What If?

whatifWhat if the universe is an open wound, a catastrophe in making? What then? Do we snuggle within the voids between the stars? Do we build our homes in the shambling ruins of dead quasars? Mapping the desire of dust swirling in the bright structures of far nebulae? How should we think the thought of the brain itself being that it too was once a cold star? That every time I smile I am enacting the death of galaxies? Shall I wander among frozen time, passive and alone, gazing on the silence that is almost palpable; or, should I actively participate in the accelerated heat death of this blasted thought? Tell me, who am I? Am I a thought between two voids, a point of decision that cuts the truth from lies of a broken symmetry? How do I expose the emptiness that is? How efface the face that is no one and nothing? Where is the mask to hide this void? Elide the ‘I’ of its burden? To touch another is almost suicide. To kiss the lips of my lover is to suture desire and follow the slitted wound through the middle gap of infinity. The gap is our joy and our horror, the very site of our birth and death. Once exposed to its existence we forever wander the labyrinths of light between great clusters folded among black holes channeling their energy which is our only ever life. Between Being and the Real we all dance laughing like children on the edge of a great Ocean: the sun, moon, and stars cascading with the waves as they spill over our young bodies. Bounded by an infinite sea we joyously dive into the brink knowing our time come round at last when we too shall build our towers among the ruins of stars…

~ S.C. Hickman


“Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant coffee, to unemployment insurance and library cards, to absinthe and good-hearted landlords, to music and warm bodies and contraceptives… and to the “good life”, whatever it is and wherever it happens to be.”


~ Hunter S. Thompson




Among saints & sinners,

Good & evil

God & Satan

Nothing matters.

Among books filled with

Words, conformed and

Pressed into a small child’s



Nothing matters.

Among the shadows,

Self-esteem cut down by

Authority and the egos of

Those who have murdered and

Buried their dreams

Nothing matters.

Among the opinions & speculations,

Expectations ten long years after

Who is the failure and what

Is contentment

Nothing matters.

Among the critics and

The sad petty levelers

The damned & the damning

Nothing matters.

Among the forgotten,

The wild actions of a

Once uncaring, unconscious youth

Nothing matters.

Among the depressed, the once

Suicidal who couldn’t

Find his place in reality’s schemes

Nothing matters.

Among the conquests,

Among the losses & unreal lovers,

The young women made love to and the

False makeup queens soul-fucking in the

Aftermath of ruins & chaos and the

Human heart

Nothing matters.

And among the love given and

Taken, created & destroyed,

Possessed and disowned

Nothing matters.

For these words … are my religion,

This voice … is my church,

This poetry … is my existence

And nothing else matters.


R.M. Engelhardt   


Sundays …

Sunday. The rain falling and the quiet solitude rushing in. Seems like a good day to not ponder many of life’s meaningless questions but simply to relax, light up a cigarette and to continue dreaming … dreaming … dreaming



Be Not …

“Be not the slave of your own past. Plunge into the sublime seas, dive deep and swim far, so you shall come back with self-respect, with new power, with an advanced experience that shall explain and overlook the old.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson