Teeth stained
neck torn
veins bled
eyes white
but you’ll sleep well tonight
I’m sure

Weak flesh
lust strong
love lost
fangs drawn
but you got what you wanted
all along

Silent moon
empty bed
shallow words
left unsaid
but you swallow the tide
as the sky falls

Frayed mind
heart slain
knife stabs
rib breaks
but you’ll dance on the grave
that you dig

Cheap sell
silver bag
last kiss
burning lips
but you’ll get yours tomorrow
just you wait

---

This piece is dedicated to The Screech Owl. With the news that Grant Tarbard is closing down his site at the end of the month, I thought I’d post a poem on my blog this Thursday that follows along the aesthetic lines similarly to much of the darker work I’ve had published there. I’m very thankful to have had my writing appear at The Screech Owl over the past few months alongside many poets whose work I admire.

Whenever I hit a wall in life
it never fails
that the wall hits back,
but I’m a clever little dude
who always finds a way
to dance around
the rigid dimensions
of that brick bastard’s boundaries…
or, if all else fails,
I’ve never been adverse
to climbing to the top,
perching at the peak,
and diving over headfirst
to the other side,
because after pushing past a plateau
the rewards which are reaped
are always sweet, indeed.

Once upon a time
in another state of mind
with a psilocybin high,
I met a pure white wall
standing sturdy in a hall
toward which I was drawn
as it swung open its gate,
giving me a glimpse
into another dimension
with a crystalline vision
revealing the sacred geometrical vibrations
which serve as the foundation
of all form and matter in creation.
The pink and blue neon fluorescent shapes
swirled around as part of a pulsing, shifting mandala,
serenading me with the sweet song
of collective consciousness
which manifests as frequencies of light and sound
in every realm of reality,
all birthed and born from the same source
of the original Word…
Abracadabra…
Hallelujah…
Amen.

Poet: an identity.
Loneliness: a state of being.
Outcast: a self-created wound.
Love: a scar that never heals.
Hope: forever present; sometimes dim, sometimes bright.
Truth: an existential riddle.
Consciousness: a cross to carry.
Peace: an unknown territory.
Destiny: something to believe in.
Work: an honest occupation.
Job: a waste of God’s gift.
Time: an illusion, yet ever so heavy.
Money: the big lie.
Soul: a vibration of energy.
Source: alpha, omega, and all things in between.
Heaven: perfection within.
Hell: of our own making.
Sex: a long forgotten remedy.
Companionship: nowhere to be found.
Nature: a flowing homeostasis.
Technology: a double-edged sword.
Government: a manifestation of Satan.
Fear: the shadow of the psyche.
Ego: a survival mechanism.
Tao: the holy path.
Anarchy: only for the enlightened.
Chaos: a necessary measure.
Order: a self-regulating pattern.
Poem: one more on the page.

The vastness of your scope
as I stare into the sky
reveals itself here and there
with glimpses into the absolute glimmer,
yet the mystery remains ineffable
in a context beyond that which
my primitive consciousness can grasp,
and I’m beginning to understand
that the seduction of your existential aloofness
is part and parcel
to the inherent romance in this experience of life.

I cannot come to know you fully
in the spaces of my mind,
but I can feel you in my guts,
in my heart, in my veins,
through my blood, in my bones,
down to the marrow.

These two open eyes
cannot gleam your greatness,
but when they are closed
I can see dimensions
beyond this physical plane of existence,
and I can sense the raw power
which pulses from your source
as it radiates outward
to be divined by those who truly seek.

The names which you have been called by
throughout the ages
mean nothing to me at this point –
simple words babbled from broken tongues
cannot capture the purity of your meaning;
it is your essence
to which I am addicted,
and I will never cease
reaching toward your unconditional love
until every urgent craving in my soul
has been satiated by your presence.

---

The month of July is off to a nice start, as I’ve had fourteen poems published in nine different venues so far. They can be found at the links below. They are also linked on my Poems Page, along with hundreds of other pieces that have been released this year.

