NW: o - fractured fractals

12/9/12

It's hard sending sentences through the ethereal ether between realities. When I shattered all of time & space a year ago, I should have known that it would take awhile to reply. 

The witches rage on the second floor, the child of prophecy kicked from within Hela in my hands, the defeated serpent rises and coils as I recover in his lair, now purified by sex Magick & Miss Jackson tragedy. 

My round table grows and so does my influence over confluences of synchronicities. I'm drawing in the internets and the pressure forces from me endless tears. I am stronger than ever yet continuously tested.

Everything has settled, and broken apart once more. Adrift at sea I finally can be myself again. In the stars on the screen I find the vision for the future, another chunk revealed and laid upon the map. 

My body hurts. The bacteria infestation dredged up in Vegas has taken its toll, as the humid winter rain makes me ache. I shower and sip at a cup of noodles, laid back in Superman PJ pants, watching super ninjas smile on VHS. 

Laying upon the couch of comfortable confession, where my Lancelot did lie rotting in his misery, I try to regain my strength as suddenly the Apocalypse is upon us. In two weeks it will be the end of all I've ever known. 

NW:O - Last Minute Cramming

12/17/12

Less than five days from the end date December 21, 2012, I'm sitting at Legion bar, sipping a $3 Atomic lager, about to attempt to write a state of the union.

I slept all day. So much of my life to go through, mark up for sale, and get rid of. So many scripts that need putting down, if only I could focus for a handful of hours without a chaotic curveball thrown my way. Chapters of my novel memoir sitting & waiting to be edited and compiled. 

Doing pretty good despite my holiday experience years past. Between the Santas of the dreaded Santacon I wanted to assault, the complete lack of any money beyond survival and a fair amount of booze, and working in Times Square, I just can't join in the festive cheer. 

I have more friends than ever, closer than ever to pulling off assembling a team to create, produce, and market digital comics & more, my social anxiety is kept at bay and my Magick flows easier than ever. 

I'm not sad. Though I feel sad. I am mad though, and I'm finally okay with that. Trying to confront all the issues I have with others, that others have with themselves, and make it out the other side a confident man. But also keeping true to my approach of enlightenment & betterment for all those around me. 

The next year, the first year I never imagined myself beyond, will be amazing as I reach heights I never thought possible. I'm plugged into Brooklyn's night life, art scene, and dancefloors. It'll only grow from here as I begin to really live however I wish. Tattooed, bearded, and successful. 

I read the synchronicities all about me in order to gain my strength in Magick, from the Neverending Story up on the big screen showing Atreyu as he crosses the gateway, to my recent I-Ching pulls, the most powerful & positive in 18 years. 

If I keep myself moving forward there will be nothing but success, and great rewards. That's certainly been true for a long time now, but the rate is increasing. The improbable becoming so easily possible as to barely be a second thought. 

The desert is so you can be so alone as to reconnect with your reader, your inner ego audience, the one you're writing this insane tale for. Your child, or any child, that may lose himself in your recorded misfortunes, your deeds and daring-do.

Be stripped and powerful more. Strength of will outdoes any physical combat, emotional fortitude bests any armor. The battle is within the elements, though we struggle through the mundane too long to see it clear. 

I rely on these words, on this manner of writing, innate & revealing, to make sense of the blurring of the Known, to write myself into righteous action, to make me into a man upon whom others can rely.

Or at least I'll try. 

NW:O - Brooklyn Bound Bringer of Chaos

12/19/12

They drink to the Holidays, and I drink to distract, to repress depression, to be alone with them altogether as one united celebratory force, but it feels false. As ever I don't belong.

My heart aches and I'm soul tired. Nothing new for December, or any other month for that matter. It's comfortable more than I like it, but that's preferable to being responsible for anyone else's good time.

The Brooklyn Nets are barely ahead on the big screens at Good Co., and finally I'm paying attention, though every time I watch them just lose. I could have scored tickets to see them in the new Barclay's Arena but I had to work. Sports still don't inspire fanaticism in me but it's something to do.

Mostly I smoke for the same reason. There's only so much a person can sit against the wall of a bar awkwardly as the masses congregate. At least I write on my smartphone, putting down the abstract horror of social anxiety into words that will ideally inspire others, but really it's to distract myself in the end. 

And this is the end. I need a drastic life change before I can manage to move forth from this mire of self-imposed exile. It's been so all-consuming that I don't know anything else. My life is spent outside looking in, no matter how close I make it within. Inner circles, cliques & crowds, scenes of make believe I can never buy into. 

The only place I belong is the dancefloor. There my body anticipates the peaks of the beats, and my frame twists and turns into a beast of life. Everyone lies outside my bubble time, and they find my moves irresistible, admiring my dedication to celebration.

But that all relies on faulty DJs who spin songs without concern for the mechanics of dance and the social wavelengths that falter when the jams become jarring, forcing us to face the ridiculousness of ourselves. If we didn't have that drink in our hands we'd surely be lost. 

Girls play games with averting eyes, lying exposed in coy delivery of subtle cues. But I refute all games with defiance as I retire inside myself. I don't need them, they merely want everything but what I have to offer. So I look away, close my eyes, and sway to the tunes.

At least I have Agent Spider behind me, down & defeated, though he grows more hopeful with every meeting. We both do I suppose, but where once he led us into battle as I rattled around, shyly signing to the ladies that I was hardwired to self-destruct, now I survey the scene like a king of what might have been.

Agent Fenris, the wolf of ill-repute, shakes at his constricting leash, gnashing on my guts, gnawing at my arm to remove this delicate binding upon my wrist. I want to destroy all I see, but first I must make myself royalty, build a kingdom, then wash it out to sea, more out of fight rather than spite.

NW:O - Ragnarok Pre-Game Jitters

12/21/12

Just shy of nine hours until the climax of two decades worth of half-assed mythological and spiritual obsession. Conspiracy theories and time wave graphs, novelty & innovation peaking as communities form around fractured fanatics. This is the Apocalypse I wanted.

Lowkey working alone, my body infested with anti-reality bacteria, dark magicks summoned and beaten back, only just barely. I'm cutting the ties that bind me to humanity after struggling so long to find it. I guess I didn't like what I saw. But what was it exactly that lies before me?

On the flip side of the next day is all the hopes & dreams I could muster since 1992. My own futuristic digital comic device ready to change multi-media storytelling. A group of dedicated creatives ready to do my bidding. A home and a life, if I want it. A family for once.

On this side, right now I'm strangled by a cacophony of noise between the ambient rock in my lightning clad earphones, bucket drumming mass hysteria, and an old man with a fiddle. The L train comes and speeds me off to Brooklyn where I hope to slip into a sickness slumber that will allow me to finally be well. 

There's no signs nor revelations tonight. It's buried inside us, within our semblance of life as usual. Another themed Thursday night dance party, this time with Mayan margaritas and doomsday driven tunes. I can't participate though I want to, always wanted to, but the grand design allows for little expectation & repeated disappointment.

