[[I'm not changing this one.
If it's got mistakes it's got mistakes.]]
To My Friend
Years ago when your tap on my shoulder
Informed me of your nature, I reeled
Under the weight of the many burdens I carried.
I have lost too many friends to their prejudices
And I have wasted too much time on moral philosophy
While the practical use of my mind withered.
Some people have minds that shine.
They spill out words that stun with their inventiveness.
Yours is such a mind.
When the afternoon settles down into a ghostly routine
The things you have to say are still as energetic
As the life of the morning culture.
When I told you how brilliant I thought your art,
Each piece like a window into your thoughts,
A parade of all your emotions,
Care taken to calculate just what effect each display would have,
Those things I said were true.
Never believe that your efforts are wasted
Or that the vision of your work
Could be anything other than the heart and breath of talent.
Worthless exhibition to the public around you,
The populace so slow to think on its own,
Will get you nothing your efforts
Did not already gain.
Don’t worry about being forgotten
Because the quality of your ideals deserves
The most positive of remembrance.
When the passing of your spirit from the body
Throws the people who have known you
Into depression and despair
It will be said of you that you were truly an artist.
There is no need for a degree
Because true artistic respect does not come from
A paid-in-full receipt for tuition.
Worry even less about who you are.
Ignorance about the human body has not yet been stamped out,
But there are those people that believe in a simple morality.
Let the fates make your demise a pleasant one,
The best people should not have to suffer.
Such a fate should be reserved for the people who abuse
The gentle artistic spirits of this planet.
May their passing be filled with howls and moans of pain
And the agony of the realization
That they treated good people badly.
Also let none come upon this memorial
With the intention of defaming it’s message.
They will suffer worse than the rest
For trying to think wicked thoughts into friendship.
The plague that overtakes them will be a curse
Not unlike the swelling of the brain,
And it will be called sheer stupidity.
So while the rest of the world festers in condemnation
Carry on the illumined life you have dedicated yourself to.
In the end a reward does wait.
True Story
I played some music, and it's like the same old shit. People hear it for the first time and think it's soo cool. Since the RIAA and Ticketmaster took over our "music industry," and decided who gets to be played on the radio, there have only been a few great bands make it. Yeah, it would be great if we had a massive cultural upheaval again, but instead we're sliding into oblivion. We're surfing down a mountain of garbage purchased with credit cards for 1000 times their real value, paying interest on bubble gum purchased in 1996 (which would now be worth $45 a stick if it hadn't been stuck under a theater seat by a girl with genital herpes).
It doesn't matter if I take down the eviscerated versions of my drug hallucinations at Angelfire. There's surely thousands of copies and caps by now, done by people who want a piece of destroying someone who has basically moved on. If I really cared enough I could just scan the originals. All the "poesy" bullshit is just a historical curiosity to me now. I haven't written anything new like that in 6 years (except maybe once or twice).
I imagine that at this point if I wrote a novel, and I thought it was good (which hasn't happened yet), then I would be happy even if I didn't make money. For me it's always been about the art. I must be one of a dying breed, or a race that became extinct. The commercialization of art is what has destroyed the inspirational progress of our society.
Rituals, below this post, was written when I worked at a very nice retirement community. It was a good job at the time. I made $4.25 an hour, and I slept through most of it. I was the night security guard. Wanna know how it ended?
A lady who lived across the parking lot killed her son late one night/early one morning. She stabbed him multiple times. She was on the phone with 911 while her child, who was still alive, was bleeding to death. She wouldn't tell them where she was, or couldn't, and tracing calls was extremely limited.
The baby boy died. I worked 250 feet away. She had neighbors in apartments on either side of hers. Nobody could save that child because nobody knew it happened. I couldn't take seeing the apartment door after that. It was in my line of vision unless I turned all the way around. It looked like the door to hell from where I sat.
Her maiden name was Mahoney. Her brother's name was Patrick Mahoney. He was involved in Operation Rescue, and was the primary organizer in 1992 at Delta Women's Clinic. Mahoney preached anti-abortion while his sister cut up her living child, until the child had no more blood left in him.
If that doesn't scream sanctity of life then I don't know what does. Squirt 'em out and dice 'em up. Thanks for the hatred and hypocrisy, to all the coward christocons who think the Bible is a manual for genocide against intelligent people.
