JC SPARKS POETRY

[nihilistlizard]

[jcsprxzpoetry]

Reality is Fading Around Us, My Love

Roll one Roll one Roll one to death, because reality is fading And girl, I know I lied when I said I wouldn't call you that again But times are chaos and we both probably have secret stalkers who want to kill us And what this place is, is fading away in time like a page-a-day calender, torn away, thrown away, never to be clearly seen again. So pour one up, roll one up, Think about those punk rock houses we haven't been to yet where we'll drink all night and sleep on the floor like a couple posers. And think of the times whenyou were happy, The times you felt good, In which you needed nothing, Even if it was so fleeting you would swear it was a dream. So roll one up, Pour one up, I don't know what this place is any more, Or who you are, Or how we got here But we're standing on seas of fire and we have the high ground. So what's what? Maybe when we cross it, we'll see what beauty melts through the layers. So pour one up. Smoke one down, And party till death. Until obliteration infects us, and destroys us. Only through repeated death and rebirth do we see through the cracks, And I'm ashamed for realizing that, and I'll be happy when I forget it.

[jcsprxzpoetry]

Cross the Sky

Let’s cross the sky together

fuck a sea

we fly in Cadillacs

in our dreams

we eclipse the nothings

leaving traces on the wind

of your beautiful breath.

[jcsprxzpoetry]

Slow Burn

When the waves of reality slow down enough, They roll across my brain sloping through crevaces, Forming a nexus of happiness. Understanding all the rails down which my thoughts proceed as they slope and curve, onward into fantastical deminsions.

[cybernetic--------girl]

Deathly Substance

Take a ride down a dark water fall A curving vortex;

Seated on a cheap sofa floating in liquified planets Facing downward

This was never real; We were born of mecca, Babalon, Rome, Beijing, New York,

We were born to surf languidly through poisoned seas, memories erased

So you fight the feelings of isolation everyone does it bone and flesh unweave around a cerebral cortex when the death substance rolls on into town

So bow down, it’s time for fuckin’ business Nothing better to do In this town/your room/ this grimey place you crawled into;

Surrender your memories. Release them to me forget every face you’ve ever seen

Bow down to your most psychotic desires.

[jcsprxzpoetry]

Through the Eye of a Nebula

Our first date was dinner.

The second was a crazy Mardi-Gras street parade

with a brass band and cops telling us to get off the street and everything.

Now we’re flying through the eye of a nebula,

stationary, the universe accelerating around us

in kenetic streaks of light,

waves of sound and color washing over us.

And the whole time we’re laughing,

howling like hyenas,

Cause we somehow broke off the rails

and found eachother.

Cheating at the game of life,

laying sideways,

we zoom through the eye of a nebula at light speed.

[jcsprxzpoetry]

Synthetic Energy

I am a devil, powered by Artificial energy. My pipes are wired with liqour when I'm (not) jonesing for A contrail of vapors A cloud I ride on down the interstate, drafting off the ghosts of 18 wheelers long deceased.

[jcsprxzpoetry]

Downpour

ENHANCE THE CYCLE: Space encapsulates you, don't ever take that for granted. Prime ministers and other powerful types certainly don't. 10,000 armies are comming to blow down the door of a free-thinking blogger. I'm sitting at home, whittling a deck of cards from nothing. I am sinister. I am involved. ENHANCER: Ingest the peals of a dynasty, Drink the glowing liquid thankfully, for this is a tradition spanning decades, centuries I tell you so drink stoically. Let the room unveil. Let the courthouse de-throne itself as its revealed how flat reality is. DOWNPOUR: calmly the droplets will disentigrate you, Ravaging your sense of being. And you'll thank me. I was an alarm clock, a renegade thought you couldn't get rid of, showing you that your sense of self is a skin to be slid off, entire organ discarded in a garbage can.

[jcsprxzpoetry]

The Lady

I go visit her at work on my day off,

We go sit on the grass outside the mall and enjoy the early spring weather.

With her around, life isn’t all that bad.

That’s the lady I'm with, dancing to subime in my apartment kitchen So damn spunky.

Saying hi to everyone working in the building she knows while I'm walkin' her back to work.

I walk to where I parked under an overcast sky. The knots of stress I keep in my stomach finally feel relaxed.

With her around, life isn't so bad at all, and I could say more.

I wanna see how long I can keep her comming around. A long time if I’m lucky.

[jcsprxzpoetry]

Zero Channel

The laser sights waver when the most unempathetic person takes a deep breath and acknowleges the person before them as a human being with a story, emotions, a family. Do you think you're special? Well, you are. So is everyone else. That's what Generation X decided isn't it? We're all a buncha unique mother fuckers. I believe that. Trouble is the powers that be want us to buy into that idea in a marketable way, so they can cash in. I'm 24. I've seen the first black president of the US elected to office I remember 2011, and Occupy Wallstreet, And being called a communist conspiracy theorist. Then Snowden. Who the fuck can call us conspiracy theorists now? Everyone. Attention spans are short these days.

[jcsprxzpoetry]

Irradiated Babelon

The glowing strips of city where the bars live are lined with neon crosses, lest all the dead mother fuckers be remembered. I'm inclined to make the sign of the cross, fallen catholic that I am, when I walk this row, reminescing on demise. This is where a certain category of troubled person congregated. What could we have been if not for the oblivion of ourupbringings? Let this coughing, wretching, scabbing neon dump of fantastic art be a monument to all that we managed to be. All us dead mother fuckers who take this walk, This irradiated death-march.

