Bottom Pusher (a Mandiakoid)

No the deep is not asleep; sleeping is something we don’t have the option of doing. Awake, in constant state, is where we at. The bottom torture, corporate horror, disorganized raptures, we are separated and in constant thought, how can we sleep. You pencil pushing, laptop carrying new-agers, ignoring these forever stages. We are awake as you lose your imagination with technological finds and deep pixel-punctured faces. We don’t calculate with machine interfaces we are cases of real confrontation, incubating the seriousness of this once fuss. We see you constantly even if you don’t see us. A black case, defaced space, sparse trace, linked with disgrace which you promote, you sorry half minded fools. There is no mirror here man! I am speaking about you and you alone. Look here while you see yourself, if you see is yourself, if all you can see is yourself. See the deep scars on my scalp from hitting this bottom ocean so hard. I had no soft landing like some. I had not the pleasure of morphing into a pun like some, the easy break of bone fracture, if that’s even possible. No, mine was a straight fall, a deep slide into a liquid of deep pride, a deep which withheld centuries of loss souls waiving through the morphing tides. Mines was a disgraced entry, tortured and burned, thrown overboard with my chains still tied, melted partly into the make of my bone, made to stick by my darkened epidermis, made to adhere by the words which tossed me over, “a black beast from the east.”

It’s been a while since a voice has been documented in this blog, these are my words of contribution, while you ignore a solution, while you sniff that air up there of convoluted pollution, stifled air of shame and guilt, pain and wilt; that air with the sun burning a tan of difference, rays cracking your skin into black dark patches of cancerous dots. You sickened fools for not only are you ignoring us, the past which hinders your minds from easing into a pure future, but you also ignore yourselves, your own warnings of a plagued tomorrow. I think it best my kind stay in this lurking under current, where we know what we are, questioned as that may be, instead of lost fools idealizing the world they feel they will inhabit. The future is deem; night will soon strike your day, and keep it at bay, don’t fray the thin moments of reasoning left in the optical lens of history’s bifocals. Through them you will see us, one of the many wrongs you still have to make right. Best wishes as your future days become filled with fright.

nightly blankets

We are the travelers of the deep. The voyagers who don’t sleep
The nomads of this circulating night, the sight which covers an array of sights. We blanket the deep like masks, when reality needs sleep, we vanish the sight of the hidden for we’re reclusive, un-hindering and solemn. Detectable only when a shadow dawns, mourning comes and a new death appreciates itself. A cathartic element really, we are the softness when the lost soul avenges and repels the sickening reality, we are the ones are summoned to explain as plain as we can , you have perished from the world above, lost like a white dove in snow, like a mistral show.
We too are loner’s once sufferered, continued wonderers and cataract spreading messengers. Yes we are the ones who tell thy dead to swim a new risk. We are the ones who blemish the sight of the old and reprimand any attempt at its remembrance. We are a memorial really, the first these Jettisoned souls confer. We don’t ride in hearses for we are them. A black blanket, mobile and erectile (un-dysfunction), for we penetrate the nerving realism which needs intake.
Some say we are the dark here. The fact that others can’t see, but we are just an element of truth, for we have all always been dark. We just allow the assurance that darkness is not blackness, that one neglects sight while the other induces it.
We stretch far like literal blankets spread over the sleeping question. When we get ready to invite we excite the wonderful space that dreams and fantasies inhabit, then we syringe our minute tentacles, piercing centimeter by centimeter the epidermis of the now deceased. Though they come down as dead births, they still posses their old skins, their lipid flesh of darkened mesh. Their once visible trope made hyper by another’s invisible cloak. We must do the job for here is an ever changing sight and we are the messengers of first realisms. You’re dead. No longer will you need that layer which once cause you so much pain, not to say though that such pains have stopped, for the way we needle you, you will soon realize you are in a different type of slain, for we create a new stain.

We too elect...?

In the deep there are those very emblems of authority; seniority takes place where priority should instead. Busted in the surf like current of the politics of the deep. In this massive black, the serpent tales of our heads of state charter the meth labs of poiseness corners, they scour the ghetto shells in search for a sustained vote, the crackling sound of another term aches their backs and flusters their might, what they thought they had.
A blind shrill salivates nightly at the rubber back snail of a putrid hopeful, scoundrel and unintelligent, new to the ways of the deep. Our culture is carnivorous, but we still only eat that which we like. Bullcrab feet from the dead chilled spines, delicious when heads of state discuss their new forth right in the distance.
Down here the pellet waists of the neutral voices (the shit runs as we also call it), cancels the dizzying furnace of the one sided lust. They blemish the reason for being different, some like it and some don't. Our Jettisoned pimples burst at the sight of our new candidates for the left has preponderance of differences, Billipeds to Akuakians where's the right has only the sickly vestibule of wrinkle or elastically woven skins. What of the new elections in such girth, one wonders, for time draws near.

One Tooth

It does not bother me that I have one tooth, that sits orangy-yellow, protruding from my fish lips. It is right I cannot see past my erecting sculpture, my eluding pleasure, seeking an erudite treasure a constant measure of my stiffness.
My label sprung stiff on my back, this slick skin, oily and in constant secretion. Leaving a trace like smoke exhales making circles is this dense undercurrent, where it trails off too I don’t know.
My shinny coated patterns aloof in the sightless waters, sometimes I cannot even see my self, unless I’m with others of my kind, others of my time, others of the same sign.
Like timid bloated Saturns, I circle the constant play of the obscure. The core vibrates beneath and I round its synergy.
Most often though my stealth brings no produce, I’m given light, an enemy at these times.
These Stars dispense some pernicious veins through the un-visible night destroying most of my feeding attempts, with their luminous rains - they give sight to the constant blind and create sparkles of grease which exudes from my scaled surface. This makes my work that much harder.
If only to relax, un-stiffen to be at malleable play, then I could lay amongst the Orchikes, where a constant many come to and run to when I approach. There they circle themselves within the sponge like bubbles and laugh at their reflections on its mirror like tentacles. It sits and grows on the side of the rigid rocks, volcanic flames turned into this ocean’s deep, these Orckikes camouflage the once beautyless calcium build ups and sprawl loosely throughout and within their own made up landscape. They’ve given it beauty, they’ve given us all beauty, even I, who if to get too close, invites a death of horrible grim, but I wonder would it be such a sin, to forever bath in the hem of its love.
There would be ample plaudits from above, this I’m sure of. For many would want nothing more then the death of another One Tooth whore.

unidentified member

In the ocean core, the mountful blur on the uneven skin, the rough plough, the engaging sin, the pleasant wonder, the scary dory, the pimple canvas of erupting future coves,
I kill the palatines, and supreme guests, feudal whores and pimping royalty, this is my land, my sea, my infestation.
As dark as it may be I light the midnight, the center of the deepest night, the furthest distance from any hint of light, through holocaust or pandemic, by mushroom or plague. I scratch the cave of limbering gills, stupid afro hopes and sex thrills, my concubine ever fills.
I arrange and pain the assault of stupid liberals and nervous cons, frighten rights and petulant fights; desecrating is a right, so I do it. No need to investigate the cruel, the idiot fools who blanket the porcupine skins, the honey bee stings, the anaconda chokes, sorry laboring old folks. You guys favor the sick old jokes, resurfaced and sacked like pornography dads delivered to you door, sipping on their little girl’s juice, imprisoned yet lose. Your world is a feast to be laughed at, yours is a wrinkled lip in need of moist semen, camouflaged by make up to hide the present slide. Hypocrisy filled mold, spreading poisons through different folds. Jailing other by what is sold.
You wonder about mines. Here I fever the anger of imbalance, like sinus pains, I demand the breath of only one whole, I’m not insane. With these hard boned scars, fear facing bars, metal hard black teeth like chewing tar, never questioning the burn from the blazing end of cigars as I smoke in my relaxed Zen, ugly like a mother fucker so what then.

SlimDick

You will find me swaying in the current of the deep
Fading in and out of mournful sleep while others protect themselves onto me
I don’t mind.
This boredom I suffer needs distraction. The cloud of death which lies deep in me, the complexity of chess which I had hoped to be, the plough of boiling dreams which burn away inside the wishes I wail.
I’m not sure who first called me Slimdick, but I have matured from this posture and accepted its fate.
Here all has a name, a branding of fame, a visual game played like a silent orchestra.
There is no longer hunger for an eternal stiffness, I know it sounds lame, but its my mantra
And so I lull to conjure over the plate of unexcited days.
Sill hydroplaning over what this place is, day or night. Here they share themselves and confuse the muse, they are the same.
But I ask it continuously and ask myself as well, what of this place we dwell?
This is my ignorance’s pure chase for aspiration. A game I fear it has become, a play of which till recently I had none.
As I bid for clues, reaching out my long thinned hairs close to the bubble nerves of my base.
Like hands they scavenge this black blanket for its language, our language.
Like bands of unison they are all that inform me and tell me of my fate
They look without eyes and see without previous references, except those they themselves save in their hard drives, even my memory is scattered.
They are the very fibers which rectify me, erect me and identify me.
I am a Slimdick, the most boring figure here, in my forever dying Nigga leer, the farthest thing from a Christ figuring fear.
Who knows what I was when I was human, when made up whole, instead of the constant parts I piece now.
I should sue them, for my conjunction they stole, that which I now spread with a hardened heart and a stiff slow.
A human

Billipedilus

My kind has been here for centuries, before the fires of the deep, erupted the secret it held and formed our current plantations, where these blacks dwell, I am no longer sure if we’re not in hell.
I am a Billiped and I have skateboarded most of this ocean’s deep, hoarded my memory sticks with tales that will never be mentioned.
The highway nights, the constant fights, destroy the habitations I cared for. It is now a ghetto of lost souls, forever drones, conversations don’t happen anymore, the languages are in confrontations like dishwashing liquid and oil slick butter croissant residues left on a plate. No this is a world before.
The night seems ever present now and only one color. It used to have a mirage feeling throughout its denseness. The black we slept in was a multicolored fan, whose swing-swing half circled an air of illusions; this was our cinema, our nightly tan.
My ancestors could once walk a digital silk screen of endless shades, sharp blades of legible tones, the ocean sky would moan, more often back then.
It could be that we are transparent cells, navigating the current of those who wish to see. We bypass the arrogant stares which bypass us. Were known to demonstrate a sass staunch, with such a malevolent brass and deliberate launch that we’ve been told we’re best left alone. This is fine, they despise us and we shun them.
All is not lost in this new home of carcasses, were bones crack in their constant change. You can hear them scream, when a further realization of this insecurity makes relevant that they don’t belong here, for this its there price, to always live in fear.
These stinking mixed races, transforming rate faces, soul searching language stripped, mangle lipped slave cases,
These dropped from above, whipped and chain marked scrubs, wishing for a forever death where they thought they’d find love.
These no currency fools, soul needing shoals, stranded amongst each other, deathly vein human kind tools, now rest in wait like one hind leg raised stupid mules.
You think I hate hard but I’m telling truth, that since they came the bottom is low, the dark is deeper then ever before and the sanctity we once held lives here no more.