I was going to post something for a sexy party, since I'm never going fully to sleep again as long as I live. That's not true. I'll probably be passed out within an hour. That's why I didn't want to look for something that was supposedly me on the Internet -- I would probably get a little ticked off if there was tape of me passed out while somebody wrote semen poetry on my face or some shit [yeah, I know that's gross. No shit.]
I guess what I'm saying is oops. I shouldn't have changed the blog header until I actually wrote something sexy. Cars, baseball, shedding dogs, key scratches in side of car - voila, no more sexy party.
It doesn't matter if I take down the eviscerated versions of my drug hallucinations at Angelfire. There's surely thousands of copies and caps by now, done by people who want a piece of destroying someone who has basically moved on. If I really cared enough I could just scan the originals. All the "poesy" bullshit is just a historical curiosity to me now. I haven't written anything new like that in 6 years (except maybe once or twice).
I imagine that at this point if I wrote a novel, and I thought it was good (which hasn't happened yet), then I would be happy even if I didn't make money. For me it's always been about the art. I must be one of a dying breed, or a race that became extinct. The commercialization of art is what has destroyed the inspirational progress of our society.
Rituals, below this post, was written when I worked at a very nice retirement community. It was a good job at the time. I made $4.25 an hour, and I slept through most of it. I was the night security guard. Wanna know how it ended?
A lady who lived across the parking lot killed her son late one night/early one morning. She stabbed him multiple times. She was on the phone with 911 while her child, who was still alive, was bleeding to death. She wouldn't tell them where she was, or couldn't, and tracing calls was extremely limited.
The baby boy died. I worked 250 feet away. She had neighbors in apartments on either side of hers. Nobody could save that child because nobody knew it happened. I couldn't take seeing the apartment door after that. It was in my line of vision unless I turned all the way around. It looked like the door to hell from where I sat.
Her maiden name was Mahoney. Her brother's name was Patrick Mahoney. He was involved in Operation Rescue, and was the primary organizer in 1992 at Delta Women's Clinic. Mahoney preached anti-abortion while his sister cut up her living child, until the child had no more blood left in him.
If that doesn't scream sanctity of life then I don't know what does. Squirt 'em out and dice 'em up. Thanks for the hatred and hypocrisy, to all the coward christocons who think the Bible is a manual for genocide against intelligent people.
I was going to post something for a sexy party, since I'm never going fully to sleep again as long as I live. That's not true. I'll probably be passed out within an hour. That's why I didn't want to look for something that was supposedly me on the Internet -- I would probably get a little ticked off if there was tape of me passed out while somebody wrote semen poetry on my face or some shit [yeah, I know that's gross. No shit.]
I guess what I'm saying is oops. I shouldn't have changed the blog header until I actually wrote something sexy. Cars, baseball, shedding dogs, key scratches in side of car - voila, no more sexy party.
Rituals: 2001 Version
Ms. Lyle raises the cup of coffee to her lips.
A large sip restores energy
Revives sleep dulled senses.
The weather… what a mess,
Everyone is so down.
What a shame it is
To be stuck inside for so long.
There are only several more hours to dinner.
Ms. Lyle smiles diminutively
Whenever someone meets her gaze.
She looks around for someone to smile at,
Sometimes for days before she can make contact
Even though there are plenty of people around.
It is not that anyone avoids contact with her,
It is just that deep privacy has sealed the nation
Into a multitude of individual cocoons
That wait for their moment of death politely.
Memories allow her to have
Quiet internal conversations
Before skipping away to join the forgotten.
The old people smile at the news of the rain.
There has been three weeks of it
With very little intermission.
One can find no more color
Than in the smile of old people who no longer care,
Who no longer worry when God takes away the sunshine.
They can tell you,
He always puts it back.
The news of the afternoon entertains,
So pleasant to know what everyone does
And who was involved with what.
Details make the stories last longer.
There is more fun to be had when more time is used.
Routine permeates every nook and cranny of the old building.
In the morning before the sun gets the courage to rise
The man arrives with the morning paper,
Word of all the special important things from the day before.
The helpers prepare for the waking residents.
They scurry to turn on lights
To fill the fountain.
They turn on soft music for the background.