I cut the cord that rests around my wrist tomorrow. Twine from Tom Trainor's wedding, a latch upon my heartfelt desire to retire with Jazz Jones, a woman from another lifetime. Fenris slips his leash in the morn, and no one knows what's in store.

More of the same I'd imagine, with increasing synchronicities and things becoming what they seem, as true reality is re-stitched at every single seam, into something with meaning. But at the heart of it is nothing but dark matter drifting in-between. 

Home, in bed, cold medicine tumbling through my head, I try and maintain for just this next day. The pain is emotional strain against a breakable chain, and suddenly I really don't care to explain, to you or myself, what the source of this unbearable rage is, or what it will become.

NW:O - Apocalyptic Confessional

12/21/12

So today's the day that my entire life has been building towards and all I feel is sick and angry. I flooded my system with cold medicine and slipped into a toasty coma as I let my body recover from the past year, the past decade, the past twenty years.

I went from goofball, comedic sidekick to a gang of role-playing geeks, to perpetual victim of self-centered relationships, to drunken fool running amuck through the streets of the East Village. That all led me to scars and a psych ward visit, whereupon I moved to Brooklyn to build a real life. 

Four years later I have all I was hoping for and it's so ill-fitting that I can only fall back on old habits of burning bridges and bouncing as fast as possible. But is that what I want? Or am I just afraid to speak my mind still? The hostility dredged up as friends & lovers took advantage left & right, because god dammit my feelings should be accounted for!

So, I'll stay and fight, say my piece and hope you get it. I hate that you are making me go to war but perhaps that has been the point all along. Good natured generosity will be exploited and resentment will build, so now my selfishness will be your undoing. 

The twine I wore bound around my wrist was a daily reminder that it was not time, that the pinnacle had yet to be reached. Over the last 6 weeks I have felt an ever-growing hatred towards those under my care, and so now I empty the nest and wait for you to show me what you can do.

Fenrir the Wolf, one of three children of Loki who shall rise to power in the year of the Trickster, 2012, busts his magical gossamer shackle, tear the hand from Tyr, the God of War, and slays Odin, the all-father. 

The Worldserpent, my former roommate Seth, is now loosed upon the earth devouring all in his path, as Ash Baker, mythologically seen as tr Queen of the Underworld, Hela, prepares for the birth of her daughter, the last hope for all mankind as Hell swarms the land. 

I hold her belly and feel the child kick, I hear the empty shamanic tongue wagging and feel the serpent's prick. Jazz is reassembled and redesigned for a logic brain math problem interaction, and though a sucker for my weakness, deconstructing puzzles through masochistic domestic scenarios, an amalgamation of feminine wiles that've laid me low. 

It's a test for sure. She needs me. I hate that. We could take over the world together if it wasn't for my baggage, which only just now at the end of Mayan Cycle coerces me to enforce a no bullshit emotional clause, and the world be damned for my pride. I refuse to deny myself the ego surprise of satisfactory enjoyment of who the FUCK I AM just to keep a moment from being socially awkward. 

No one made exceptions for me, so why do I do it for you? Why can I let the consequences of your interactions be so awful that it'll be a wonder how I survive our next encounter? I am so painfully immobilized that behind my eyes is a rage of stars seeking sage advice.

However, none exists but what I create, for if it is as it was when I was born, and through a childhood of children raised electronic sensation doth make a person of my self, then the collective unconscious of sitcom consensus synopsis is about I got to offer. 

It's so hard for me to be viciously direct, just really say what needs saying, though I have so little time for anything else. The minutiae of dialogue with anyone but who actively shows they respect and love me, fuck it. Not worth my time right? That's what people do, scrape 'em off, you want to save someone save yourself. 

I really don't care anymore, but perhaps that's the point of this Apocalyptic 

NW:O - Prepare Thyself

12/27/12

A man and his cat day after Christmas listening to Pandora's jazz alone against the world. I look at my alter, a disaster zone of childhood trinkets, Atari cartridges, essential graphic novels, and a smattering of photobooth pics. 

I finished the last drag of my smoke and dropped it into a candle I used in intense psychic rituals over the summer. I adjusted my fleece sheet turned house robe/cape/toga, heaved a deep breath and took in my room.

A crash landing of two decades worth of persona debris. Walls of comic book longboxes and crates of VHS tapes, packed away figures and bootleg DVDs. A wardrobe skirting awesome is clumped in crumpled piles, the entire room should be laundered. 

But first some order to this chaos. I'll don my new Flash cap and zap this place into a headquarters for the future. The next year sizzles my frontal lobes as I peer around its edges, though it only confirmed what I saw long ago. 

The eventual, continual, and final evolution of myself, my person, my identity towards the man, the ideal, the super heroic in deed and psychic resonance I aim to be.

In a blink my clothes are hung, laundry slung, and cleaned James' litterbox, swept, and sung out pop bubblegum style dance tracks. 

I collapse to the bed, rainy winter air sweeping the humidity and dust about, as Britney convinces me that threesomes & living in sin is the new thing. Auto-tuned pop princess Barbie doll puppetry for decadently & defiantly delivering ourselves unto evil.

Though the music, the cult movies, the darkness that has infected humanity into emotionally battered sarcascatanauts alone inside guarded personal isolation, this is what will save us when the time comes when we'll have to trust one another to survive another day. 

The dark knights of the soul are ready and misfiring daily. We'll be prepared in seventeen years but only just, and just a lifetime for some. We need to enlighten the masses as we begin the breakdown into gaseous forms, sparks of neuron crisp in fogs of devastation.

Ash, in the dust, grinning, feet planted and gritting doom from her eyes. Blast radius is all relative, and this is her daughter's finest shining moment in time zero future landlines. It's my child's eyes that size me up and I look away into the yesterday, thirteen years is hardly enough time.

And I'll return to the company I built, now just the shell of a bubble hut collection of humanity, all scanning & jamming one another in pajama safety airbag sleeping bags of protoplasm. Electrical activity etching and sketching personas, disposable and multiple at any time every time all the time, everywhere. 

Well, not everywhere. Some have islands of improbable Utopia's that I will pick apart the bloated carcass of psycho-social-science-wise and process to the final masses. They'll be out there, flying, boating, building, scheming, but it's just the wheedling down of mankind's spirit. 

I'll stand over an empire of empty streets, running rampant through it triumphantly in twencen nostalgia, and none will know why. Every deadly sin dies with me, the Reborn Lucifer drives a spear right through me. A blood pressure trigger blows New York City to ruins, I'll take her with me before I let him have her.

But that's so far to go. Valhalla only accepts those that do battle, so it is time to go to war, for I can sit silent no more. 

NW:O - Glitchy Woman

12/29/12

Back at Legion bar, last refuge in this cold winter night. So much have changed for the better since I last sat here watching the Neverending Story here two weeks ago. 

Landlords dealt with, repairs made to the apartment to make it more hospitable, sickness & depression all but kicked, Christmas with family come and gone. I'm very close to broke though Miss Jackson is transferring funds soon. Even just met up with Josh to discuss writing.

