"These Olives Were Made for Pressing" Or "Agony in the Garden"

A Poem

I’m torn into a million pieces

across an

unreasonable landscape

I try to do it sober, but my hands shake

I try to do it sober but the land quakes

I try to do it sober, with the neighbors coming over

society disordered and a heightened sense of doom

I put the pieces back together

but nothing ever mends or tethers

The world ate all my anchors

I’m lost without your touch

I’m lost without a mother

or a father

or a brother

or a sister

or friend

these distant loves

is this the end?

It feels like Armageddon

It screams “Apocalypse”

I wait for Revelation

while the demons take a piss

go deep in meditation

but the screams keep levitating

to the forefront of my mind

They say that no one knows the time

Because the time will never come

These old stories

These old stories

They’re just old stories

Cause, there’s nothing new

under the sun.

I try to do it sober but the throat starts closing up

I try to do it sober but the pain is close enough

Like a wave that keeps on crashing, and eating up the shore

And the levees of these remedies

don’t work so good so more

I try to do it sober but my mind crashed

I’d try to do it over but the times past

I try to think it over but the thoughts come rushing in

like an ocean of my memories

washed away in entropy

I wonder what you’re doing. I think we’ve all been through it. I wonder if you wonder. Or if there’s nothing to it. I wonder if it killed you. And how I’d ever know. I disappeared into the desert to avoid the cold and snow. I wonder if you know. I wonder if you heeded me. Or if you love your Babylon and never really needed me.

I never got a call.

You never left a message.

You never liked my videos.

You googled me? I didn’t know.

I became all the things, I promised you I would.

You faded in the background of this ugly painted fucking show. They’re dying now…

They call it “Turbo cancer.”

I told you not to take it.

How many of you made mistakes

you cannot take

back to a place

before I told you

Told you so

You'll close you eyes

and never know.

And I’ll be getting drunk or stoned or high or drinking four coffees a day and fitting in a silent prayer somewhere between the hot tears running down my cheeks that shoot out of my face with the hate of what this place has become. And a sadness mixed with madness so profound I cannot stand it. The tears almost burn there so charged with all the things I have buried deeper than I might one day be able to dig from the corners of my soul.

So I shove myself as far as I can into the soft corner of the couch and I rail against my own heart in some defiance for feeling alive and human because the human world ended 5 years ago and we all felt it. And a bunch or fucking retarded wannabe self help gurus made a living infecting the culture with a delusional sense of strength with some cowardly obedience to a phony stoicism. Diogenes would beat the shit out of you in the street and shove you in a barrel you weak, insolent, pathetic excuse for a man. They’re killing themselves in a system designed to incentivize them jumping. And you sit there and pretend like the world still has rules and meritocracy. You’re worse than a traitor.

The world already ended. We just did different things with it. You and me. I miss you. It’s like we occupy different dimensions. It’s like we’re different species.

We live in the post real now and we all know that too. We’re all just bopping around like rabbits on drugs casting spells on ourselves with black mirrors pinned to our forehead. What’s that verse about the mark of the beast? Is it that poison you put in your arm? Is it that poison that makes those fucking idiotic monkey pictures popular? Is it that poison I let seep into my eyes?

Electric lies.

Casted through the sigils made of silicone and quarts, delivering the demons to my mind like door dash orders from a place I used to love but the person who made my Denny’s breakfast sandwich made it with the same hatred and sadness and madness that consumes me and I can taste it. I can taste the sour collapse of everything, seasoned with the ashen detritus of a fallen world that could of been but never was.

It was all an illusion.

And I am disenchanted

in the garden of Gethsemane,

I weep.