Surreal Romanticism

Creation from Nothingness.

A declaration of being here and there

There exists another hemisphere 

that appears to me on a horizon

—a singular point 

which Atlas holds in the palm of his hand, 

joining heavens and earth,

bodies to souls 

of those who exist without the rigidity of space or time.

An outer sphere where the lungs gasp for air

the soul chokes and the body dies 

only to be resuscitated by surrealist notions 

of wanton existential unconscious connectivity 

of the five senses of collective human being, 

it is here 

I am

of the nitrogen of the ethereal hemisphere, 

of the hydrogen of Hiroshima, and 

of the oxygen and carbon of the stars, 


I am Schrodinger’s cat, 

I am the fifth symphony, 

I am the beginning and end and all that is in between. 

I am the Alpha and Omega. 

I am of the gods, 

of one god, 

but do not wish to be acknowledged as such, 

for true gods ask not of admiration, 

nor fear, 

but simply exist, 

absentmindedly walking amongst the addicts and pimps

—an intermediary doppleganger.  

Not tethered to the earth but free floating 

amongst the multi-dimensional membranes, 

of which, still harbor the blueprints for the tower of babel 

and the combustion engine respectively. 

A crossroads at which the devil buys and sells the souls of the nine muses 

and secular religions are sold on the black market. 

This I know because I am omniscient. 

I am Gottlieb Leberecht Muller. 

—a principle of uncertainty

I walk the length of the Great Wall of China wholly open to possession. 

I channel anyone whose hung themselves with their passions. 

It’s impossible for me to define myself 

as myself is none other than an infinite number like me. 

Destined to live eternally in Elysian fields but with earthly appetite, 

with a body that can never fulfill the souls desires

—the thirst of third circle of hell amongst Paradiso. 

—the minotaur amongst Time Square

devouring holy men and women

Damn Gertrude Stein! 

Damn Muhammed! 

Newtonian Physics be damned! 

I will stand alone, 

naked before the Roman Inquisition, 

before the Great White Throne, 

happily and silent and warm, 

bathing in the rays of Galileo’s sun. 

I will eat of the Forbidden Fruit again. 

I will succumb to the lust of Plato. 

I will touch and be touched by the hands of Kali. 

I will brandish my phallus and let Freud consume my ego. 

I will crawl on my belly as did the serpent. 

I will share in the eternal dance of The Judge 

I will walk the river Styx. 

I will exploitation

I will life, as life is will

and am reborn in the blood of Christ

in the second cumming 

in the land of fuck, 

through the revolving door that is the cunt of Jocasta. 

To live out my days in Solomon’s harem 

pining for ‘la belle dame sans merci’. 

This is my curse, 

this is my liberation

—my catholic guilt. 

I wish for an ambiguous sex, as

Schizophrenic notions 

of Apollo and Dionysis are all I have 

to help bridge the gap 

of my Cartesian Duality

in the palm of Atlas’ hand 

and I am happier for it

at least I think

Think something that nobody has thought yet, while looking at something that everybody sees.

—Arthur Schopenhauer (via toelovingpanda)

Forever looking uninterested

Forever looking uninterested

The imagination is not a state:
it is the human existence itself.

—William Blake  (via rabbitinthemoon)


How foolish his aim had been!  He had tried to build a breakwater of order and elegance against the sordid tide of life without him and to dam up, by rules of conduct and active interests and new filial relations, the powerful recurrence of the tide within him.  Useless.  From without as from within the water had flowed over his barriers: their tides began once more to jostle fiercely above the crumbled mole.

-James Joyce, “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man”

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

—Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (via knight-liluori)


There’s a hole where my heart should be

where once one rested

but was benumbed

where rests my hand, a top, 

to hide what should be.

There’s a hole where my heart should be

that wants to be

so I fill it with empty promises and 

even emptier dreams, and though 

she lays so close

she feels far away.

There’s a hole where my heart should be

where once one rested

but was pierced

and no matter how hard I try

never is full or half empty

and that will never warm

and I can never feel 


There’s a hole where my heart should be

where rests my hand, a top

our secret, that only I keep

but that I can never tell

you, or her, or they

and sometimes

I raise my hand, but just a little

to see the void beneath

and in this 

hollow feeling

you feel so close

as you lay

so far