Poems from Vincent St. Clare

V.—or Vincent—St. Clare. "Empty Sky." A nom de plume. "V. St. C", even, though really you can call me by any name you prefer. (Examples include dipshit, burnout, creep, crackpot, misfit, screwball, a fluke [of nature], a flake [all the same], and so forth and so on.) A fledgling writer, amateur philosopher, some half-assed attempt at a mystic, and a dislocated suburban cowboy. I'm couch-locked and hell-bound, an armchair magician facing an everlasting omnilemma, pissing alchemy into the wind and pissing life away with an overburdened spiritual bladder. I've got a head on wheels and a heart on fire. I've been wandering in place for the past few countless eternities, simultaneously waiting on death and running after the summum bonum, that mirage we like to call "the good life". I'm ideally looking to ride out the latest eschaton, though frankly I'm not too hopeful about my (or anyone's) prospects, so these days I'm mostly just looking for reasons to tell off the universe despite my desire for true peace of mind. (And don't we all want that, in the end?) {All times and places and spaces are colliding and combining, whether "out there" in some "actual" world or just in my head or in yours or ours together or neither or both or whatever, etc., etc., and so on and so forth, ad infinitum, ad absurdum, yada yada, lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, blah blah blah…} [https://linktr.ee/vincent_st.clare || thegrandtangent.com]