Ms. Lyle loves the activity.
She sets out on her day early.
She watches the helpers.
It makes her think about being young again,
About the time when everything was a rush and a bustle.
She enjoys watching the action
As much as she used to like doing it all.
She finds that intentions, attitudes and personalities
Can easily be read.
She reads the helpers by watching their faces.
She listens to the level of tension in their replies to one another.
After she gets her paper,
And all of the building staff have prepared the sitting area,
The cooks begin setting up the breakfast room.
Everyday at exactly six o’clock.
Hot biscuits and the first batch of coffee
Can always be had by half past.
The other residents of the old building
Trickle down shortly before the repast is served
To engage in polite gossip and discuss the newspaper.
On occasion one of them will complain
That their physical problems have got the better of them.
The others nod in understanding.
They are unable to heal the problems,
But they sympathetically hope for surcease,
The same way they hope their own ills
Do not come back suddenly or grow worse.
When the breakfast room starts to fill up
The noise gets louder.
The food warms hearts and stomachs.
The chill of the morning dissipates.
Many things come up that can be touched on,
Talked about during the civilized, formal meal.
The talk sounds like practiced dance pirouettes.
There are gentle child like qualities in the banter.
The talk can go on about things unimportant fifty years earlier
For a long time after the food has been eaten.
The housekeepers arrive and begin tidying
Just before the breakfast room begins
To empty its antique contents into other areas.
The old building guards those who survived
Three quarters of a century, and much longer,
And they think it is more pleasant a place to be
Than just about any other place they can think of.
In the winter the cozy heaters draw life down
From the upstairs apartments.
All the residents know one another
And most of them get along well.
In the summer the cool verandas
And the smaller parlors in the far wings of the building
Attract more people than the main sitting areas.
With so much sun outside the residents
Find less need to seek light through interaction,
They can find light and warmth wherever they go.
Many of the residents exercise in the morning
As an outlet for the time they accumulate.
They walk or do aerobic exercises in the small gymnasium.
Their walks are always slow and meticulous.
The women sometimes look like birds stalking small bugs.
They walk as though all the things there are to see
Might be missed if they go a little too fast.
Some of the women look like plump greedy robins
Who gobble up all the sparrows’ food
After they arrive triumphantly in the spring.
The old men are more like gray squirrels.
They prick up their noses and ears
To catch the scent or sound of anything they need to know about.
Their tails flap wildly
At any news they do not like.
They seldom fight over food the way real squirrels do,
It’s just that a lot of the qualities they had
When they were young boys who liked to play
Linger on inside them.
The large and stately old building,
Just short of being designated a castle,
Was built shortly before the outbreak of the last world war.
The residents who have not lost their memories,
And that is most of them,
Remember the time period from which it dates.
The building boasts twelve doors
Into and out of the hallways.
Four wings branch off from the main hall.
Their are stairs at the ends of each wing.
And stairs on both sides
Where the long main hallway converges with the wings.
The overall shape of the building, then,
Equates to a huge square,
Split through the middle by the main hallway.
The hall extends ten apartments from the center
Before splitting into the “x” of the wings.
A primary entrance in the front opens into the foyer,
Beyond which are the sitting rooms, dining rooms,
The library, the exercise room, and at the back the kitchens.
For the sake of the old residents elevators were installed
At the two cruxes of the far wings on opposite sides of the building;
The location provides equidistant access for every resident.
Also in the cruxes of the “x”, on both sides,
Are the open air verandas.
These are on all three floors.
The wealthy owner of the building
Plans to enclose the ends of the towers with an addition
That will make the shape of the building
A huge dumbbell with a massive box in the center.
The addition would provide two enclosed gardens
And extra courtyard space.
The old building faces east.
The wings extend to the northeast, northwest,
Southeast and southwest.
The manager of the estate,
Kept around by the residents for their convenience,
Has an office located just inside the front doors.
Before his office is a long, dignified front desk
At which sit young clerics and a secretary.
They tend to all the tedious business paperwork.
The secretary sits there during business hours
And the young men sit there all night.
On the other side of the foyer from the front desk
The architects nestled a small waiting room and employee kitchen,
For the sake of the night employees who can’t eat supper
Than the day employees who can walk back into a busy kitchen.