Only one problem remains, the Mega Glitch that's running rampant through my apartment, agitating my existence with every interaction. A casual OkCupid encounter has gone from my extending hospitality to someone rocking the poor bohemian existence, to the tail end of a three year relationship where every word is laced with meaning, every moments becomes an altercation. 

I move fast but this skipped all the emotional courtship and crashed into uncomfortably forced co-habitation. Though on my end it's not forced. She needs a place to stay, her cooking, cleaning, and gifts have been generous as per her means, and it is Christmas after all. 

I did kick her out, or rather sickly confronted her as the Apocalyptic day rolled on last week, asking for my keys back and letting her storm out, when I finally felt at peace. After her mom's care package showed up on Christmas Eve, as Ash & I devoured the goodies, I knew I had to try one more time. 

Not any easier, in fact quite harder, though I'm tougher as I do get in relationships, and can now easily ignore all the games and taunts. Up to a point of course. She's got her own issues and forces kindness upon me and then holds it against me almost immediately. She talks down to me and smugly smiles to herself in the most perfected condescending manner. 

It caught me unawares before but now apathy and a sense of control have made it easier for her to dwell in my trap, let her hang herself with her own guarded bi-polar attitude. It's what I do best after all, take female abuse and process it into shame for them. 

Getting a lot harder to kill 'em with kindness, especially when immense pride comes along with this newfound confidence. And I have had a lifetime of welcomed disrespect. It's mad me angry on a level that, in theory, defies any sense of ethics or morality I may have.

I used to at least take joy in the fact that my suffering brought these people a sense of closure & growth. Now, all I see are whining babies who don't know what to do with themselves, hardly worth the effort to masochistically bow down before. In the end, finally, I now get to ask without a shred of guilt, what's in it for me?

NW: o - I Shall Suffer No Fools

1/7/13

Today is the day when everything begins.

A full year of prepping, planning, exorcising self-defeatist and co-dependent tendencies, organizing a social life, a social media presence, and real world relationships with friends and co-conspirators. I have a job at an entertainment conglomerate, an apartment in Brooklyn, and an army of creatives at my disposal.

It's time to take over the world. Or at least start the process actively. Today's lesson learned is cut ties that bind. If I feel uncomfortable with my interactions with someone, then I address their behavior with levity and yet firmly stating my issues, if those concerns are dismissed then that person is a hindrance and must be culled from the herd. 

It's not easy for me to be cold, so I try and be straightforward with minimal emotional response on my part, but the fact that others will not take my feelings into account to te same degree enrages me. Rather than swallow that and build resentment I must exorcise the source of the problem. 

Everyone's so afraid to tell a friend their faults, and so those people go through life assuming that their behavior is acceptable, never having a relationship built on mutual respect. Once upon a time I took any and all abuse from friends, family, relationships because I had so few people in my life. But do I want to surround myself with those who hit me with negativity?

Maybe you're saying to yourself, you should lighten up, people are sarcastic and make mean spirited jokes that are just jokes. Well, that' bullshit. I've learned that life is fucked, people are fucked, and the whole system of socializing needs a serious kick in the ass, or rather those individuals who are squeaky wheels need to get greased. 

Where do I draw the line? When is it right and justified for me to take a stand? I don't enjoy demeaning, sexist, hurtful humor, so why the fuck do I have to put up with it? I suppose I'm justifying to myself the dismissive nature I'm growing within me. No one else really takes such care, spends such time making sure they are acting appropriately to their own moral code let alone anyone else's.

I really need to discover that fine line where I can be harsh without hesitation, but also precise in my delivery so as to make them into a better person. And yes, by my standards, as I will put my ethics up against anyone's scrutiny. I may not be perfect but I strive to be as close as possible.

More than ever I am able to counter overwhelming emotions with a logical and rational application of thought that makes it so that I do not squirm with an anxious stomach, dwelling on the things I can not change, but also harm the other enough and through shame, the most immediately effective passive aggressive motivator, teach the other person that their behavior is harmful, hopefully leading them to dwell in my stead. I can only hope it leads to personal betterment.

But that's not my problem. They will or won't, but no one babied me through my dark times, through the hours of self-defeating, self-fulfilling prophecy. No one held my hand an talked me through it. Though, that's not true, but those that have are in my inner circle for life. They may have done me wrong as well, but they acknowledged and addressed it. We made peace and moved forward with our friendship. 

So, the tally is one less drain on emotional resources today. Clearing the way for others more deserving of my kindness & understanding, more room for me to be enriched by others. And yet, there's still a twinge of guilt as I saunter on, ignoring the enemies I may be leaving behind me in my wake. 

NW: o - January Adjustment

1/14/13

It's 23 days into the new tomorrow, and all is fucking well.

My rent is paid, I have cash in my pocket and my account, my job is secure with nothing but growth potential and opportunity to advance my creative career, my partnerships are solid if not more than a beginning, my relationships are in the past where they dwell content, and the Witch lies in my arms, with my feline familiar at the foot of the bed. 

My office is about as neat as it's ever been, storage space to spare, as I rifle through endless boxes of VHS tapes, graphic novels, DVDs & CDs, I process each chunk of nostalgia, and process it via Instagram into the masses, where I will turn it into a multi-media empire one dollar at a time. 

I need a new Mac, I have my eyes on a microphone, podcasting and audio editing, videos and short films ready to burst from my brains. But there is an entire year to really get this all of the ground. After that shit is going to hit lightspeed until we hit the Synchronicity. 

Til them create, sedate, and masturbate the blues away, ready your stance and self for a billion awkward battles, for someone must blaze the trail of honest confidence by good natured means. The more I try, the easier it gets, the more I enjoy it. 

Isn't that the key to happiness? Become addicted to betterment, the rest takes care of itself in the end. Don't give up, but set a deadline to grow up, or really just shut the hell up because no one wants to hear you bitch. It's goddamn happy times up in here.

By the end of the month the office will be complete, the life will be fully custom tailored, worn with pride and the baby will be born. Ash's child will sprout before my eyes, just as Latie Donuts begins to rise, and Boston Scott becomes a man, while Chris Pirate and I create comics, all making me into a Superhero.

A super-self persona of current social stature taking a stand against immaturity, anti-sexuality, and blatant disregard for common decency. Stop making bad decisions and accept responsibility, a role-model of lovely ambiguity, enforcer of ethical morality as it applies to our daily lives. Mild mannered and faster than a speeding subway train, able to leap sarcastic cynicism in single bounds, nothing less than emotional vulnerability can pierce my heart. 

NW:o - I cast thee stout

2/23/13

Seven weeks into the New Year, the new beginning I subconsciously programmed into myself is upon me. Every day feels vacuous, ready and willing to be rewritten as I see fit. I can barely find time to put words down however. 

The grind has ground me down, and though tremendous, unlimited potential ripples in every day, I find myself exhausted, spent from merely existing. I'm fine tuning myself to conquer all that has held me back before, but I really just need to slip off the grid an recoup. 

