Excerpt for The Consciousness Conspiracy (Remix) vol. 1 by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

The Consciousness Conspiracy

(Remix) vol. 1

By Joseph VanBuren

There is a machine in the man.

There is a ghost in the machine.





The Consciousness Conspiracy (Remix)

Copyright © 2007, 2017 Joseph VanBuren dba Sykophunk Productions

Distributed by Smashwords





Table of Contents



Cycle of Uncertainty

The Devour Wall

Figure 3

The Truth About Dreamland

Cytoplasmic

Crying Like a Hurricane

Autumn to Winter

Depositive (part one point five)

Whore with a Pulse

Good at Hiding It

Organic Orgasm

Cowboy Ghost

Cixelsyd

Untitled is a Title

My Collection

Cuts Happening

Origasmi

CLU

Give or Take Three Days

and the likeness thereof…”

Skin Map

Send Me a Letter

All Changes Remain the Same

Snake Honey

The Incomplete Journey

King of Rocks

Maggots

Neon Emotions

Acceptance

Rather Large Chunk

About the Author

If You Enjoyed This Book

Also Available



Cycle of Uncertainty



Life arose from stardust, from chemistry.

Humans came from animals, from history.

The mind was born from the brain’s complexity.



With the knowledge and awareness of death,

we sought a purpose along with breath,

and so we created a sole concept.



Our vast religions and philosophies –

our ancient wisdom and prophecies –

our greatest achievements and atrocities –

they are all parallel to our fear.

Balance between a smile and a tear.

The end is near yet may never be here.





This is a seemingly long, lucid dream

we sometimes call reality.

Actions caused by desires and needs,

but what causes desires and needs?

Apocryphal perceptions.

Sensations merely imagined.

Imagination is insanity.

The mentally ill are enlightened.





The Devour Wall



The creature we call the devour wall.

This gluttonous monster wants it all.

Born from primordial corpses and ash

with crimson-stained teeth that unceasingly gnash.



A girl very small approached the wall.

The monster said, “Give to me or fall!”

With a tear in her eye and a solemn sense,

the child said, “I possess only innocence.”



The monster enthralled in fact was appalled.

“Why do you cry?” asked the wretched wall.

Said the girl, “I was born well-equipped to know all,

but I’ve only been taught by the devour wall.”





Figure 3



[trying to figure out me]



Righting wrongs possibly judged incorrectly.

Wishes and memories, they infect me.

Trying to aid my deficient immunity

while telling myself to stay true to me.

Destruction and deception, self-served.

Anxiety somehow dulls the nerves.

A war between education and addiction

in the absence of a prescription.

These words are my life insurance,

but guarantees do not equal assurance.

My soul is perhaps just a few chemicals

that flow through my brain, my veins and ventricles.



Overdose on consciousness.

Overload of sensation.

Overflow of perception.

Over and over and over again.



But right now I'm a hyphen, not a dash.

I'm a collision, not a crash.

The definition of my meaning, for what it is worth.

The identity of myself, for better or for worse.





The Truth About Dreamland



A belch in the sky with forty streetlights

and nobody’s jaw to break.

Complete description of prescription nights.

A lie is not really fake.

As those nocturnal fingers creep,

let’s hope they do not strangle the sheep.

We would simply awaken and weep,

if we didn’t go crazy in our sleep.





Maybe you think the heavens are stained

from all the loss of human life.

A celestial mortician peeks over the horizon –

he’s painting the sky.

In mourning, the clouds shed their crystals

into the embryo garden.

An audience watching with chlorophyll eyes,

applauding the recycling of souls.



Cytoplasmic



You don’t know what it’s like to be in a box,

a box full of rocks,

shaken with your hands.

You will never know how the beatings feel.

How it seems so real

taking blank commands.

You don’t know how it is to be in my place.

Sprayed with your mace.

Are we ors or ands?

There is no place I’d rather be,

than in your circle of suffering eternally.

Your abstract painting of ecstasy.

Your feeble force of fungus.

Your beautiful bleeding bust.

Your crater full of angel dust.

Your smile full of puss.





Crying Like a Hurricane



The monkey in the middle is a complex riddle.

Jump rope the rainbow.

Dance to the rhythm of your headache.

Run the mind rake.

Anchor your anxiety to the basement

and wait for the storm’s approach.





Sometimes I wonder

what it would be like to be me.



Autumn To Winter



Shedding skeletons stretching

naked claws to the sky,

rooted in solid, rugged spirit drained dry.

Soon they shall return,

those frigid winds of white,

sinking into the season of elongated night.

Though a buffet of beauty his eyes feast upon,

his heart consumes grief.

Another year she’s been gone.

In mourning he sits with more sorrow to come.

In more ways than one,

winter will make him numb.





Depositive (part one point five)



The salty sweat stinging my wounds;

the itch I cannot reach.

So I waltz into the parlor

where the future is farther.

Set the alarm.

Don’t bother.

I am already awake.

Put on the armor.

I am I and I am am.

That old anvil crushes.



I’m just escaping You Island.





Whore with a Pulse



I lose a piece of my mind each time that I sleep,

From a familiar, dark thief that continues to creep.

