
That creates these painful heart-dramas and then to hide?
But is it my fault she’s so coldly stunning in every way?
It is upon fate’s ruthless order, this dismay.

Drip, O insatiable rain, keep pounding upon my heart!
There’s nothing I can ever say to ease or appease you from the start.
You’ll always dance in your puddles, again and again it will be the same,
You’ll always be back to haunt me - again with such a name.


The term "lane" in the first stanza is the Scottish use of it as an adjective, meaning "alone," as with the idiom, "By one's lane."

Silhouette of Passion

Silhouette across my face,
Silhouette of all your grace,
Silhouette upon this place,
Silhouette without a trace.

Warm my heart; come back again,
A despondent soul like mine.
How jubilant to again smooth your cheek,
To bask within your shine.

Your precious presence all around me,
Heaven breathes our bodies entwined.
A fire that burns like my heart itself,
A glimpse of amorous times.

I want to feel your body sweat,
As I reveal what you mean to me,
Yearning to absorb every drop,
Our flesh becomes a sea.

Writhing one last cosmic moan,
Falling to thudding hearts.
Breathing in each other’s sublime gaze,
Pure amatory parts.

Silhouette within my eyes,
Fervent angel staring deep,
You see our undivided soul,
Let us never go to sleep.


Monday, March 9, 2009

5 of Heart

In January 2005, when I was living in Dubai, I was deeply infatuated with a worldly 23-year-old Lebanese woman (my age at the time), and I wrote her these five little poems that I’d send her via text messaging. I just couldn't resist.


A dream of you like risen rainbows,

A dream of you like fallen suns,

A dream of you as soft as petals,

I dream of you and all is one.


A blessed desert that begat flowers,

A lucky dolphin which graced the sky,

The luck of all as to reach the rose in you,

No luck compares to getting close to you.


The sky did break and rain did follow,

I looked around and all was hollow,

Your face appeared and took away my sorrow,

Without you there’s no tomorrow.


A buried treasure, a pot of gold,

How can one measure the infatuation I hold?

Finding a fortune that can never be sold,

To be with you is a pleasure untold.


Make you quiver, be still my heart,

Take you away, may we never do part,

Take my hand, and fly with me,

Together as one, across a love soaked sea.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Sheep I Think Not

All my life I’ve felt myself being an outsider – an observer of the rat race – watching and studying the herd, the mob, the rabble, the idiots, scurrying around, keeping to their petty needs, and living out their meaningless lives, trying as hard as they might to keep their minds on things – on something, on anything, on anyONE for that matter – anything except for the ludicrousness of their existence on this little star called earth. “No, no! We don’t want to think about that,” they say. “Leave us in our laughably fictitious and puny worlds of self-deceit and masochism. We’re happy this way. Leave us be. Leave our lie(s) alone! What even gives you the right to be different, anyway?! Just who do you think you are – questioning? Questioning things?! Questioning us?!” Okay, maybe not in so many words, but you get the gist. Anyway, one day I sat down at my dining-room table, and finally wrote a poem about it.


Wolves in sheep’s clothing – such faded attire,

Their existence so sad, ill, wasted, and minor.

Every morning they clad in their much needed lies,

Their race’s imprecation are their fatuous lives.

Where do I belong among this phantom-like herd?

Do I stay who I am to one day fly like a bird?

Do I dare herald what I know and have them devour me in my sleep?

Or do I indifferently stay to myself – estranged . . . a creep”?

So execrable this state! So shamelessly visible,

But no matter how casuistic, always tepid and risible.

Perpetual stupidity; O horror! O horror!

A multitude of madness, abhorrent mind-meld lore.

Scurry off to your workplace, your churches, your white picket fence,

Scurry away; I can no longer handle the stench.

Recalcitrant as can be, I am firm in my stance,

I dare pronounce my judgment; bring your case to the bench.

Oh, these so-called sheep, how they fill me with fear,

Petrified of their dripping fangs so ready to shear.

Them insecure and in fright I declare poltroons the lot!

Sheep afraid of goats, but sheep...I...think...not!

