“Broken Glass Passing underfoot” Foreign land poetics vol. 2 by The Schizo Kid

“Self portrait” on top of a map of Iceland
The Schizo Kid 2015

Free verse, cursed by desire and plagued by fraternity, and a certain mad Justice. Falling back into the hands of fate. There’s nothing greater than my solitude, except maybe true love…but has this love come and gone. Along these cliffs, Underneath these clouds. Under the rain pounding like a soft warrior. At least there’s a story here…a footprint, a written fossil, of a life teetering on the edge of obscurity. The lottery of suffering. A misfit, so I claim the sullen pride to not be part of your clique or tribe, just a solo scribe, changing tides. Oceans of uncertainty, pushing all the black swans to the outside. Silent offerings, the sacrament of emptiness and the unfortunate train wrecks of my past. The broken glass passing underfoot.

Allusions or delusions made to save space, a state of grace. Fears not yet faced, displaced by the rudeness of these time constraints. This is my time and my dime. Just tracing my outline…erasing my shadow with invisible ink. Makes my heart sink. Underneath the underworld churls and clears a space for my spirit to reside. Worlds collide. Upside down is now right side up. Fermenting a belief in the foreverhood of nothing, and a certainty in uncertainty. I hit the bull’s-eye in the dark. This ark of experience, grown through failures and triumphant victories over the darkness, that can consume without warning. That’s what they don’t teach you in class. Divert disaster. Live through the pain. Push through the strange forests of the future. This human, or is it alien condition. My poetic intuition fails to cover rent or tuition. In the warfare of survival, the soldier must soldier on and hang tough. Become a machine with warm blood, a semantic flood. Steel nerves. Unnerved as the observer of chaos, rank and file. File my unnecessary emotions under “Destroy immediately.” The silence of discontent, a lament, turning this water to cement. Discipline sharpens my mind, and dulls the suffrage. Skipping the tutelage of anger channeled into alleys reserved for such a purpose. Anger is just beauty in a primitive notion. The motion of the heaving ocean of existence begs to be calmed. Subdued like a feud turned outward.

The awkward truism that we’re all capable of compassion and murder. Purging the symptoms of infection in body and metaphor…behind this locked door. My hermitage, my heritage. A crude shelter from the rain. A strained relationship to the human life, as these words fall from my mouth, I’m way south of normalcy. Everyday’s a new acid test. The all too familiar arenas of death or refuge. The subtleties of rebirth, the prosthetic arms of faith. The bird’s cry doesn’t seem symbolic or angelic, it’s just hunger and frantic need. I’ve succeeded with my battle tested theories. My youth’s just a wounded animal, a severed limb, beyond the boundaries of sin. I’m a vessel, a ghost, a thick fog. Terminal in madness, the only element that isn’t temporary. The formulas are lost in the wind, this strange world without end. A stranger to the nicety and certainty of life and death.

A fractured tree, a stone rounded by the flow of the Ocean tide. Beside my shadowed existence, there’s a stubborn Scandinavian persistence, that line of thinking that anything can be controlled, organized, and actualized in due time. The difficulty in trying  to undermine the genetics of sickness. Storms of my brain chemistry, and nothing to do with today’s forecast. Motorized footprints lead me to the mountain top. Hedging my bets, erasing my regrets with the possibility of today’s fortune. The misfortune of others. These time trials set into stranger’s eyes. Sometimes life seems contrived. I’ve survived birth, death, birth, rebirth, the damp earth and death’s hand. My echoed breath on the telephone. I’m an infant with an adult body. Deities with sharp teeth underneath my skin. waging war against complacency and fear. Turning modern concepts of poetics onto its ear.

Come closer to this agent of objection and rejection. Nature’s cruelty called “Natural selection.” Can I make a quick suggestion…Run, escape, create before it’s too late. Stand tall and let me hear your battle call. Circling the city, like an animal spooked before a big storm. Forlorn eyes strained to focus on my future, not the ancient past, and the constant rear-view mirror of my whole life. Losses real and imagined. Sanctioned lines and my lack of belief. Underneath my layers of spirit and armor. A sunken ship. I imagine all the images are frozen like permanent ink. I’m just a one man think tank, a broken spectacle. Whatever I am, it’s not recommended, nor does it come with instructions. Destruction of the soul is vanity, insanity is just a sane man’s reaction to an insane world. This is my curled ink pages unfurled. Endorphins gained through stretching my physical limits. My words of advice might suffice. Run and keep running until you collapse or run out of breath.

I’m shrouded in distance and pace. My face is just jagged edges that will eventually turn smooth. Agitated, I feel subordinated, an ornament of last season’s decoration. A consummate professional in the long-lost art of disappearing. I try to be precise like German engineering, never ever fearing man and his theoretical creation. another vocalized fossil, my imprint, my literary footprints. Avoiding the traps of hopelessness and vague idealism or self-delusion, confusion, like being an intrusion in your own skin. This thousand yard stare, my ammunition inked out like a stockpile of verses. Serated, vocally lethal. Expressing myself before that becomes illegal, Head up and feeble, the dust under the microscope of lost hope and the regression that blisters your feet.


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