The pills and the beer and the weather mix together,

Swirling my soul forever yet never.

Bent shadows from a flame of achievement.

Believing is not relieving.

A smile is so deceiving.

Intriguing.



This is my new experiment.

Excuse me for being so arrogant.





I can see myself standing on a pile of people that I once knew. Before I carry out my duties, I must carry myself home. I am the world’s fortune cookie, but they cannot break me.





Good at Hiding It



Far from now…

Walk into the somber forest, painted with moonlight.

An auditorium of shadowy stick figures.

The angelic whisper falls upon me

like a ruby teardrop from a blistered cloud.

The seizure surpasses the summer.

Leaves greet the wind with jittery chatter.

Feet in different dimensions.

Vultures, if you seek truth, pluck the eyes

from my battered skull.





The hidden message has nothing to say.





Organic Orgasm



It is better that you believe I hate you

than to go on knowing I love you.





Feel the fire.

Bow down to the ringmaster of desire.

A carousel of flesh.

The crimson coating is fresh.

Out of body attitude adjustment.

A contradicting indifference

to everything that’s wrong.

The orchestra coughs on the crowd.





Cowboy Ghost



A whistling spirit serenading the moon.

Welcome to the capital of Loneliness.

This town is dead – all they serve here is tea,

and my refill is long overdue.

No steam from my cup.

Around the rim, an unwashed film.

My lips were here.

Your lips were everywhere.



Hit the road again.

Finally, fortune smiles upon me

and frowns upon the local wino.

Now I can think straight.



Don’t come ‘round here no more.





Cixelsyd



Hands from the ground

dragging me down.

Incense and anesthetics.

I really don’t get it.



Tunnel vision dreams of myths and gods.

Fireworks in October.

Corporate confetti – spider web circles of white.

The animal always eats better than the man.

This is my life, outside of dreams

I can’t remember.



This is an ass-backwards place.

This is a feeling I can’t erase.





I find myself here, on trial.

The only prosecutor is denial.





Untitled is a Title



Beneath the moon’s radiant glow,

a black cat feeds from the broken glass.

The spoken past is puncturing crunches.

Slivers of future in splintering stitches.

The incoherent chant of lost children

trying to solve a riddle.

Stone walls cold and wet, as friendly as February.

We are all cryogenically frozen,

temporarily suspended from the truth.





My Collection



The snake women have surrounded me again.

They want to drain me.

They want me to succumb to their touch.

Inner force exerted, projected outward

with that old sci-fi movie sound effect.

The whole scene has that pseudo-metallic sparkling

flexible tin foil feel to it.

Poor quality is acceptable when age is a factor.

Nostalgia is laughable.

Memories are mere anecdotes.

So these venomous whores of the past,

with their feeble attempt to drag me down,

selling their skin to survive –

they are old and funny,

but still considered classics that I need

to complete my collection.





Beyond the sound of the drill,

a choir sings.

Angels with dental tools.





Cuts Happening



Ran into invisible webs,

now I’m itchy all over.

Stop the damn sirens.

I can’t wait to be sober.

Peering through cracked glass.

My patience is being harassed.



Cue the victory score,

for the tarnish is paused.

Morning is a haven.

The clock is broken, my breath is lost.

Stuck in the editing room.

Test subject in full bloom.



Another laceration.

The answers leak from my veins.

Break my concentration.

There is a price on my brain.

Need more information.

In other words, I seek pain.



Splatter.

Thoughts scatter.

Raining brain matter.





Origasmi



Fold pleasure into the shape of a swan,

and then watch it swim away.

Submerge your head to find fulfillment.

The dampness will choke.

Fading like old ink.

[what’s on top of the see-saw? Stop laughing.]

Urgency pressing against a bladder.

Flush it all away.

Young girls in white dresses,

taking my breath without my permission.

Somewhere in the hieroglyphics,

a translation of something

we already know.





CLU



All the anorexic marionettes have come out to play…

The church is empty.

The streets are full.

A valley of prayer and pudding.

Every day I wake up with new eyes,

and sink deeper into myself.

Reminder: call Satan in the morning.





Everything is a cycle.

Everything needs to be broken.





Give or Take Three Days



The more I learn about me,

the more I scare the shit out of myself.

But I’ve been in love with fear for years.

Anxiety-laced wedding dress that fits perfectly.

An eternal romance with my own uncertainty.



Should I control my emotions,

or let the winds blow me home?

Through the thick clouds, a silhouette.

A winged figure radiating the softest light.

A flame of hope reflected in her crystal eyes.



Whatever path I choose,

the angel must be at the end.





“and the likenesses thereof…”



All of my different faces see

the usual mask

that today I dare not be.

What a great task.

They are all mine, but which one is me?



Oh, now I see…

These faces combined create me.





Is this for ever

or is this for me?





Skin Map



Etch another grin into my arm;

it drools crimson.

A razorblade rests next to the pillow.

No need for any reason.

Strength is the lesson.

Pain is the teacher.

Blood is the knowledge… the life.



This is the zero season.

