The Viper

A double barreled snake,

intoxicating, wanton, and sleek.

Hanging over the mantel,

it's silver scales quietly imitate the room,

they skew life, tint it with power;

an enchanting reflection.

He took it out of the cage,

to feed.

and it did,

with its fangs and venom and speed.

a fatal strike,

the final view.

And as I watch my heart turns to ash.

I fall apart.

Unforgettable,

its ebony eyes,

they relentlessly stared at me,

and I ran, to escape their gaze,

to escape the vipers lust and the tool:

the heart,

it had ensnared with it's deadly quicksilver skin,

And its fuming, burning black eyes,

that pierce me to my very soul.

bread

here is a poem about bread, only it is not about bread because poems are never about what they are about

mix him well

that milky, wholesome wheat,

that preserving, cleansing salt,

add some sweetness

and creeping oil.

Add the blood,

of the mixture,

straight from the stream's veins.

Form him,

mould him,

knead out the knots,

the dry spots,

make him well rounded and even.

Then just to spice it up,

add some chaos,

add some yeast.

No one likes a square,

A boring solid brick wont do,

it needs some filler,

some excitement.

Or better yet add some vice

from the last batch,

add some starter,

and watch them feed.

it only takes a little to leaven,

the whole lump.

Watch him artificially elevate,

watch him rise,

so full of hot air.

Now to seal the deal,

into the fire you go,

into the oven.

Let me sear your skin,

and harden your crust.

Let me test your heart.

Some Thoughts on Blood

I have always had a certain fascination with blood. Not in the emo-cutting-morbid sense, but more in a biological sense. What an amazing substance, it regulates our temperature, transports oxygen and nutrients and toxins, and fights off disease and bacteria. It fills us and animates us.

Also there is a certain primal aspect to it. I remember, as a child, looking at the pictures of Native Americans with red facepaint or clothing, and wonder if blood was the dye. I thought that was so badass, so natural. In a world of kill or be killed, of hunting, blood is not something to be feared or thought of as disgusting, rather it is merely a part of life. It symbolized life.

And it really never bothered me when I was bleeding. Which was good, because I bled every single football game. Gravel and rubber turf would reopen knee wounds, my hands and arms would get cut on the metal in the pads. At some point in every game, blood would go streaming down my legs or arms, and I would be reminded of the Indian warriors with their red body paint, merely giving back to the earth what they received, through their blood.

That blood was my warpaint and the scars I received were my war-wounds. I truly thought of myself as a warrior, dedicating everything towards the cause, towards defeating our foes. I was so focused, I let nothing interfere with the war, or preparation for it. School and football owned my life. The thought of a girlfriend was entertained but never pursued, video games were confined to once a week, I never met with my friends outside of school and sports and birthdays. Work was deemed too time-consuming.

This is what seemed to be demanded of me, by my coach, my parents, my teachers, and even my friends. They too lived in that world and thought the way I thought (for the most part). The least I could do was sacrifice a little blood, give a little of myself, back to the field, back to the school, in hopes that one day it will all be worth it.

Dragon Spines

There, there is the nape of his neck,

Those hills,

Those are his vertebrae,

The flowing grass and clover stalks

Are his shimmering green scales,

And the rocky outcroppings? The gravel?

Those are battle scars,

From wars waged with humans,

long ago.

That is until we tamed them,

we built our castles strong and sturdy,

upon their impervious backs

we plowed them and watered them,

We put them to sleep.

So now they quietly slumber,

Dreaming of the days when man fought for his life,

When great battles were lost and won,

by strong, courageous men,

not by people in suits and ties.

They dream of rising up once again,

shaking their hard shackles off,

uprooting the fences and barbed wire,

destroying the vineyards and orchards,

undoing mankind's proof of existence,

leveling our anthill and freeing us from our queen.

making this land wild again,

and starting anew.

They dream of chaos.

And who knows?

Maybe we will accidentally unleash the dragons once again,

and be forced to prove,

our very right to exist.

Blooming from the Mud

I read a book about India called "The White Tiger" an excellent book, I cannot praise it enough. This poem is inspired by that dark dark book

Lotus

I feel the liquid mud,

sucking me under.

Its vacuum stifling my movement,

and I work the rice paddy all day.

The water streaming, the sweat dripping,

Liquid heat in the wet season,

and stuck, I am slowly drowning,

and I work the rice paddy all day.

yet I keep my head up,

I keep my black-hole eyes fixed

on the azure skies,

on the winged ones and the billowy white travelers

who fly far away from here,

while I work the rice paddy all day.