Censored – The Poet Community

Ignite the System – Aphelion

To the Fascist Fundamentalist Editor – Yellow Chair Review (weekly feature)

A Difference in Degree – Dissident Voice

Entropy and Evolution – A New Ulster

Homecoming – A New Ulster

Fluttering – A New Ulster

Detoxification – A New Ulster

Stand Aside– Black Mirror Magazine

A Simple Man – Black Mirror Magazine

One Last Time Forever – The Poet Community

Sweet Assurances – Visual Verse

The Sadist Cometh – The Screech Owl

3,2,1… – Burningword Literary Journal

To the Fascist Fundamentalist Editor – Yellow Chair Review

Selah,

Scott Thomas Outlar

The silence of white roses
with deaf petals
beneath a muted sun
holds the music’s place
in a steady embrace
while the implosive force of entropy
passes by in an instant’s blink,
and then rhythm is reborn
as melody blooms anew
toward a colorful fruition
of infinite solar expansion
that even the gods
dare not question,
lest the miracle’s magic
lose its elusive power
and get washed away
by a chorus of down-pouring rain
that flashes with a fluid voice
along to the beat of thunder’s drum
as splashes of electric ignition
light up the night sky
with tremors of a vibrating crescendo,
adding the tension of dramatic flare
to the opera of existence
that flutters with grace
between the dimensions of time and space.

The song of the spheres
rotates in tune with heaven’s frequency,
harmonizes with evolution’s wave,
and cascades with a celestial voice
across the infinite tide of the sea
where the sirens weep in waiting
over the tragedy and bliss
of this experience we call life
as it unfolds
one note at a time
until the cycle has completed its spin,
the wheels stop turning,
the gears grind to a halt,
and the symphony reaches a point of exhaustion.

With the dawn
arise

With the roses
bloom

With a fire
burn

Upon my lips
a kiss

Up my spine
shivers

Through my blood
ignite

With passion
love me

Until my heart
cannot take the fervor

With the truth
awaken

With the stars
illuminate

With a spark
shine

Enter my soul
from the source

From the first
to the last

From the beginning
to the end

With your words
love me

Until my heart
cannot take the pressure

Electricity is the Source
in the blood
that brings shivers
across my spine
in the midnight hour
as I silently devour
each laugh that tries to rise

but there is no stopping God-head

Logos fever dreams
bring lucid sleep
where I awaken
on the River Tao

This life is but one breath
make sure to take a big one

I certainly wouldn’t object
to being cut
a big fat check
from a major press
that I could stuff
in my back pocket
and transport
to the nearest
corporate fascist bank
to deposit
so I could spend it wildly,
buying an infinite block
of free time
to use at my leisure
so I could keep
churning out the type
of fiery, apocalyptic verse
that gets me off
harder
than any orgasm
ever will;

and I, no doubt,
would not put up a fuss
if I had a book
rocket to the top
of the New York Times
Best Seller list
based on
it being pimped
and marketed
like a washed-up whore
by some
cult of personality,
daytime television,
vacuous, vapid, shallow, sleazy
profiteer
that received a kickback
off every copy
that was sold
to the mindless mass
of minions
that flocked over
every stupid word
uttered from the absurd
lips
of said sideshow circus clown.

But if I were forced
to stand
with hand
placed firmly upon the Bible,
promising with a sly grin
to swear only the truth
about my intentions,
I would start singing the praises
of the underground,
small press, indie
literary scene,
and how all I really care about
is being one drop of water
in the ocean’s tidal wave
that rises up
from out the depths
of society’s
collective unconscious
like a dark shadow
of the psyche
that must be dealt with
by a tsunami
that slams down
and washes clean
the corruptive stink
from a decadent culture
that needs a little art
shoved down its throat
and force fed
into its soul;

and if the high
and mighty Judge
allowed me to continue
with my rant,
I’d keep running my mouth
in a dissident tone
and a spitfire cadence
with rhetoric about
a Renaissance Revolution
sweeping across
the dystopic plains
of the land formerly known
as the good ole’ U.S. of A.,
and about how the ashes
of the beaten, battered,
broken remains
of the Beast State
will serve as fertile soil
from which a Phoenix Generation
can rise up
and spread its wings
in a New Age
techno-tribal community
that has absolved the sins
of humanity’s fallen past
to pave a path
into the bright future
that buzzes
with neon lights
of high vibration
along to the sweet sound
of the celestial symphony,
where every awakened
and fully actualized individual
can sing and dance and laugh and weep
and cry and scream and dare to dream
without a gavel
hanging heavy
over their head
at every turn.