Small gold engraved mosaics from the middle east
Adorn the walls of the entranceway,
As well as daring art from the nineteenth century
(now old fashioned)
And elegant tapestries from northern Europe.
Silk curtains cover the large windows that surround the front door.
The designer of the building was evidently fond
Of an unobstructed view of the outside world from the foyer.
Mahogany shelves burst with well tended plants
Along the walls of the foyer.
The foyer opens into a center,
Where a grand fountain spews forth water all day long.
The residents take delight in stopping to toss in pennies
To make wishes or help their prayers along.
Around the fountain a cupola sits on top of a circle of wooden benches,
Latticed and trimmed with posts and banisters.
Here the residents sit and rest.
It is actually an octagon shaped affair
And can be seen clearly from the verandas at the ends of the hall.
Beyond the fountain are the common rooms,
The sitting room, the game room, the large dining room and the kitchen.
A large block shaped area was constructed to house these areas.
It is as if the back area was designed to be the opposite
Of the very concentrated, petite front.
Before the main hallway leaves the central area
It sports signs that announce the location of the health center,
The activities office, the beauty shop,
The built-in chapel, the ice cream parlor and the mail room.
At the south end the residents quarters begin just after the health center,
And at the north end they begin just after the beauty shop.
The main hall only contains five residences on the first floor
On both the north and south sides before the four branches.
Those residences are considered very elite
As they were the first to be grabbed up after
Construction of the old building was completed,
And they have only changed hands once or twice.
They are regarded so highly
Because of their proximity to the common areas.
From those quarters the resident need not walk far
To eat or participate in other social activities.
A large sip restores energy
Revives sleep dulled senses.
The weather… what a mess,
Everyone is so down.
What a shame it is
To be stuck inside for so long.
There are only several more hours to dinner.
Ms. Lyle smiles diminutively
Whenever someone meets her gaze.
She looks around for someone to smile at,
Sometimes for days before she can make contact
Even though there are plenty of people around.
It is not that anyone avoids contact with her,
It is just that deep privacy has sealed the nation
Into a multitude of individual cocoons
That wait for their moment of death politely.
Memories allow her to have
Quiet internal conversations
Before skipping away to join the forgotten.
The old people smile at the news of the rain.
There has been three weeks of it
With very little intermission.
One can find no more color
Than in the smile of old people who no longer care,
Who no longer worry when God takes away the sunshine.
They can tell you,
He always puts it back.
The news of the afternoon entertains,
So pleasant to know what everyone does
And who was involved with what.
Details make the stories last longer.
There is more fun to be had when more time is used.
Routine permeates every nook and cranny of the old building.
In the morning before the sun gets the courage to rise
The man arrives with the morning paper,
Word of all the special important things from the day before.
The helpers prepare for the waking residents.
They scurry to turn on lights
To fill the fountain.
They turn on soft music for the background.
Ms. Lyle loves the activity.
She sets out on her day early.
She watches the helpers.
It makes her think about being young again,
About the time when everything was a rush and a bustle.
She enjoys watching the action
As much as she used to like doing it all.
She finds that intentions, attitudes and personalities
Can easily be read.
She reads the helpers by watching their faces.
She listens to the level of tension in their replies to one another.
After she gets her paper,
And all of the building staff have prepared the sitting area,
The cooks begin setting up the breakfast room.
Everyday at exactly six o’clock.
Hot biscuits and the first batch of coffee
Can always be had by half past.
The other residents of the old building
Trickle down shortly before the repast is served
To engage in polite gossip and discuss the newspaper.
On occasion one of them will complain
That their physical problems have got the better of them.
The others nod in understanding.
They are unable to heal the problems,
But they sympathetically hope for surcease,
The same way they hope their own ills
Do not come back suddenly or grow worse.
When the breakfast room starts to fill up
The noise gets louder.
The food warms hearts and stomachs.
The chill of the morning dissipates.
Many things come up that can be touched on,
Talked about during the civilized, formal meal.
The talk sounds like practiced dance pirouettes.
There are gentle child like qualities in the banter.
The talk can go on about things unimportant fifty years earlier
For a long time after the food has been eaten.
The housekeepers arrive and begin tidying
Just before the breakfast room begins
To empty its antique contents into other areas.