I re-read the ending of my book the Tower of Brahma. It's better than I remember but the magic incantations of my former life are forcing me to press forward, to maintain motivation in the face of restless reckless abandon. There is no breathing room, there are no space.

Metal Hell Rockroom mania blunt honesty diatribe about musical interludes, Christ-like confession at the Dark Altar of Obsession. South Jersey Philly Leo #witchbunny incarnate blazing hellfire tonight! But out in a cave, I shiver and self-emulate domino colliding dreamscapes and long ago yesteryears. 

Revelations of sold and marketed Masterpieces, illustrations for hire no longer lambs to slaughter, but rather superhumans on fire. Decaying even higher, we burn ever brighter, fighting all the time entire. Smash and climb, step out of line, grasp and grab, what's mine is mine. 

I throw some photos at the internet as I force feed, freeing my fever from the freezing temperature outside. Firing squad unties the mind and unravelling lies of conscious third eyes until what is before us is nothing but surprise.

NW:o - Panic NYC

2/24/13

Saturday Night in New York Fucking City and I am wet, shivering in the mist of a wimpy winter. The anxiety seizes my body and I suddenly can not do anything but run away, under the guise of seeking cigarettes, of which, in Chinatown & Soho, there is not a single late night option for nicotine. 

I'm trying not to throw up, letting the remnants of Aderall carry me as Robyn keeps me grounded to dance steps down sad sidewalks of a city I no longer know. I need alcohol to form some semblance of sanity here, so I follow the giant green arrow down Mulberry, peeking out from the side of the Puck Building. 

It leads me to Botanica, my last refuge in the neighborhood, a bar that became home when I lived with a psychopath on Thompson & Bleeker. She said she loved me, but we were the fiercest of contrasts. So similar that we were fighting fights with everyone in our life with one another. 

At least she broke my spirit. Or I broke it over her mental dysfunction and alcoholism. Split in twain that which once was my fractured heart. Always torn between self-sacrifice and world domination. I was broken an bloody in this bar, and they made of me a friend, or at least a regular. 

Nowadays I only hit this spot when lost and alone, wracked with panic attacks and at the end of my rope, and it's always the same. A mixed cocktail of douchey city hipster is consistent here, hence why it's my bar. Bartender Johnny wore an Invisibles t-shirt one night, we got to talking 2012, and I'd see his band Dead Stars. 

I also met Eduardo here, but that man deserves an entire chapter. 

I'm shitfaced an writing poetic prose on a digital handheld device, where my content is held in hard drives and clouds, twenty-first century self-starter, sending fiction into unknown territories. What if Yeats could have riffed out rhythms in keyboard touchscreen taps?

I'm withdrawing and the ladies feel it. They swing into orbit as I warble off key and solitary. I'm too afraid of people. I know how to let loose in public, but when I don't have some manner of buddy, I'm lost and awkward, or even awkward still. I'm socially flinching at every turn, terrified of the...

NW:o - Leaping Years

3/1/13

from suburban loser to anxious asshole at the bar in a lifetime, I mean nine years into a redefinition, an intense focus of prolonged fictional application of persona. 

Now I date witches, witness fire breathing, cookie munching, nymphs of seduction as they redefine the stage, and ride home drunkenly high on successful personification of myself. I try and put down words in order to capture the nonsense of my existence.

I'm 36 years old, which seems old in certain terms, but in Brooklyn it means I've just begun to figure myself out enough to start to date, seeking a return to innocence through the younger female of the species. I've only ever been good at one thing.

Sex, fucking, sleeping with one another is all I know, the female orgasm and the woman's infinite pleasure is my domain. I feel confidence between their thighs that I will never capture in the waking world. That shrug of awkwardness to preserve the continuity of sensuality, I strive endlessly to mimic that in my daily interactions.

Every day is a battle of wills, a test of fortitude against the tide of self-defeatism. My breathing must be stilled, my back cracked and popped into place enough so as to simulate a cohesive body continuity of blood flow and synaptic firing. You got this.

No matter what I've always rolled with what was presented to me. I found it fit in a comfortable sitcom synchronicity, for every good, a bad, leaving me in a diminished personal evolution. But the cycles have gone off the rails, and now here I am in an undefined present, spinning off into a future beyond my imagining.

NW:O - Pride Before A Fall

3/15/13

The couple across the platform make out with reckless abandon, wrapped in tightly wound arms, embracing a quietude to their passionate display. On either side of them are ads proclaiming lips, and temptation, in obvious and blatant manner. 

Is this a sign, a moment of entangled bliss shown to me as a scene of my own creation, inspiring me towards a Spring romance? I just left a date with a gorgeous transgender girl, had the most simple, beautiful nights of my life. 

I am chock full of confidence and swagger, or at least the most my body and mind have ever held at once, and I was thrilled when our legs would tap, calves dry humping in the most innocent of ways. My hand shakes as I figure out the best placement on the back of her chair. 

I try not to drink too much in nervousness, but even over dinner I'd watch her play with her hair, blatantly avoiding my gaze. She must think I am cute and interesting, and all the qualities girls like in a boy. Surely.

I jump on the L back home after meeting up with Jared. I feel weird about mentioning her as a transgender girl, but I want to. It doesn't matter and the fact that I had that inner monologue means that we're not there as a society, which makes me mad, and feel removed from the average person.

But I do tell him how amazing it was, fill him in on the previous insanity life has thrown my way, a suicidal schizophrenic pseudo-girlfriend, a credit card company suing me, and my dad proclaiming himself as my arch-enemy, a role I wrote for him.

Our goodnight kiss will go down in personal history. I felt like a man, fully for the first time in my life, took her to dinner, a date of burlesque, acrobatics, and magic, the stage variety for a change. We sipped cocktails, cuddled up upon the third act, hobnobbed with some performers. 

Afterwards I walked her to the F at Delancey, spun immediately around and softly but firmly kissed just the puckered up edges of her lips. I saw the moment where a tongue would slip inside and instead relished that sensation of pure, physical love for another. 

NW: o - Jazz is Dead

5/25/13

I wake and nothing is as it was, everything was back to normal. She was gone, eradicated from my plane of existence by the forces of law & order. There was a plume of healthy exuberance that surged into the void she tore through me.

In order to be happy I would only have to have the love I suffered with for the better part of a year ripped from me by her own actions. She must have know I was too weak to do what must be done, to say goodbye, forever. 

And I am happy. I don't feel the anxiousness of her impending arrival at my door, the helplessness of her disappearances, the uncertainty of her actions. I fight the impulse to say I never knew her at all, but all evidence says otherwise.

In the confines of my apartment, a floor above her own disaster of a living space which served as a creatively chaotic art project, we'd talk long into the night about the Universe, craft Magick spells, and make love for hours on end. It was everything I thought I wanted, the only problem was, none of it was real. 

Or maybe it was, but the darker psychotic forces were too strong, and every attempt of mine to love her through it only pushed her further inside as she rejected all that I gave to her. I wanted to marry her, care for her, build a life, a family, with her. 