[jcsprxzpoetry]

Boulevard Wheat: Here's Your Glorious Alcoholism Poem

Here I am, In a bar, drinking my way towards inspiration, No females with me, No nobody, Cept me and my schizoid flashes of memory: I keep thinking of the urinal at the bathroom at work. I stare at the head of the urinal and think the same thing every time. I imagine what my head would look like if I slammed it so hard against the chrome head of the urinal's flushing mechanism that I killed myself. I imagine my head would crack, snap and warp into a mold of the urinal head before it burst, spilling my brains all over the unswept floor. I would want that moment to last for ever, the one where my skull warps before bursting in a relieving explosion. I've known some suicidal peoples. Im lucky enough to not have seen one go. Rest in peace, future tense my friends. Non of us could imagine making it to 30 in a concrete way. 40 was a sci-fi impossibility. Now some of my people are 30, or pushing it. We were all bred to be nihilists by school, sports, music and movies. Growing up in the 80s, 90s, we all grew into our pained, high strung selves, carrying just and broken promises, skating the falsified contours of an American dreamscape. I do this to kill some pain. Cause I get sick and tired of the pain. Why do you do it? When I see someone who does it cause is fun or exciting or because they're bored, that triggers me. That's my little shoulder chip I carry. At least I know that about myself. Why have I dated so many alchoholics? And stoners? The answer is obvious so I won't harp on. Here I am smoking a fucking cigarette. I'll never make it to 65. Never. I onlt started smoking after my grandmother died of emphazima.

[jcsprxzpoetry]

Huxley’s Dream

I picked her up in the early afternoon,  wondering suddenly what her mother must think of her.

I looked to her and wondered,

Did her mother ever imagine her railing ecstasy

in the bathroom of a dingy rock club

or throwing up in one of the nicest VIP lounges in town,

no shame, just brash toxic lust for renegade behavior,

release from the stress brought on by break-neck office work compensated by low-ball wages.

Did her mother do all the same?

It's irrelevant.

I forget we're all fallen children, meandering away from the house of our crests

into the manifold tunnels of marketed cultural oblivion.

I forget nothing is sacred, everything is relative but only in a sense and at certain times,

so really it's all void of meaning in different degrees.

“I think too much,” I say and fire up a spice blunt

from the cockpit of my helicopter car.

“This is an empty existence girl,

we're all gonna die at 30,

so why cheapen everything by reaching for a form of longevity that never existed?”

[jcsprxzpoetry]

Disintigrate.

Wage war on your body fearsomely

Drink only the cheapest bottom shelf liquor in great amounts.

Inhale processed food in toxic quantities.

Disintegrate.

Irradiate your brainstem. Enflame your muscle fibers until your heart spits machine gun fire.

Inhale Phillipino cigarettes relentlessly.

These attacks will bring you great wisdom. Health is the ego killer. Money attacks the disease with the fury of an avenging ghost.

Eat a bacon cheese burger while smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer on a creaky porch under a rusted awning.

Practices such as these will excercise your demons.

[jcsprxzpoetry]

Ghastly

Have you ever occupied the body of a ghost? An apparition vibrating on another plane of a separate reality? This is what it's like not to be socially anxious, unconcerned with what's whirling around you through the branches of a room, or a sidewalk, or a bar. A ghost has no concern for it's own cut off head. It phases in and out of conversation, only when there's a clever comment to make. No aching bones or muscles loaded with lactic acid, Are you sure you're not an apparition and you're not ready yet to realize it? Maybe I'm projecting. Forcing my paranoia on others. Maybe I'm too lazy to be relentless. Maybe I'm damaged goods, tampered with long ago by myself. Maybe I'm an apparition.

[jcsprxzpoetry]

Bermuda Love Triangle

All the streets in Claycomo, Missouri are named after classical poets.

This is either profound or ironic, I think as I beat my way down the streets of this bizarre little highway town on the outskirts of the city delivering pizza.

There’s someone I’d be happy to have by my side, out here on the outskirts where I live now, you know the one, the girl I met when I was living outta town. The one people would always ask me about, like “So, what’s going on with you and her these days” somewhat assumingly, as if I have something resolute and satisfying to report.

We had a nice, fucked up little thing going didn’t we?

The romanticism of committing to nothing was so easy to get high off of, wasn’t it? That and all the weed, white wine, whisky, tequila and whatever other shit happened to show up opportunistically.

It was a Bermuda love triangle. Usually the third lover was yours but there were also other times, and the backlash was always severe in terms of Karma.

What wasn’t said between us?

‘I’ll always love you’ wasn’t a phrase that wasn’t uttered in a moment of desperation, and I don’t need to say who said it here to still find it amusing. We thought we were psychically connected.

I'de love to have you pressing against me now, outside the bar up in North Town by the Casinos listening to the trains go by, rougishly sharing a cigarette which we both now accept will lead to our deaths, pressing up against me in the cold, quite tipsy, the way you like to be.

But you aren’t here, and you only half wanna be, so I’m done with the idea of coaxing you out here across state lines, when out of sight is out of mind for you.

You exist in the moment, and I can accept that now.

And I’m happy to have been the longest moment you’ve had since you’ve been an adult, and the same goes for me.

[jcsprxzpoetry]