False Prophet

A bizzare, surrealist experimental poetry performance I created in 2012.

False Prophet, Chapter 0: False Thoughts

Grasping the existence of individuals. Irony in ultimately ending one’s own life. One must only know with compassion in order to defend one’s own species. Words write themselves on a page inexplicably- “Justify the worth of your brethren, or they will be disintegrated.”

Represent an arbitrary experience in human history. A schizo hears judgement. One is given words from unknown beings. Answer these aliens. Spend hours justifying. Do not justify human existence on a whole, but through each individual experience. That is where the falseness sets in, where discouragement lingers. The only egalitarians now are no one. Do not reference abstract mimes or disciples, but read between the circles.

Little future boy will be raped by nothing in particular. One roots out the molten sap in skeletal remains. Two beings shoving tongues down each others throats and no end is in sight. A doll riding a man. Bearded skulls flickering while people don’t take death seriously. Repetitive dreams opening up with the smoke rising sideways. Lips start moving while extinction is looming.

False Prophet, Chapter 9: The Helium Road

The incomplete world where gravel and glass are in distance from further than forever ago. I’ve been in the dry heat for hours… too many chemicals pulsing through my body. I’m sinking under the lines. Striking the first thing seen. Diluting the water within. Put coal in my bowels and cook my brain. The infinite shards of glass cut my soles and then melt into my skin like the asteroids that came before. The rings of blood around my ankles.

The smell of dust and salt without water. The incomplete messages on the chalk board that won’t exist in front of me. How I will have my periods of nothingness done in a timely manner. A wasteland of suburbs where the dirt should be. I see old men waiting alone in the wilderness and wonder if they’re evil. I have pity for the rapists and life-takers. Then my love for humans mysteriously sprouts up once again. Then I free myself from my own self.

The planet wobbles on its axis while men in suits race by us. Everything is shaking with a constant hunger for completeness. The ship on a maiden voyage rocking back and forth will know how to stay afloat. Until it sinks. When I was young I yearned for penitence. I went to confession and he told me it was okay. He asked if I could trust that the church would not fall on top of me. I figured I could trust the stones and wood. He said faith in God is like having faith in the building not crushing you. I can put faith in trees and the Earth for most of the time, but God is made up of men and violent water, which I could not bear to trust for the majority of my short existence. I’m sorry, sad, lonely man but I cannot put faith in a masked shape with blood caked upon its skin and pouring from its clenched fists. I cannot have the love for little children guided by shepherds. Innocence tricked me into believing in dreadful horrors when I was a little child.

And so the pathway to the sky unfolded in my eye once the priest went behind the curtain; the road built with fragile, multicolored balloons. I will die over and over and under again on that pathway. Once I reach suborbital space I won’t be satisfied. We must keep him frozen in cryogenic sleep. Dreaming of mice made of metal, and knowing there is no praying in the vacuum of nothingness.

False Prophet, Chapter 8: Decaying Eagle

There is no progression. There are no cycles. No dogma, no perception, no light in order to guide you. There is nothing inside that you can unlock and release into the world. There is only static. Creation is arduous, grueling, all bottled up and only leaking slowly. Meaning perpetuates in the most insignificant ways. Absorb the exterior while simultaneously denying it any sway. Keep shaking your limbs. Even the animals we harvest ingest anti-anxiety medication. You shove Prozac down a chicken’s throat.

We call ourselves the sons of ages. Humanity has suffered tradition for millenniums . Why was freedom given thought only a few years ago, when people took up arms and signaled the coming of a new age; a breath of fresh air coursing through our hollow skeleton? All of that, only to forget the agenda we so heartily bowed towards, how we prostrated to justice. How admirable we were, and only to hide in caves once again, huddling in darkness. Was that you under the bed? I could have sworn I saw a bird speaking to the night.

Murder people and clone them so you can replace them and no one will ever know. You will have control. Ejaculate before you commit suicide so your children may inherit the Earth. Feel true rest in the asphyxiation forest as the molten sap melts your skin. Erase the hidden text on the binding. There is a hole in the Earth. We fill the gaps in our teeth. We root out the innocence. Replace it with night. The black that came before is here.

False Prophet, Chapter 7: These Beating Wings

It’s that time of year again. That time I stuff shit down my throat. The hours spent with sliding excrement clogging the tubes. The bright red blood in my stool. The shining fluid ejected. The dull and dense glorious empire, stuck upside down, cracked into two, withering away until drunks usurp the shattered throne. Would you rather be ruled by barbarians or perverts? You have no other choice. Rip out your hairs one by one, until your shoulder blades lament from forcing those imaginary feathers which were once all pieced together. Your liver is plucked from your gullet, and you can hardly choke. You reference that which you have learned time and time again. You repeat the process, you mimic others words. Then you do nothing, and you exist again. The same rhythmic sound turns itself over and over and you molest him from above. You control it from behind. You discover the power that inhabits within, you crave it just so you can abandon the pain. Your soul is damned.