Black Bile

A daylight moon always hanging in my orbit,
A midnight moon always waxing in my soul,
This instant eternity that always slakes the past,
Scapegoat’s the future as a mere system of control,
And I feel like a nondescript disciple of time,
Convicted of being the victim of a crime.
Nothing but the nothingness,
The emptiness of me,
I am just a shadow,
Of the light I use to see.
Trying to negotiate this brutal landscape in portrait-mode,
Hardware junkie that never cracked the software’s code,
I feel the soul of that punk-philosophy,
That wants to hurl insults at common decency,
It’s just the bargain basement of a fixed rate loan,
They dupe you into thinking the world is something you can own.
It’s just another nothingism,
The guts of another day,
The soul stopping boredom,
The whore of Babylon makes her pay.
Meaning is a superstition but I’ll take her flesh for tender,
In every joint that I am broken; I trust that I can bend her,
God is the friction where gravity anchors my thoughts,
As I beg for directions over a map of these faults,
And it’s this killer’s alibi that makes me over to this victim’s edge,
This end of the world morning always parks me on this ledge.
Stopped at centered silence,
A mystic in the mood,
The shock and motion’s patron,
Over emptiness I brood.