SageisBlog

Brown Water Behind an Atmosphere of Tears, a Planet with Cataract Clouds. If the Weather Clears, Can I Get Closer to You?

I am helpless before bright lights, their terrifying solidity a resplendent reminder of my past and future. My retinas must be photosynthetic, rendering me blind by starship afterburn or gracing my view with sunspot angels. Blinded by compulsion, my life is a swirl of colour and movement, occasionally fading into focus for long enough for me to locate my next phosphorescent hit. Sometimes my eyes will clear long enough for me to notice thin arms and pierced lips and I will fill my eyes with effervescent puddles by staring at the bar lamp. Guitars thrash and I fall, light receding into the distance. It seems that I have wandered into a remarkably dark venue. Near the stage attractive stars dazzle, beset by fearful figures dressed in black and sweat. Twin sets of vocal chords waver out a sad song, one set tight, one set warm, a harmony of harsh and melodic.

Save You/Fascistic Wishes

My body is a mechanical thing, a rotting machine left abandoned and wasteful, my skeleton separating by the girder, and it yearns for inhabitation. I lie in wait for dictator fingers to rescue my anatomy, slumped in overgrowth, whiling away hours to keep from coming apart. Let them make me useful.

Suicide King

Dusk air and sharp orange lights. Streetlights and the sun giving off the same hue as if powered by the same source, sharply contrasting blue. Blue clouds, blue pavement, blue girl; her ears cupped by headphones, filling her skull with cacophonous rhythm. Her sleeves had holes for her thumbs, worn through by months of fidgeting. Bass and Treble for her ears only led her to solipsistic conclusions and for a long moment, sitting in the middle of a vacant parking lot, she felt like she was the only Human Being. And blue turned black.
Convenience store. She slowly shifted her weight from foot to foot while handling colourful cans of Energy Drink, turning them over in her hands one by one. Fluorescent buzz somehow audible over the medley of Guitar and Screamo, somehow yellow and blue; coats the store in viscous light. She overturns a few more cans before deciding on the first one she touched. Pays and leaves, walks toward a low drone of engines.
There is a crown in the heavens. The stars form deep lines set in scowl. The very world is unamused. A lightspeed highway. It would be so easy. And so over. It is the same chill that cuts into your bones every time you see a knife. The same vibration that hums the frequency of behemoth passing cars. The hex code of sunset bottles. His Reverence will see you now, lounging on his Golden Gate throne, deeply disaffecting gaze. Carpet the colour of slashed wrists. Monoxide atmosphere. He speaks from somewhere deep, a voice for you that many others have heard. He is the Libertarian full stop. Ultimate autonomy. Muzzle flash angels eliminate suffering, he says. Bleach white beard, ammonia cigar, train tracks crease across his ancient face. His is not a siren’s song; it is a booming command.
But it is fleeting, and as soon as she had left, she is back in LED reality standing on the shoulder of a National Highway. She stands stock still, suddenly frightened of the surging torrent. She is headlight lit in waves like a reverse lighthouse, and no one even slows down.

Hurting atm, Sage?

I do not believe that humanity has the capacity to become an enlightened race. I am greatful for our vast imagination that allows us the utopian dream, but I think that we are held back by instinct. When we hurt and are hurt, we lose sight of ends. There is no end when we bleed. It is what has kept us alive, defiant, and resolute. It is what holds us back.

Solar Fair

In a bright burst of luminescence, you see it: the end of everything. Atmosphere ignites in waves of orange, purple, blue travelling swiftly outward from the horizon across reality and the smell of burning snakes its way into your nostrils. The telephone pole gazes at you. The real, bland chroma of reality returns to you and a ringing fades into cognisance. You go for your phone, for answers, but between your pocket and your focus you drop the thing as it burns your hand. You stare down at the useless, burning slab of material as it lies there on the stone pathway like a dark window. Everything is still ringing. The sun sets, as if sated.

Hang Yourself on my Every Word

I have really said very little to you, and yet i am filled with visions of possibilities of what you are like. I (an artist) am inventing stories for you to fill, knowing full well they are not real, not tangible; in some ways more real to me than life. I already am plagued by misremembered events, I do not think this pattern helps me. So please, let me let you fill my expectations. Let me be broken by broken promises made only by myself, to myself, with the idea of you as a proxy for the things I should be able to offer myself. Let me let you let me make myself useful, for if nothing else I am defined by my art and please God let me stop making art in my mind for the medium in my mind obscures my perceptions of reality. You make me make you with your deep sense of humanity that I haven't met yet.

Asphalt Arteries and Chain-link Dreams

God of Urban Development: You will see transcendent beauty within the cracks of pavement and under the glow of silver halide.
Me: Did anyone else hear that?
God of Urban Development: Gasoline blood pumped through my body by automobile cells. I fill my scars with turf and wear them with pride. In order to see myself I sacrifice my view of the heavens. I am not an Old God, but I will be the Last One. My temple is your home.
Me: What the ballsack?

Dangerous to Health

Yes, I’m afraid there is something deeply wrong with me. It’s not the same thing that’s wrong with everybody else: it’s neuroticism, and I’m the only person who really has it.
I can lie in wait for only so long before my skin caves in and everyone learns that there was never anything inside me but mould. I am a shell perilously carrying amanatin spores, hoping against hope that I don’t let the people I love become exposed, all the while leaking my poison each time I open my mouth to speak. If you press your body against mine I’m sure you can tell that I’m hollow
If you press your body against mine then it is already too late for you.
I am a smokestack contaminating your atmosphere, and no one can ever think of a good enough reason to let me go. I’m part of the skyline, I’m an integral part of the functioning of your city and soon you’ll believe I was always there. The smoke will fill your air and deaden your view of the stars until the only shine you see is contrived by my factories.
I am asbestos. My razor fibres lodge themselves within your lungs. If it were up to me, all your haunts would have me installed in the walls. From the walls I can hear you breathe, shallow. If you had just asked someone, this could all have been avoided.
I am avarice. I will never stop and I always get what I want and a moment later I want the next thing and my desires are eating themselves forever. The ouroboros is never sated.
I am. I am and I think I am and what I think is rot and what I want is to not think and to not think is to not be. But I am.
I am.
I am.
I am.