The old building guards those who survived
Three quarters of a century, and much longer,
And they think it is more pleasant a place to be
Than just about any other place they can think of.
In the winter the cozy heaters draw life down
From the upstairs apartments.
All the residents know one another
And most of them get along well.
In the summer the cool verandas
And the smaller parlors in the far wings of the building
Attract more people than the main sitting areas.
With so much sun outside the residents
Find less need to seek light through interaction,
They can find light and warmth wherever they go.
Many of the residents exercise in the morning
As an outlet for the time they accumulate.
They walk or do aerobic exercises in the small gymnasium.
Their walks are always slow and meticulous.
The women sometimes look like birds stalking small bugs.
They walk as though all the things there are to see
Might be missed if they go a little too fast.
Some of the women look like plump greedy robins
Who gobble up all the sparrows’ food
After they arrive triumphantly in the spring.
The old men are more like gray squirrels.
They prick up their noses and ears
To catch the scent or sound of anything they need to know about.
Their tails flap wildly
At any news they do not like.
They seldom fight over food the way real squirrels do,
It’s just that a lot of the qualities they had
When they were young boys who liked to play
Linger on inside them.
The large and stately old building,
Just short of being designated a castle,
Was built shortly before the outbreak of the last world war.
The residents who have not lost their memories,
And that is most of them,
Remember the time period from which it dates.
The building boasts twelve doors
Into and out of the hallways.
Four wings branch off from the main hall.
Their are stairs at the ends of each wing.
And stairs on both sides
Where the long main hallway converges with the wings.
The overall shape of the building, then,
Equates to a huge square,
Split through the middle by the main hallway.
The hall extends ten apartments from the center
Before splitting into the “x” of the wings.
A primary entrance in the front opens into the foyer,
Beyond which are the sitting rooms, dining rooms,
The library, the exercise room, and at the back the kitchens.
For the sake of the old residents elevators were installed
At the two cruxes of the far wings on opposite sides of the building;
The location provides equidistant access for every resident.
Also in the cruxes of the “x”, on both sides,
Are the open air verandas.
These are on all three floors.
The wealthy owner of the building
Plans to enclose the ends of the towers with an addition
That will make the shape of the building
A huge dumbbell with a massive box in the center.
The addition would provide two enclosed gardens
And extra courtyard space.
The old building faces east.
The wings extend to the northeast, northwest,
Southeast and southwest.
The manager of the estate,
Kept around by the residents for their convenience,
Has an office located just inside the front doors.
Before his office is a long, dignified front desk
At which sit young clerics and a secretary.
They tend to all the tedious business paperwork.
The secretary sits there during business hours
And the young men sit there all night.
On the other side of the foyer from the front desk
The architects nestled a small waiting room and employee kitchen,
For the sake of the night employees who can’t eat supper
Than the day employees who can walk back into a busy kitchen.
Small gold engraved mosaics from the middle east
Adorn the walls of the entranceway,
As well as daring art from the nineteenth century
(now old fashioned)
And elegant tapestries from northern Europe.
Silk curtains cover the large windows that surround the front door.
The designer of the building was evidently fond
Of an unobstructed view of the outside world from the foyer.
Mahogany shelves burst with well tended plants
Along the walls of the foyer.
The foyer opens into a center,
Where a grand fountain spews forth water all day long.
The residents take delight in stopping to toss in pennies
To make wishes or help their prayers along.
Around the fountain a cupola sits on top of a circle of wooden benches,
Latticed and trimmed with posts and banisters.
Here the residents sit and rest.
It is actually an octagon shaped affair
And can be seen clearly from the verandas at the ends of the hall.
Beyond the fountain are the common rooms,
The sitting room, the game room, the large dining room and the kitchen.
A large block shaped area was constructed to house these areas.
It is as if the back area was designed to be the opposite
Of the very concentrated, petite front.
Before the main hallway leaves the central area
It sports signs that announce the location of the health center,
The activities office, the beauty shop,
The built-in chapel, the ice cream parlor and the mail room.
At the south end the residents quarters begin just after the health center,
And at the north end they begin just after the beauty shop.
The main hall only contains five residences on the first floor
On both the north and south sides before the four branches.
