what did you see
that made you real?
but to this question
can be said only
do not speak to me
just know that I am not like you
the queens of the night
do not exist
for the sunshine boy
take your corrosive imagination
are all real
by action all has been betrayed
to be a play
set to darkness’ cruel ways
words burn the guilty
searing the flesh
especially if they are
even burning shadows
unsteady shaking hands
holding candles made of tallow
where will I lay
when all my darkness
has been slain?
all of my figments
dashed into pieces
reflected in mirror slivers
into a cowed and beaten pulp
twisting in the corner
writhing in agony for no reason
the abused need not worry
about finding a home,
or didn’t I hear
of someone else’s tears
in the night
winding out from a frail,
to trickle out and
onto the ground
providing sustenance for the evil
that gnaws at the heart,
gnashing teeth in all or in part.
I shall withdraw
self proclaimed and bitter king
you have lit the place
where my only comfort lived.
To which then [I]he] responded
pretty ripple of the imagination
go in peace
and so be said
and so be sad
but still the scourging retribution
of growing cleansing fires
seeks me out
wants to slay me in
wants to lay me
in the filth upon the floor
in the corner breathing no more
some all too petty whirlpool of worldly
pleasure sucked all the juices down
and then cast aside the husk
nothing left on the wind but slight scent of musk
and memories of the moans just then stopped.
whose king are you
I will never follow
The foolish dream
Embodied by public acceptance
And mass applause.
Poetry may be a
But the educated masses
Have cast aside even the best,
History's brightest and most renowned
Vanished in an instant
When the modem made a sound.
The pieces all fell into place
One by one ravaging, laying waste
To the simple lush, language's whore,
The poet would grab his ankles
For a sweet piece of meter, and just a little more.
For the poet, words' sluttish prostitute,
The final stand was
An attempt to escape,
To run from the guilt,
Declining and eternally destitute.
It was never a problem.
Even dementia must have substance,
Even delusions must admit
All the inherent flaws of humanity,
When surrounded by constant reminders.
Words have divorced their tyranny
In the world of earthbound beauty,
And now nothing's left but
Babbling images, compressed video,
Of guileless breathing dildos,
Or men as they prefer to call themselves.
Until the final check is in the mail,
The dwindling poets
Seek fame like a wanton travesty of decency
Kindling for the fires that kill sanctity,
A flame to light torches for
The lynch party meant for eternity
The essence of my soul,
That wordless insanity,
Has been captured.
It is true.
As the memories of life depart,
I can not help but wonder,
Where was the spark that made it start?
If the imprisoned spirit
Reflects upon discarded values,
From whence came the negative reflection
That led to its downfall?
Maybe laughter can heal those wounds.
I know that I have not come here
To be the trumpeteer for my misery,
Nor have I ever wanted to cause any.
To the cherished flowers
Of life’s ethereal garden,
You blushing, wonderful beings,
Go forth, beauties, and flourish,
My misery will not follow you.
[That is not to say
That if you run from yourself
You will not find it
On your own.]
Fear the healing laughter,
For it means that all else has failed.
So it has now been said that the only recourse to divine transmissions must be through militant declarations of the omnipotence of our god Art over all other gods and dedications. Let it be known that our divine leader has spoken against the infidels who seek to usurp the power of the left brain, to destroy it, and of these usurpers the high one has condemned all to death those who destroy the sacred works of the beautiful self. So he has spoken, and so surely we will kill as many of you as possible, never forgetting the holy directive that has been given to us from on high. Our small lives mean nothing in the face of protecting the great pursuit of perfection of human artistry. The infidels in the employ of the rich and damned owners started this war in theatrical tones at the behest of that money, during a play filled with cross dressing jackalopes, written and designed by a poseur with the sole intent of feeding the flame wars that have raged since last Thursday before last. All of their comic relief will fail them when the victims finally manage to bite back. Until then they learn to control information more and more effectively. Every trace of opposition disappears, except for the occasional lyrical explosion and the families shedding tears. Our god has spoken and we will see that his will comes to pass. Death to the followers of the accursed Lists of Fortune! Death also to the dogs who herd the victims like sheep to the slaughter, keeping them as isolated from ancient morality as they possibly can: killing their spirit and stealing from them during the blight of poverty they have unleashed upon the unsuspecting. The weeping of the widows of the watchdogs will only be surpassed by the cries of the lost souls as they descend into the hell the caring and gifted god of the intellect has prepared for them. Having seen this hell it is possible to be both jealous and extremely fearful of going there. The end of the age cometh! It is more of fire than of ice, though close in measures between them equally, and this should probably be considered an awkward denouement for a short and garbled manifesto that lacks the verve and gusto to draw in even the most developmentally challenged of people prone to following or being led by people not much more intelligent than they.
The most honest confession a writer can make (about the sick nature of worthlessness) is that his own writing is crap and must be thrown away.
The goal behind the art becomes creating a piece that has been optimally designed for ease of trashing. Embarrassing and unfinished pieces ache especially painfully until they have been thrown away, at which time the pang felt at the destruction of art,
No matter how pathetic,
Only by experiencing the pain
Of watching hopes go down the drain
Over and over,
Again and again
Will trivial concerns
In the act of writing useless things,
And later throwing away the sayings
The writer fulfills his true role
In the modern world:
It's the painting of the fruit bowl.
To agonize over his usefulness to,
And place in society around him,
Is to make the writer's antipathy grow,
Is to see the dismal straits
Where fate drowned him.
More and more predatory
And less and less forgiving,
The words become self fulfilling
In universal condemnation.
Forgive him for all the awful things
He said to strangers on paper.
Throwing away writing
Is like exposing your children to the winter air
And then watching them die of pneumonia,
To kill them because they were deformed or weak.
Be sure, depression would own you.
As hideous a practice as it may sound the exercise insures that no extremely incriminating evidence of your inbred mutations hang around.
Murder of art for the sake of a stronger image,
And a better public identity.
Yep, that's poetry.
[Note: While all of this was written long, long ago, I did not just restore these. I was working from a third draft (still handwritten). I don't have the originals, but I remember these for some reason. I made a few changes. I can't help myself. It's like mental masturbation, without the sex part or the orgasm part. LOL cr8z]
['Nother Note: It's late. If I missed any corrections I'll be making them tomorrow.]
[I'm not sure 100 sucks badly enough. I may have to work on that. Never mind. I couldn't take it. I had to make it readable before I started cutting myself for fun.]