The Time of Freedom

Here's another one from my archive. In it, I speak of a time which I will always long for. A time which was so heartlessly, cruelly and viciously stolen from the human race by craftily vengeful, world-weary calumniators of the earth and slanderers of the body, of life, liberty, pleasure and sexuality: anemic vampires completely degenerate in instinct and retarded in spirituality. I shall NEVER forgive them for it! For what has been done is UNFORGIVABLE! A CURSE on them and their descendants; they are the true imprecation of the human race! However, here I glorify the antithesis of such parasites. Here I glorify the protagonists of that time and majestic era...of that superbly rich world so ignorantly and impudently - left behind.

The Time of Freedom

Look at the pagans of antiquity,
See them enchanted as they dance,
Circling the cosmic bonfire,
In a surreally blissful trance.

Knowing their time is here and now,
Wanting only to enjoy this gift of life,
They need no dogma to show them how,
There is not sin to blame for strife.

Behold the human animal in its purest form!
It is only through the earth and its offerings in which they are born.
They whole-heartedly mock the Stoics; those ascetic masochists,
These not infested with repressive delusions, and so they live rapturous.

Consciences clear as they soar through delights,
Fervid laughter, lust, passions, senses – living every day.
Enjoy it while it lasts, dear forbears…
For the Lamb is on his way.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Priests and Pastors

Let us listen in terror as he opens his mouth,
He’s about to address us this unconscionable clout.
A professional liar – maybe more, maybe less,
Preaching the blight of mankind in a Magus’s dress.

Parasites! Leeches! Vampires! Subterranean blood-suckers!
I’ve had just about enough of each and every last one of these fuckers!
Be ashamed! Feel guilty! You’re human! What gives you the right?!
This is the conscience-rape they offer wrapped in a veneer of white light.

The only hand they have to deal is to make us all depraved;
To have us be grateful for their Saviour and sorrowful when being “saved.”
A religion so base; based on fear, misogyny, slave-mongering, and contrived mythology,
What the world deserves is a two-thousand-year apology.

By them the truth rended, butchered and inverted,
In this way the world was most horribly converted.
In the darkness of their blind minds is where these blinding trolls lurk,
and with the powers of truth and doubt we’ll put these wretches out of work!


"Priests and conjurors are of the same trade." - Thomas Paine

"One good schoolmaster is of more use than a hundred priests." - Thomas Paine

“So long as the priest, that denier, calumniator and poisoner of life by profession, still counts as a higher kind of human being, there can be no answer to the question: what is truth?” - Friedrich Nietzsche

“The priest rules through the invention of sin.” - Friedrich Nietzsche

Aesthetic Deceit – Halos of Hollow

Halos of misguiding, deceitful light,
Filling people’s hearts with both fear and delight,
Paradoxical hope and unneeded fright.

Evading our eyes from all of its lies,
Aesthetic deceit – to compel and transfix, the blind they hypnotize.

To seduce us away from the fire which burns,
Smothering it in so many, leaving so few to yearn.
To yearn for truth and glorifying passions within,
These things they have stolen, these halos of sin.

Painted with hands unknown and shameful,
At least a harlot repays money with pleasure.

Inculcating the herd with inhuman beliefs,
Keeping them afraid, reverent, and sheep.

Without mercy they circle silly lobes,
Tools to control through our conscience which scolds.

Such halos of deceit I reject with every breath,
“Nay,” I shout. “They are the true death!”


Friday, March 6, 2009

What Was Venus Thinking?

What was Venus thinking when she allowed Cupid to exist,
When she gave him his first target to on Psyche persist?
What was Venus thinking when she taught him to fly,
When she gave him arrows to try,
When she gave him his wings,
When she gave him his stings?

Ask her if she thinks she reared a mischievous child,
A malicious sadist, or something dark and vile.
Ask Mars if he's proud of his son for spreading the worst kind of war,
The war between the sexes—something we now both love and abhor.
I do not condemn Cupid, for he is an eternal innocent,
But I condemn both mother and father for being so vindictively vigilant!

O Cupid, O Cupid, you reckless trifle,
Do please give me your arrows; in fact, give me a rifle!
Give me one with perfect aim, so I can never miss,
So I cannot fuck up, and never again be dismissed!
Cupid, O Cupid, you silly little cunt,
I'm so sick of this bullshit! Have you no one else to hunt?!

I'll tell you what, kid – let's make a deal,
We'll write it in blood, and stamp it with your seal.
Next time I'm in your sights, and in my guts an arrow must sink,
Shoot one at the chick you've had woo me; it's common sense, don't you think?!

February 17, 2009