Pony Up

everything happens with a reason
and for a reason
the truth is a black canvass
swallowing every word
we all share the same fate:
The Great Entropic Void
the truth comes in waves of plasma fever
sugar sweat junkie at the core of every cell
it’s a hard sale to pitch
when the keys are already broken
and no one has
a cent to spare

I wrote “Pony Up” a short while ago in the Midnight hour as the Autumn chill rolled through and the rain poured down heavy from the black apocalyptic sky; and if that’s not an exciting enough story, well, I also recorded a reading of the piece on SoundCloud, which I’ll link below. So, you know, a little bit for everyone. There’s certainly enough to go around. Spread it all out. Smear it on the canvass. Bleed it on the page. Suck it dry. Leave the withered veins collapsed and atrophied. No hope. No salvation. No second chances. Just ancient regrets and ugly remorse scattershot across the dark divide. Pull the curtains down and hide. The horsemen of death shall soon arrive. With hooves of cancer, with eyes of stone. With trampled daydreams and shattered thrones. Watch the halo fall. Witness the season shift. Cracked and crumbling into the wretched abyss. Engulfed by a tired chasm. Swallowed into the vacuum of entropy. Comes the silence. Comes the long dark goodnight. Turn the lights out. Time for an eternal dirt nap.
Where the hell does that type of foul gibberish erupt from? That’s the million dollar question. It’s just sort of always there on the periphery of my consciousness, and so I can pretty much dive into such warped vibrations of madness at any given moment. I’ve been staying up until sunrise the past few mornings, and then eventually falling asleep only to hop back out of bed again a few hours later. Perhaps a bit of weariness in the neuron receptors is the cause of such tortured thoughts this afternoon. But, alas, the more likely culprit is probably just my own twisted amusement. The brass tacks of the matter boils down to this: I dig the art of waxing chaotic. I like to spin tales of decadence and degradation. I like to whisper little toxic plumes of pollution into the hazy geo engineered sky. I enjoy dancing around on aluminum particulates while cancer rates skyrocket. I just lust for those rare moments when I get to spit mercury vaccine hallucinations down the throat of autistic reality incorporated 101.
Actually, I don’t really enjoy such things at all. But I sure as hell feel it’s necessary to point out that there are some really mean and nasty fuckers in control of the institutions of this world. So it might be a smart idea to explain some of the plans they have set in motion, with the ultimate agenda behind such a course of action being to possibly bring about an abrupt halt to said plans before then being able to begin rolling them back. Of course, that would mean people actually shaking loose from the trance of their television sets and waking up from their comas, so who knows if such a plan actually has any hope of success.
I’ve been focused with a laser sharp intensity of precision on the art of poetry for the past year…but perhaps I’m beginning to feel a bit of that political angst bubble up as it rises from the lower regions of my fiery bowels. A hint of corrosive acid that needs to be vomited forth upon a sleeping populace of doomed cowards. Sweet Jesus, I’m going to cut myself off right here because in this state of foggy headedness there’s just no telling what I might say next. So y’all come back now, ya hear? Because once I start down this road, there is surely more dirt and gravel that’ll get kicked up real soon…
Here, also, are the links to the published poems I’ve had come out the past week:
One Way Path – Tuck Magazine
Kaleidoscopic Wonderland – Halcyon Magazine
Facts of the Matter – Dissident Voice
Rest Easy – Sleeve Lit Mag
Sharp Note – Midnight Lane Boutique
Point of No Return – Midnight Lane Boutique
Lockstep Thunder – Midnight Lane Boutique
If you’d like to get in touch, please contact me on Facebook and Twitter. I’m always down to connect with new people.
Scott Thomas Outlar

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