Those residences are considered very elite
As they were the first to be grabbed up after
Construction of the old building was completed,
And they have only changed hands once or twice.
They are regarded so highly
Because of their proximity to the common areas.
From those quarters the resident need not walk far
To eat or participate in other social activities.
The Sense of Loss
KDE is all about Dolphin now. I really enjoy the Konqueror, but if it can no longer automatically update for security and stability reasons then I have to drop it. Took me a minute to get a KWin file manager up and running. Words:
The Sense of Loss
The sense of loss…
Fleeting, barely a glimpse,
It’s the IF,
The what could have been,
All of the things that could have mattered,
But didn’t.
How many lies does love tell?
More than that,
Do the people who honestly love
Know about the envy of those
Who don’t?
There is the small matter
Of the fading awareness,
The dying light that is the human consciousness.
Lost stories,
Lost dreams,
And many other things
A good man should care about.
Lost hopes
And pleasant illusions gone
Wash over me in pale hues.
Remember, I wish,
But nothing,
Only a vague sense
Of the uneasy.
Concerns and worries fade,
Dissolve into a world
Where the salt shaker
May as well be an international treaty.
International?
Maybe the term should have been
Consolidated.
A dinosaur in the urban scene
Would understand
What the hell is really going on,
Far better than I.
Sometimes great meaning skips a beat,
And in that moment these words
Grin out at you like a pariah.
The meaning of life sometimes translates
Into very, very hungry.
Vampires exist.
Every moment I stare at the pale flesh
Of one who I would devour
I am painfully reminded.
Cannibal does not fit the scenario.
I want to eat, and eat again,
And reap a companion for my efforts,
One as voracious as I.
Daydreams do exist.
Consumed by lust,
So does my psyche prosper.
Many items to peruse,
Many packages to review,
Life should be complete…
Another attempt at humor.
Roll another number,
Roll your insufficient life into the bayou,
Roll over and play dead.
No one will ever notice.
Suicide seems so pointless
When it affects no one.
Many lives once concerned,
Now look the other way:
Definition of alienation.
Alone
With only my faith
And the useless, false hope,
I remain warm
[The summer sun].
The sky licks my flesh,
Without heed to my volition,
Sunburn.
Loveburn:
I lick and lick,
The area becomes inflamed,
And the bearer becomes enraged.
I am not the sun.
Union.
The place where I exist,
That state in which my own words
Convince me there is nothing wrong,
And all of the universe crumbles
As I sip tea.
If only the self-told lies
Could be true to me.
Oh, sure, the world can hold its own,
But I am left wondering,
Wandering.
The Sense of Loss
The sense of loss…
Fleeting, barely a glimpse,
It’s the IF,
The what could have been,
All of the things that could have mattered,
But didn’t.
How many lies does love tell?
More than that,
Do the people who honestly love
Know about the envy of those
Who don’t?
There is the small matter
Of the fading awareness,
The dying light that is the human consciousness.
Lost stories,
Lost dreams,
And many other things
A good man should care about.
Lost hopes
And pleasant illusions gone
Wash over me in pale hues.
Remember, I wish,
But nothing,
Only a vague sense
Of the uneasy.
Concerns and worries fade,
Dissolve into a world
Where the salt shaker
May as well be an international treaty.
International?
Maybe the term should have been
Consolidated.
A dinosaur in the urban scene
Would understand
What the hell is really going on,
Far better than I.
Sometimes great meaning skips a beat,
And in that moment these words
Grin out at you like a pariah.
The meaning of life sometimes translates
Into very, very hungry.
Vampires exist.
Every moment I stare at the pale flesh
Of one who I would devour
I am painfully reminded.
Cannibal does not fit the scenario.
I want to eat, and eat again,
And reap a companion for my efforts,
One as voracious as I.
Daydreams do exist.
Consumed by lust,
So does my psyche prosper.
Many items to peruse,
Many packages to review,
Life should be complete…
Another attempt at humor.
Roll another number,
Roll your insufficient life into the bayou,
Roll over and play dead.
No one will ever notice.
Suicide seems so pointless
When it affects no one.
Many lives once concerned,
Now look the other way:
Definition of alienation.
Alone
With only my faith
And the useless, false hope,
I remain warm
[The summer sun].
The sky licks my flesh,
Without heed to my volition,
Sunburn.