But it wasn't to be. Even I, with near infinite patience and understanding, yes, even I have a limit. And when I watched her wail and moan at every loving sentiment, when I saw her switch into a different psyche, a dark and malicious persona that knew how to tear me down, and even then, I loved her through it all. 

She wouldn't have it, stormed out, and ended everything we had with a gesture meant to appease the new personality she was crafting, and to attack and destroy me at my very core. She knew how to destroy me, I called her bluff, and so, she pulled the trigger.

All of time & space collapsed in on me. I was confined and left with no time. A lamb in the lion's den; naive never looked so pathetic as it did the days I spent processed through the legal system, seeking justice, finding only persecution. 

If only I could speak to her. Tell her it needn't be this way, that all would work out because goddammit I loved her. But that didn't work before, and legally I am forbidden from that now. Another Universe, Alternate Realities lie between us, her security blanket of falsehoods have made it impossible for this to ever be resolved, at least personally. 

And now, there is a judgment coming, and all I know find me to be innocent, as I am redeemed by the truth, but utterly obliterated with the heartbreak of a love lost beyond my ability to save. The Law forbids me, she will not allow me, so convinced of her lies that we will never see one another again. Ever.

I concoct all manner of scenarios where we are past this, a future where I am rich beyond imagination, above laws and statues of limitations are nothing to a man of my stature, when it's okay that we see one another again, we can talk, and hold one another.

But it's my lie, one that I have to tell myself to make it to tomorrow. With every passing day I feel the addiction to the intense emotional pain she subjected to me fade. It never was love, not for her. It was another story, a construct to provide her with what she needed in the moment. 

Or she loved me, knew she was doomed, and did what she thought best to make sure I would, could, never ever contact her again. I don't feel like she wanted to punish me. She knew I loved her. 

I made her eat when she was anorexic, held her when she cried, sat at her bedside in the hospital when her kidneys were failing, cleaned her wounds when she tried to kill herself. She knew I loved her, how much I loved her, she must, for I showed her every day in every way I knew how. 

Not that any of that matters. She's lost to me, while ensnaring my own life in a frozen eternity of peril, a dangling sword of Damocles lingering in every moment of every day. So I process the heartache as best I can, 

NW:o - Memory Mesmerism Memorial

5/27/13

I sat indoors all day editing chapters of my writing, looking back at moments caught in poetic phrasing, words I had written in desperation for salvation, guidance, and redemption. Seven years ago I was as naive a twenty-nine year old as you could find. 

Now, at thirty-six, I sit on the toilet in my Brooklyn apartment, the continual stream of traffic from the BQE comforts as I gaze up at the Freedom tower framed in dusk magic hour sunlight. My life has become complicated, endangered and invigorated, beyond what I could have imagined. 

As everything I know is threatened, every nightmare realized, thrown into the great societal slaughterhouse that is the justice system, shown daily that the economic imbalance is primed for revolution, I am given the clarity of my vision. A new kitschy distraction for your handheld device of choice, which will provide me the means to rule over the masses.

Part Steve Jobs by way of Walt Disney, God's wrath towards the Tower of Babel shall I be, organizing the dissemination of the entire organism we call Mankind. What force collects the water droplets in the air just so as to create the swirling, cotton masses in the sky? That is who I answer to.

A king shuns his kingdom, feeling unable to rule, preferring the cold touch of the Fey, seeking solace in the simple magical wonder of the Universe Entire. Time to wake, work, and re-shape all of existence into a manageable mass extinction event.

I'm not here to stop it, though some will try. I will guide its course and drive it home, spilling open the body of the whale, annihilating the hero's journey, disemboweling pop culture's corpse to rain its entrails upon thee.

You have some time world. I have only begun my climb to Purgatory. I may be in the dark still, but I have a glimmer of hope that we can be saved. 

NW:O - the Rise & Fall of Charles Crown

6/8/13

My name is Charles Crown. I also go by AgentFenris, but that's only when I need to invoke my magical self to conquer some imaginary mission of some manner. Like now.

The full line-up of Man's Seven Mortal Sins stares me down from along the ceiling of the bar. It's my local dive and as such I have been here in many altered states, at pivotal moments, but not once did I notice them. 

It's a reminder from the Devil that he owns me, no matter how hard I rage, that final human alone with the darkness will be just me in a cage. I traded my soul & sanity for an empire, or I will, or already have, it's hard to keep track. 

But things are on track, the synchronicities are saturating my existence. The Good, falsely accused, seen bad by a corrupt System. Imprisonment flashes meant to scare me into running only reinforce the Happy Ending of it all. 

Truth is, I am Christ-like, a Buddha blossoming, leaving only fertile earth females who'll sing my praises. I take pride in that for I am a benevolent being, seeking only to save, to heal, to empower. No one need fear me, save all who fear seeing themselves in the best light possible. 

I'll save this world, with words carved at dive bars on smartphones, three sheets to the wind, and Instagramming the scrawl of this Century's rebellion decorating piss covered bathrooms. We've lost all aesthetic realism, now embrace magical symbolism for reality absolute, for that is all that we have left to grasp hold of.

I'm sorry it's taking me a lifetime to come to power but any faster and I'd be father of all decimation, rather than the wolfbeast of annihilation, and though there seems to be little difference in the charred ash of civilians, it means everything to me. 

I puff away at my e-cigarette, a joke of future-tech, vaporous nicotine seeping into lungs, somehow killing me less than paper, tobacco and flame. A husky of notable size saunters into the bar, the wolf domesticated, it tells me all I need to know.

You're here hanging out with beings that love you, pet you, provide you with love and let you do the same in return. The give you sustenance of a fair flavor and the thrill of the hunt is forgotten in civil obedience training. You're part of the family, but not a fucking aware human being.

You're a dog. Stupidly sentient, unconditionally trainable as a slave of emotional discharge from stunted people unable to connect emotionally and/or emotionally to an animal that can reason and reply. Bred and raised to be a beast of burden for simpletons who can not possibly love another. 

I am not that. I died and cried wolf, but I am more than a human as they exist today. I am a fresh soul in the mix-up mash-up freestyle world of outs. 

NW:O - Nigrendo Totale

7/2/13

The 13th Apostle rises from the heart of the Black Sun, simultaneously sacrificing sanity and self-preservation in the name of humanity and evolution. What is his purpose, perhaps some ill design? Or is this the end, another sign of the times? What arcane ties lie in my bloodline?

I swipe magick here and there, slapdash alchemy swapping nervous ticks for thriving tocks. Burn away the blackened shell of my descent unto 13, lined up in time between Fire & Water Dragon zodiac signs, now Pagan postulating in modern times. 

It's all just simplicity and application of occult symbolism, but know that this is the death of nihilism, so rejoice you carefree fucks, your wish just came true. As time unwinds you'll find that the Atalnteans are amongst you awaiting igniting fires, the great smoldering flame sparks again.

So I welcome you Death Incarnate, and when I find your pistol pressed to my temple, you'll find me ready and willing to comply. Take from me what you will, and I fear nothing but your touch, and even that I will conquer given time. I know you are my father, and that will be my strength, my vulnerability your weakness. 

Ancestors of Gods, Born of Man, siphoned sacredness taught to belie your smiling lies, but belief is beyond a non-existent persona, and I have one just for you. Crafted from discomfort, broken Aryan Germanic master-plan is undone by Seven Mortal Sins sitting inside. When I see your eyes, you'll be surprised to believe that I am a child of nowhere, emptied of desire. 

New World: Order - Foxes & Diamonds

9/27/13

Reynard Descartes sat cross-legged at the bar, silently whispering secrets to strangers thorough subtle gestures of subterfuge. He once sowed seeds of discord among the masses, seducing the self into sabotage. Now, he was tired, unsatisfied with his life, signifying chaos consuming his very being.

I walked in without a prayer for salvation. A burnt out husk, a hollow persona, a dog without a bone. It was the twilight of my despair, robbed of all I believed in, caught fast in the web of venomous destiny, I was alone in the fiercest sense of the word.

A whiskey & beer welcomed me to end. I sipped both in alternating swigs, unable to really piece together thoughts without willing them into banishment. The bartender and clientele didn't bother to acknowledge my existence, which made me finally be able to sit in agreement with them.

Reynard sized up the soldier who sat inside me. He seized me with his attention, seeing past my shimmering insignificance, searing my soul with a semblance of satisfying acceptance. His fingertips danced along the bar sending soundwaves through the veins of wood, amplifying echoes of the dead tree. 

I could not be moved, lest it was to raise the pint glass to my face. I had given up the ghost, surrendered the battle to the crushing weight of witchcraft. I was a cursed wolf, unable to howl to my satisfaction, despite the waning full moon that drifted casually in the night sky.

Reynard was a man of many means, who means what he says, yet does nothing overtly, so it surprised even him as he shifted stools down closer to my person. He sat just outside my personal space firing lasers from his eyes that shook me to my core. His clean cut, fancy demeanor dangled in my peripheral.

"'alo, my friend." 

"Must have me mistaken," I grumble through the gravel in my throat, "I don't have any friends."

Another sip of whiskey helps choke down that inalienable truth, that cosmic constant. It's been years since I could say I had friends. Long before the End of the World as I knew it. Though I tend to invalidate those as memories of comfort and camaraderie disappear from my timeline. 

"Ahhh, but we both know that is not quite the truth, no?" His accent was as slippery as his sentiment.

"I suppose you'd know better than me."

I vaguely recall a roundtable discussion of creativity and inspiration among peers, a collective that came together to preserve the collective unconscious. But that was before. This was now. My life was all but forfeit in the face of the oncoming storm, the final great obliteration of this wayward dimension.

I turned to look at this slick new companion. Hardly your average barfly in my local dive, he had an air of mystic and a charm of the divine. Skinny tie and pea coat, polished boots and glistening wristwatch. It was nearly midnight. Any moment the Fall would be upon us. 

He cocked an eyebrow as we made eye contact. "Like what you see?"

"You look...", I didn't want to say familiar but that's how it felt. 

"Come, monsieur, sit and drink with me. I could use the company, and I suspect so could you."

He coaxed me into a booth against the far wall with another round. I was all but broke, having blown all material wealth on trivial pursuits that afforded me no purchase in polite society. I'd drink on anyone's tab, especially this ginger ponce. 

"What do you want then?" I shot first.

"Is that all there is? An exchange, a transaction, a..."

"Everyone wants something, and nothing is free, but yeah, everything is permitted." 

He sat upright, lean and streamlined, legs crossed, cocktail glass perched in his raised fingertips. He was handsome, but so much so that I despised him, thought him privileged and pompous. Fuck him and his pity, though I continued to sip the drink he procured for me. 

"So weary, an immense sadness in the eyes. Tell me, it must be a woman who has brought you so low, for only the fairer sex has caused such agony."

"As a matter of fact...", I begin to blurt out, before realizing who I am and what's been done to me. It's not wise to speak as freely as I once did.

"Naturale! I have my own woes in that category." His eyes dropped from my own as he shook his head in an effort to shake something free, to no avail. "To women!"

He raised his glass, expecting me to follow his lead, which I did, clinking to the commonality of man's suffering at the hands of woman. It's a long sung song that's overshadowed by suffrage and sentimentality towards the thousands of years following the end of the Age of Isis, born with Adam's rib being ripped from his side. 

As I took a gulp of beer a female caught my eye. She was as gorgeous as any of them, with curly hair bound at the top of her head. Her eyes held smiles, though I knew her heart held lies, for they all did. False emotions that could twist and turn at a moment's notice. 

"Ahh..", he licked his lips after a subtle sip, "it's best not to dwell upon the miseries they instill within us."

"Easy for you to say." I almost let more slip from my lips.

A jagged scar adorned my forearm, and my heart, from long lost forlorn love. A childhood friendship that resurfaced with nothing but lies, re-sculpted into romance that was as ill-fitting as betrayal could manage. As much as I tried to hide, it was plain as day in my eyes. 

"What can be done, then? Only to be the man we aim to be." He smirked as if I cared what his troubles were and that we shared some commonality in our mutual delirium. 

"Our options are then to die a slow death at their hands, or perhaps a quick death at our own?" I sought some manner of respite.

"Perhaps. Alas, all our spirits suffer our passions."

Was that the reality of the modern condition? To suffer indelibly the pains of that which drives us to be more, that which makes life worth living, the basis of inter-sexual relations relegated to being a mathematical equation of no more consequence than the calculations of genetic and societal constrictions? 

It's A Man's World came on the jukebox and James Brown sings it better than the rest of us could. It's all for them, one way or another, and you may as well be a gentleman about it. I believed in love, I saw it with my own eyes, born from my own chest. It was the most real thing I'd ever experienced in this or any other lifetime. 

"She never loved you." He let it slip from his lips like syrup saturated with venom. He didn't mean to kill me, but he had. 

"Defiance was what I was raised to embrace, so fuck that, I will see to another fate..." I wept for untold tales and woes that would not be mine to carry. "Fuck."

"Whyy...sob...why does it have to be this way?" 

"They do what I ask, always have, always will." He looked repentant and hollow as he said this. "I only want to love myself."

Fuck that, and suddenly there was a gun pressed against Reynard's skull. It seemed to rest in my grip, cocked and loaded at the end of my fist. My arm somehow complacent in this decision, but really all in alliance with my heart, which had severed all ties to my mind mere moments ago. 

"I don't care, I'll love the jagged edge of her until it kills me." There was a method to the madness of love, I will never give up on that belief. 

"So, you see her as she is?" He leaned in with anticipation. 

"All I see is the woman I love." It was the most honest statement ever uttered by these lips.

"She is not of this plane, an impossible object, too precise a device to exist, certainly not in sympathetic harmony with another. You must know this."