Scabs bumped up like dead maggot shells

or insect egg cases.





a godless generation

with ignorance of its own clairvoyance

as empty as the “o” in hope





Send Me a Letter



Old faces twist into blades before me

and cut out my eyes.

Rip off this disguise.

Return the surprise.

A pretty face makes me forget about

the shit in my pants.

Still, alone I dance.

I don’t want to be a slave to my own

sense of deception.

Shady perception.

Shameless rejection.

Face mold break, I sold the fake.

Nobody wants to give just take.

Massive mistakes, mountain miracle.

Scents of spirals both senseless and spiritual.

Here lie the bones that shall remain forever cold…





I give a shit so much that I don’t,

and/or vice versa.





All Changes Remain the Same



When the moths fly into my mouth,

I hope I taste them.

The light inside me attracts pests,

but I must face them.

I wrote my own scriptures

about the big picture.

If the arms of Atlas grow weary,

he should let go now.

Wouldn’t make much difference anyhow.





Snake Honey



Slithering into this pool so sweet

is a beast of foul and ancient meat.

Taken from high to swim with the rest,

our species falls like a poisoned pest.

We never expected our rule to wither,

but nature’s wrath is always with her.



Age is slower in deadlocked will.

Biological tick-tock-kill.

Right-side-up is mind over matter.

Constant pressure is brain over bladder.

Dreams, they fly where tomorrow dares.

Vampires smile and nobody cares.





The Incomplete Journey



SCENE I: Traveling

[birds – caves – voices – winds – sand – the moon]

The pregnant owl squirts his midnight knowledge.

Children sleep with the beast.

Sometimes ecstasy is our sunshine massacre.

A crystal heart and a bottle of harmony,

debating under a yellow sky.

The white horse gallops.

The hour glass melts,

grinning like a trail of beginning.



SCENE II: Imagination

[shadows – swirl – clouds – noises – serenity – mystery]

If I was standing on a cliff,

and I was bleeding from my mind,

and the sky dove into the water,

and the earth began to cry,

would I still wish to wonder?

{I AM THE GOD OF SUGARSHIT.}

When I blink, stars fall.

When I think, angels vomit.

When I write, the world turns.



SCENE III: The Truth

[fire – smiles – debris – violet – nature – light]

This fortress of thought is smothered by distant memories. The winds blowing through these mental caves are harsh and frigid. Now I can see my breath and smell our graves being dug. But the maggot people are naïve, and they are jealous.

…and they all died happily ever after,

except for the king of rocks.





King of Rocks



I am the king of rocks.

The stones that I kick are my peasants.

They live in the rain;

at times, so do I.

A rainbow follows every storm.

Let the boulder fall away…

Have faith that Atlas will catch it

and create a new world.

But remember, even he is just a patron,

a celestial employee.



It’s good to be the king.





recurring

repetitions

return





Maggots



Maggots squirming under tongue… dirt between teeth… eyes leaking urine…



This is beauty in a bottle.

A cannonball to the moon.

A dance in the shadows.

Disembowelment with a spoon.



Only the brave die.

Only the dead are brave.





Kill, eat, shit, sleep: life.





Neon Emotions



Take my hand.

Waltz through the garden of infants.

Twist open the capsule of courage.

Listen to the meteor’s poison whisper.

Satisfy the hunger of a hundred dead.

Sweetly bleeds the morsel of rainbow sickness.

My next move is advertised on the marquee.





the more you realize

how little you know

the further you wonder

if you are





Acceptance



The inner roar.

The doorbell rings.

The inner whore.

The unborn sing.

And when I explode, it will be your fault.

Freaky? Or freaky?



I may be insane, (mixed up)

But it is you (messed up)

That is driving me crazy.

Crazy in a good way.

Good in a bad way.





swimming in semen

leaked from a demon

we are mere mortal beast

the main course of this feast





Rather Large Chunk



A rather large chunk of annoyance

dangling somewhere in my throat.

No longer must I use clairvoyance

to see myself as a scapegoat.



A rather small fraction of sanity

within my battered shell.

Fumbling fingers, they grab at me;

drag me through real-time hell.



Everything swirls and churns together.

Everything rains down – brain weather.

Now and forever.





About the Author



Joseph VanBuren is a writer/author/editor, music artist, horror lover, student, survivor, and the scrambled brains behind Sykophunk Productions. His poetry and fiction have been published in Confluence, Ink Cloud, and the survival anthology Life on a Tightrope; he has written, performed, and/or produced hundreds of globally distributed songs; has opened up for national acts such as Rehab, Anybody Killa, Liquid Assassin, Razakel, Lil Wyte, Scum, Apathy, and 2 Live Crew; and had one of his tracks played on The Colbert Report.


Spawned from the Hudson Valley, New York, Joseph now studies English and psychology in Fort Wayne, Indiana, where he lives with his beloved fiancée and adorably neurotic dog. His current projects include getting a bachelor’s degree and creating a multi-media post-apocalyptic horror experience, including a poetry chapbook + soundtrack, Mask: Shadow, scheduled for a Halloween 2017 release.


More info, music, and writing at

josephvanburen.com





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