The Second Coming of Fish-Eye

that is the title of a long poem i am working on. it is based on one of the people i imagine, one of they who keep me sane

I always say i will update, then i just post anew, haha. Lies, lies..

I constantly hear that people are hopeless when they believe nothing matters in the end. They find no motivation, no reason to carry on. I thought about this as i walked along this afternoon.... Believing that nothing *matters* in the sense that people typically mean gives me a feeling of total freedom. It makes me much happier. It isn't stressful, it doesn't cause me worry. All i have to do is be alive, i can concentrate on my constant curiosity and analysis of things. I can spend my life exploring and appreicating what has been put around me on this world, in this particular reality i currently exist in.. If i could explore other realities, alternate universes, i would be a happy camper.
Anyway, I suppose people don't make much sense to me, sometimes.


One of my favorite poems of all time - "Bestiary" by Pablo Neruda. I feel as if he wrote it while looking at my soul.

It is, indeed, frustrating... infinitely frustrating.. to be so seemingly limited in communication with the world outside of humankind. interaction is possible, but it is not the same... i wish it were, the limits are so unfair! There must be some further means of conversing, something outside of traditional language. I have to find the secret. If i must become part of the Earth to fully understand, so be it. Until then i won't stop striving.
I love it all too much.

I am on the decline yet i feel magic. And sort of electric.

I would like to crawl down
into the furnace and let
the plastic melt from me, so i
may be born.

a shell fell into my arms...
knocked down by the storm
a little earth womb between my
clumsy fingertips.

This is the room where my demons live
The walls are blank stares since i took my past down
As if that meant it didn't exist..
Bookshelves lined with worlds and the corner
where i used to cry out for my soul, to pray,
looks lonelier, even, than I. Pitiful.
It begs me to pick up those books, to kiss them
And hold them like holy children again.
Pages and pages waiting to claw my eyes out
with memory and feeling..
Dresses hang in closets without bodies
And nobody to love them.
My old camcorder does not work.
But if it did, there would be nothing
worth capturing
for later

Just old scribbles. See you soon.