Ken Mode

ong as there's pain, as long as there's fear you should feel ashamed of every instance of indignation you’ve ever felt. As long as you are male, you don’t deserve this un-fulfillment. Your pigmentation disallows your choler.”

I’d like to thank you for the speech you’ve delivered from your condescending high-horse, like you’re the only one that’s lived; traveled; experienced destitute from an elevated Maslowian bubble. You’re smarter than this, and human psychology is more complex than you
prefer to credit. But I won’t argue. I’m not seventeen anymore.

2. No; I’m In Control

Help me limp through the hour where the last remnants of my sanity are plagued by the burden of consequence. Encourage focus from chaotic despair; focused indifference; focused repudiation. Frustration, not chaos, reigns. I am the weapon to usher in your destruction: I
am control; I am command. This is for the survival of the fittest; repercussion be damned –a tradition of bridge made ash. Let’s break this situation down like an old world primate; driving the point home more poignantly: this simply will not stand. My brain turns to a
dry porous sponge as the broken record skips; reminders of just how loathsome you’ve become. No; I am in control.

3. Your Heartwarming Story Makes Me Sick

I fail to see the humour in having a pulse. Your insipid hopes and dreams will only serve as a further catalyst to an ageless resurgence, and reminding me ad naseum drives the point home stronger than ever. I refuse to be sorry for denying a spoon fed a destiny that
simply cannot fit. I hope you enjoy slaving away for someone else’s dreams just so your wife can have a bigger house. If this is your fairy tale, then your heartwarming story makes me sick.

4. The Terror Pulse

I’m not playing. Logic keeps me bound; keeps the pieces in check, and every beginning has its orchestrated conclusion. This is a lack of everything that was claimed to have stood for. A lack; skittering and unapologetic: within the eye of the storm, taking refuge in
small comforts; easy answers. Playing Judas and shirking accountability. A serious lack. That was wrong, it wasn’t okay and no, I’m not okay. This is goodbye to the man you once knew. Or did not; it doesn’t matter anymore.

5. The Promises Of God

I thought I’d learn, but I’m an idealist. I thought I’d wait, but I deserve it. How about we go out of our way to complicate the process? There’s a certain thrill to this strategy, no matter how idiotic it may seem. Let’s blur the lines until the flames drown in wax and
there’s nothing left to give/take. I want it: all. This close to dawn I'll relinquish to a single word. I refuse to live like I'm alone given this framework. Give me a sign that I'm not simply being absurd. I've stumbled through years on broken time to reach such
conclusions. These are the promises of god.

6. Romeo Must Never Know

The odds are not in our favour.
There’s little hope left.

What optimism existed has been strangled to the very last breath. Shuddering on strangers floors at 5 am; focus a shattered mess near the litter box that this apartment’s aroma resembles far too clearly; allies become foes in the blink of an eye.

But This
Won’t
End.

Augment me. Cut out the poison; detach from chaos; pacify desire; quell instinct;

But don’t
Quit.

Too many hours logged, too many miles conquered, too many grey hairs.

Too much love to let go.

7. Secret Vasectomy

I feel like something profound and meaningful should be espoused from this platform; words wise beyond their years - a message of some purpose or consequence. There is nothing. I pretend to dig deep, but the words are passionless, derivative…the sentiment is painfully
hollow. Slumped over in a chair once hoped forgotten, facing enemies passed as quick fixes to greater, deeper set issues. Suitable diction proves elusive – as my mind dances like a mongoose ‘round a cobra - but I’ll bury broken muses; my own hidden Burgess Shale. Pull up
another black hood, warming my cold weathered hands, curl up in lose fit flannel and self-preserve.

8. Figure Your Life Out

The procrastinator. It’s far too easy to hide behind abundant distractions and coyly whittle away at the hours with hollow preamble these days. Trade one uphill battle for another. Old injuries strain deep as my hunched shoulders and neck, slightly askew, peer forth
awaiting just one word, a solitary notification: Am I alone? Is someone there? Tongue to teeth; feet curled beneath a finely crafted adjustable chair; time, seemingly irrelevant: this is my black hole. I am lost to possibility; equally terrified and delighted. Figure
your life out.

9. Daeodon

Staring at a blank slate; reaching out for nothing, expecting nothing, wanting nothing, but cycling through the process consistently and obsessively in an attempt to avoid any kind of forward motion. I wish I could tell you why, but I'm unaware of the motivation. I don't
want help; I don't want to move. The act of physical combat is the only thing that remotely excites me enough to leave my quarters day in and day out. Stereotypical enough to laugh at the concept that the only temporary relief to this weight is the adrenaline rush from
having the life choked from your body. Get me on the road, so I can live again.

10. Why Don’t You Just Quit?

Have to keep my words close; keep them safe and succinct. So much has changed, but I can’t tell just how thoroughly. Maybe this ice age is reaching its twilight and we’re reading too far into the damage done - maybe there is still hope; maybe this is ridiculous.

Expression is suicide, admittance: sure death. Granite to steel, familiar bookends to this chronically distorted heightened perceptive state. I hate this hell; this is weakness, this is forfeit.

11. Monomyth

For Morgan Kemp…RIP
These are not skies for dreamers. I can hold my breath, but I’ll die here waiting.