I found myself inhaling the remnants of a cigarette I don't recall lighting, sucking in the poison, reveling in it destroying my throat and lungs. It was calming and familiar. And that was the beginning of the end. 

He knew all my moves as he'd made them before. He was no different than me, a classic testing the new model. He was tired, alone, empty. I thought I knew those things but they've only just begun for me. The truth only did one thing, made reality unbearable. 

"Jazz Jones is real. There is someone there to redeem, a persona that needs love and TLC beyond what even I know." The idea of her was jumbled, scattered across several dimensions, but it didn't matter. He'd find a way to reach her, all of her, and unite the pieces. 

But the only pieces there were him, and me, with a firearm to his head. No one else knew because they couldn't see into fourth dimensional space, but time flowed there as well, so when he slipped my aim and dropped into the stool beside me, well, I couldn't argue with realtime space so he stood there apologetic in his transfer of responsibility.

"You bastard."

New World: Order - The Donut Seduction

2/10/14

She comes wrapped in sugar sweetness but there is no sweet filling, only the rotten core of modern feminism, dysfunctional sexuality, and limited emotional capacity. Yet again I find myself saturated with sentimental sentiments, caught in a relationship of potential, with none of the payoff.

I should learn at some point, to cut the ties, stem the tide, delay the inevitable decay of romantic notions from my mind. But this is the end of it all, no more can my spirit stand tall in the face of ambivalent emotionality. A final test I hope, one that pushes me to the other side of sane, where I no longer need to slap words together to soothe my wounded soul.

She's the tease, a taunt, a succubus of sugar coated fury, here to dismantle my sex drive, before it harms anyone else, meaning myself, once again. I don't care anymore. The lust has been bust, and now I no longer know why I care. Remove the prize, and watch the shift in the eyes, because this nightmare has begun to rise from me. 

I hate that foolish romantic that sees naught but the best of folk, hoping against hope that I shan't once more be the dope, that I won't hang myself with the available rope. That I won't fall in love with those who can't love and that I will find what I need inside. That I needn't cry every time I allow someone inside. 

But I do, as I have, and will once more. Then, I close the door. My balls ache with fury and no more will I suffer their wrath. Better to have the whole libido under wraps than be under constant attack. Alice was lost, in a land where sweets were sour, and the knight who sought her, high up in her tower, well, he's given up, conserved his power.

You were never worth it, and you never will be. You don't want healing, you want placidity, a temporary patch on a deep boo-boo, until you knew that I was hurt too, then rejection and impulsive lashing out would remove the problem for you. I'm an afterthought in the dilemma of being you. 

I want to put a bullet in my head. I want death, more than ever, even as I inch closer to the finish line. Fuck all of this, whatever I was given, time enough for calamity & misfortune to grow to exponential rates, for my heart to be dragged along endless rakes, just please let my suffering end for goodness sakes. I can not lie next to an empty vessel any longer!

I imagine slicing along veins, allowing blood to pour from within my skin, all out onto the floor and what's more, I feel my mind begin to explore that ethereal realm. 

New World: Order Self-Reflection From the Abyss

5/13/14

If only you could talk out all the neuroses in order to nail them down to the cross of obsession compulsion, spear the anxiety from your person, kill the subconscious, rationalize the existence. 

But words are all we have. Archaic symbols that mean almost next to nothing in this day and age, so disconnected we are from meaning, one another, and ourselves. To not know how to want, to be unable to be happy, these are the great plague of modern man. To feel so unworthy of love to dwell in a lifetime of denial, rather than face the brilliance of the truth. 

Are our true natures really so base and vile as to invite despair and hopelessness to inspire us to our worst, knowing innately that we are indeed doomed, beyond salvation in all it's forms, or perhaps, in reality, too lazy to do the work involved to self-improve?

I have always driven myself, to the point of obsession, to overcome any obstacles of the self that are built into a white, middle class, male human being with one foot in the 20th Century and a firm grasp of the future. I am of the wrong generation, born ahead of my time, living in the past, so caught up with my own faults as to never overcome them but just create opportunities to repeat them, a Phyrrian victory with a Christ Complex structure. 

I'm going to be driven mad straight into sanity over the next few weeks. I know I can withstand the blows, for one decade was spent in penance, and another in decadence. In the former I reject complacency and conformity, in the latter I wish only for companionship and consistency. I know no creativity without conflict, I know no peace without stability.

New World: Order Love Me to Death

5/20/14

Agent Odette Coquette is a beauty unparalleled. She had bound into my life, leaping to freedom, taunting me into escape, alluring liberation lies beside her. Clumsily, I followed.

Once outside the limits of all I knew, I held her, beyond all comprehension, a goddess of a girl, the best and brightest I had laid eyes upon. It awoke a love I have been building, breaking, and repairing for an entire lifetime so I could give her all she needed.

She danced, once. She doesn't talk about why she doesn't anymore, though I see more to the disguise, the beguiling eyes that entrance to inspire and fantasize, capturing attention from guys, innocent wonder and playful malice flicker inside. 

The act is the show, is all she may know, to dream again and feel oh so full of purpose and self, seems an impossible task. Though what I recognize is that self-destructive impulse pulsating beneath a fear of the world, confidence shaken as latent issues rock the foundation of herself. 

At first we make for unlikely partners, miss-matched team-up, both too torn down to love. She remained a Quantum Enigma, a Schrodinger's Crazy Cat Lady of unpredictable impulse, while I, fresh from internal incarceration, scared stiff, still in shock, reclaiming my former persona in post-Armaggedon.

As Ragnarok was called, so too were we, to duty. That's when the Valkyrie began to rise within her. And I, she knew, was a monster, Fenrir, Son of Loki, slayer of the all-father Odin, was a wolf in sheep's clothing, despite feeling like the boy who cried to his demise.

She turned on me with no mercy, tearing my psyche to shreds, gutting me there on the hotel bathroom floor. All purpose, worth, and strength left me and so I continued the charade that would see me to the end. I vented and raged, threatened my own life over and over, then simply needed her gone, but I was powerless in her presence.

Finally she destroyed me. Punctured my heart through years of armor, laid low the beast of captivity in my canine soul, ended my Ego, and revealed my mind. I felt broken inside though in time I knew I would be fine. But what was the physical trauma I was experiencing, so used to the affect heartbreak brings but so foreign a feeling still. 

I shook with anxiety, my mind raced, I ran scenarios and situations, tried all positions on for size, imagining her thighs, opening up to receive this guy, this photographer sleeze, though in my heart I know it was her on her knees, eager to please. She wanted him and had him, til she had her fill. And who was there to make sure she didn't spill?

Odette is the swan princess of which she is named, in beauty, grace, and charm, but as a Coquette she is nothing but the tease, seductress, succubus, feasting upon adoration. Odile is darkness, subconscious unresolved, a monster of her own making, a truer self never seen. 

This is why I'm here, with her. I stood up after that. I held her hand, kissed it, acknowledged all she knew herself to be, and continued to love her the same as I had the first moment our eyes met. I cleared away debris to see there was more of me than I realized. A monster that will not die, that has been freed.