Father is dead now

and mother is dying,

soon my roots will be torn,

my legs will be free to run,

far away

I will keep my head up,

and out of this filth I will rise

and like a lotus,

I will bloom,

I will bloom

Weirdness

this will be my weirdest poem yet, so hang on.

Tools

Silver, metallic they lurk

ready to stab and devour my werewolves heart,

ready to feast,

flashing with laser colors,

raving and dancing around

my kitchen drawer.

The angry knife first,

with his furious edge,

demanding a revolution.

trying to overthrow my tyrannic rule.

then the fork,

always the follower,

raising his prongs in assent

and murderous support.

The timid spoons gather in a corner,

not sure whether to follow these sharp fellows,

or to sit on the sidelines

quietly reflecting and inverting the events at hand.

the awkward spork shouts loudest of all,

trying to gain acceptance in this

great leap forward,

trying to round up the spoons as traitors.

To show that he is the true son of the revolution.

I hold the drawer with all my strength,

yet it is only a matter of time...

contingencies are planned:

the dishwasher readied as a second prison,

furniture heaped in front of the dissenters,

and I am dressed to kill.

Here they come,

Overthrowing their master,

the one who used them

for his consumption.

tools, cogs in the great murder machine.

assassins biting the hand that feeds,

they fling themselves at me now.

a bloody body found in the kitchen,

limitless stabs from numerous utensils,

the coroner quietly drones, surveying the scene.

and the now aimless rebels wonder quietly to themselves:

"WHAT THE HELL DO WE DO NOW."

Some Thoughts on Suicide

First off, I changed the picture because it seems more relavent to me (it has my picture in it), and it is slightly more tasteful (it has no svastika in it- it was a Hindu sign of good luck that Hitler decided to use during WWII).

Secondly, though the theme of this blog is dark (it IS called "piercing the madness"), it will not be emo if I can help it. I like to infuse MY inner darkness with humor instead of whininess, but if I do start getting whiny, please slap me around a bit until I start laughing (it really does work that way sometimes).

Thirdly on Saturday, I got my dance on, and it was truly enjoyable. I need to dance more, I wish I could dance like that ALL the time, but I suspect I would either end up on the next Jersey Shore season or homeless, if I really did pursue that lifestyle.

Now to my thoughts on suicide.

In case you are wondering, I have thought about suicide before. I first considered it in 5th or 6th grade, and before that I would often consider what the world would be like if I died at that moment. I used to visualize my funeral and my family and friends crying, and then I would involuntarily start tearing up at imaginary sorrows. When I first thought of suicide, I thought of it as the ultimate middle finger to the world: "I'm not gonna put up with your crap world, so I'll end it MY way." Kind of a badass thing, like a kamikaze pilot or that guy in "Independence Day" who flies into the alien ship and saves mankind. But I quickly realized that the "world" did not care about me, it did not care how or when or where I died. Thousands of people die every day (I am pretty sure), so the death of one kid is insignificant.

Suicide is only giving the finger to those who care about you. It is really saying "You cared about me? screw you. You had any emotional attachment to me? screw you. I will end it the way I want to," not like a "man," but in selfishly, like a baby that throws itself onto the ground and starts a temper tantrum because HE didn't get the attention HE wanted. He was not dealt the hand that HE liked, HE had it "tough," HE was not who he wanted to be. Any number of reasons are used.

Last quarter Charles Tamae (from Cal Poly) hung himself by Madonna Mountain the week before finals. It pissed me off. I was cussing at him for the rest of the quarter. I did not know him personally, but his audacity to quit in the ultimate fashion because of school, angered me to no end. How selfish are you? Do you think this is the end? you think you are doing anyone a favor? no, you only spread pain and resentment to people who loved you, and almost wish they did not care so much because of the pain.

Not only that angered me though, I have thought about suicide many times since 6th grade, but the pain it would cause has always held me back. I am almost afraid that his selfishness will prompt my subconscious to accept it as ok. This fear is the real reason I am so angered by his action. I never want it to be the acceptable option, only the one held in reserve till I have to save the earth from aliens.

this is a poem I made about death in my softmore or junior year of high school:

Death

free from all pain

free from all sorrow

soft as the rain

gone is tomarrow

the future is here

the past is forgotten

life without tears

while body is rotten

war is long gone

peace is reality

sweet as a song

life without malady

freedom is found

immortal I stand

upon this ground

Soul among grand