I played the Fool, forced my hand, and ultimately took a stand. I am no longer bound, as the Spanish music pounds from below, subway rattles past, sirens squelch in the night, I am still inside. The shakes have passed once more. I proved all I needed to, and for now work must be done. 

Looking over at her, brushing her hair from her neck as she looks away, attempting not to glare my way in slight discomfort from the sheer love rays firing upon her face from mine. I grin like a madman, but only because gazing upon such a radiant and regal lady, I know I found a Princess. My Queen.

We will make an appearance in the court, mixing with the common folk, before soaring off to behold such beauties of burlesque, knowing my lust to be real, and mine, for her, for them, for the world! 

New World: Order - Fuck Bitches, Write Stories

10/17/14

Never sleep with your assassins, let alone fall in love with them. But how could I help it? She was my first true success, a perfect amalgamation of broken ballerina and psychic scarred succubus capable of seducing even myself, the master of masochistic co-dependency. 

She broke me, in the best way possible. I'd never again want for a woman who would not woo me, forever forsaking those who wouldn't lie with me and merely lie to me. True Love is a dead concept of no more consequence than the passage of time, no more concrete than a young girl's dreams.

She's passed out in my bed as I sip a well whiskey on the rocks at Trophy Bar. A year ago all charges were dropped against me in the case of rape and all other sexual crimes a male could be accused of. The Witch neutered me, shattered my self just as I self-repaired the social anxiety slo-motion explosion that sat in my chest.

Sitting as a Zen Monk behind bars, a lamb in the machine of reverse sexual discrimination, about to launch Kings County Comics, laying on cold, bug infested, drunk & disorderly concrete cells in Kings County Lock-Up. I stood before the judge, my back to my mother and sister, accused of sexual abuse, myself a victim, both as a child and again as an adult, ravaged by a self-proclaimed sorceress, who only grew to power by my words & deed.

She was a fractured soul, broken in ways I hadn't seen, even despite my firsthand experience with the saddest psychotics that roamed the cityscape. In a way we acted out roles much larger than ourselves, or so retrospective analyzation revealed. For a brief moment she held the fiery Phoenix in her heart before it scorched the sexual deviant veneer from my sad sack soul. 

I was whole in the way that a tombstone is complete & content, when her laser eyes set their sights upon me. Pink sweater and satin skin, I'd never know where my desire ended and her indifference would begin. She was perfect. Transmutable tease with legs for days and breasts of Greek Goddess sculptures, with hips that spoke of infinite potential, topped off with an ass that won't quit. Ever.

And neither will I. She is deadly in a way that is so utterly devastatingly complete that I spend most of my time wanting to weep. Every single sensitive spot she annihilates with the cold indifference of a Ronin, a soul that knows it is dead already.

And yet. I rise from those ashes time & again, renewed with vigor & spirit, eager to be obliterated over & over again. Maybe that's the whiskey talking. Do I want the pain that bad? If I got what I "wanted" would that satisfy the thirst for satisfaction I seek in socialization with simian siblings? After all, I am only able to love the words, this salvation that is necessarily squeezed from an over-saturated celebrity self-importance.

New World: Order - Welcome!

Fall 2014.

Hello. My name is Charles Crown. I wrote a book. It seems to have altered certain individuals. I write this second volume in order to address any concerns following the self-publication of the Tower of Brahma, a fictional memoir I began typing out on a T-Mobile Sidekick in 2004, and then finished on the first Android smartphone in 2010. 

This is more addressed to those in 2017, or conversely 2023, who'll be looking back on my years living in New York City post-9/11, early Twenty First Century remnant of analog nostalgia. I am a fossil. I was born to be King. 

Every day I meet some overly enthusiastic, prematurely enlightened superhuman who's truly tapped in. Get back to me in a decade. Tell me what that awakened awareness has afforded you except sleight of hand sentimentality and an overly inflated sense of self-righteousness. 

Every day is the battle. Team ups make it easier. Gang mentality is not inherently bad, merely the guidance behind its actions. The Ego is the True Enemy, Defy the Most Base Nature, at all costs!!

I'm a Warlock. It's the closest I can come up with an explanation for my abilities, for my destiny, for the sake of reality itself. I've connected Covens, priding myself on being a hub of inter-connectivity, a live wire of personality! I've been burned, I know my limitations.

I have no powers, I merely have vision, an ability to see how far my fate extends, to what great lengths my life will lead me towards. By the ambient, candy coated Lolita energy that hangs in the air above NYC tonight, I claim Odette Coquette as the Love of my Life, my psycho-sexual assassin, my phallic femme fatale.

In Lord Zero I have tamed the black hole of depression. With Stray Dog Strut I have established myself with the family. Kicking it with Ginzilla Beastmode reminds me that magick is bigger than I know and that work must be done. The radio show is spreading the gospel, the open mics are essential for cathartic release.

The Algorithm. I'm not a numbers guy. I'm the theoretical storyteller, able to help transcend reality in a single bound. I wrote my book to get me here. I assume you have yours as well?

New World: Order Bitterness Bitte Bite

12/14/14

 
I don't know who I am anymore. My closest to new ego propulsion is my comicbook super-alterego THRUST. He defends himself from ex-girlfriends with superpowers as they unleash their female fury upon his person. But once, long ago, I was Charles Crown, heir to the Scorched Earth, the Savior of the Seven Sins, also known as Agent Fenris. 

I was a dog boy lunatic with a programmed smile, AI divining my actions after death stole my formative years. Only a childhood canine attack survived in my psyche when the child in me died, long live the kid! I was HotShot, superspy with a sly eye & lone wolf style. 

Agent Spider resides in all men who've sacrificed soul for knowledge arcane. He runs shit, locks it down, shoots it out. Flipside assassin sidekick ninja savage savant. He's Freudian Darkness manifest, the last man in the loop, the first to slaughter. Nothing is his mission, negation as Salvation. 

Freemasons snagged my Father, my Mother ran, and I resisted their ritual interrogation of my sacred beliefs, silver haired psychic servant slicing through my brain meats, I dreamt, I killed him, ended the charade. We sat beside one another, brother amongst brother, solving symbolic puzzles with Nic Cage and National Treasure 2!

I am Chaos Magick, dipping tippy-toes across every single sentence that saturates the Masses, Christian Cross meets Hexagram Hermeticism, Saluting the Star of David. Sticks & Stones make up my weapons against Spiritual Strikes, slingshot superballs slung sideways straight shooter, believing the Impossible with every stroke. 

Agent Fenris is scrawled, scratching his fierce fury through her skin, yet she's an Asian Viking goof named Gin. Ginzilla Beastmode, Psychic Shaman Visionary, healer in transition, Higher Learning Channel spokeswoman. Her naturalistic harmonious magical procedures have streamlined her surgical precision persona into a badass from beyond the Veil. 

The Age of Horus is fully upon us. Malleable society sits and waits.


Sent from my iPhone