Loveburn:
I lick and lick,
The area becomes inflamed,
And the bearer becomes enraged.
I am not the sun.
Union.
The place where I exist,
That state in which my own words
Convince me there is nothing wrong,
And all of the universe crumbles
As I sip tea.
If only the self-told lies
Could be true to me.
Oh, sure, the world can hold its own,
But I am left wondering,
Wandering.
Wax on the Altar - Three - Dead Wounds Opened
I find it difficult
To wring the truth
From my dry and blistered tongue.
You tell me the answers.
You tell me you are right there
In front of me,
But I can not see.
My eyes swell,
Bruised by the light.
The dust in the air
Forms pulsing constellations
Where the sunlight filters through it.
The discord on the floor,
Illuminated in patches,
Reminds me
I was trying to crawl to a corner,
To shake in peace.
I seek comfort
In my personal hell,
And the concrete
Seems to understand.
I feel we share something,
The concrete floor and I.
We are both so cold,
So unforgiving.
The humor reaches me
There,
Not far from my own stench,
Not far from
The place where I removed my guts
And spread them out
For everyone to see.
Funny
I can not even remember
What it is I am not forgiving,
Only that it is not forgiven.
When you come by
You tell me
That once I had all the answers
And now there is only filth,
Putridity.
I remember
Why I don’t want to remember
Anything.
You,
Oh,
The avenging angel
Sent to purge the fallen from the ranks,
You
The voice of God’s purity,
The messenger from
The dream
Of decency
That spiraled out of ancient masculine hegemony,
A wet dream
Of masculine control,
A dream of
A religion fit to rule,
Fit to put the women on their knees
Where they can properly worship
With hands clasped.
I am done with
Your dream.
I can only guess
The look of horror on your face,
The revulsion in your words,
The contempt
Must spring from hatred,
And so I am happy
Because I
A mere mortal
Have earned the hatred of God’s pristine messenger,
I have taken the step
That leads to total condemnation.
On my knees
Slave to sensory pleasure
I want only more.
A single wish by the damned
Would be wasted.
I would wish only for a stronger body
So that I could torture it longer,
Fool my mind into thinking
That I have what I always wanted,
Only to laugh when
The warm glow vanishes.
It leaves me here.
So I know
Why you have come,
Arbiter from society’s cruel clutches,
You have come to mock me.
What I have left
Feels only pain at the sight of you,
So perfect,
Once so beloved.
When I look into your eyes
I see only myself
Trapped in a puddle of excretions.
If only the shakes would stop
I could speak
I could try to change
The evil things I think,
But it is too late.
You are leaving.
Outside the wind blows,
But the windows are closed
And here there is only
The smell of my skin
Scaling onto the ground.
If only I could turn back.
I realize the only way to move,
The only way to stop the shakes
Is to do it one more time.
As I reach for the syringe,
For what precious little I have left,
I think only of spitting
In my executioners face
When I see him again.
Beyond comprehension
The needle finds the vein,
And I plunge the fluid home.
It’s all gone now,
Everything.
The image of the room
Crashes to the floor
And shatters.
The memory
Of what I could have had
Lingers in the air before me a moment
Before it falls to the floor
And shatters as well.
I crawl through the slivers of my life
Heaving,
Blood on my festering lips.
In the farthest corner
The creature I became
Comes to rest
And moves no more.
I know not what happens next
For I have gone.
I have been painted into a picture
For a grim and gory fairy tale
To nurture the offspring
That will choke the world
In the time when the rivers run black.
*-*-*
The extreme imagery of Wax on the Altar resulted in an attack on the two locations of, at the time, the only surviving copy of the work other than the handwritten original. A line was inserted into the manuscript, one of true blasphemy. After the event took place the vandal successfully changed the password to one of the sites. I could have removed the line from the site I still had access to, but that would not have fixed the overall problem. There was, and is no address, to send a letter to about it, as near as I have been able to determine. I would not correct the copy at this point. I never put vulgarity beside the name of Christianity's messiah, but to prevent someone else from going through the experience of being judged for having done so I will leave it stand as though I did. Both sites have been cracked and passwords changed now, so I can't access any of it. I can only comment from a distance, not change the writing (which I never did, anyway).
The compilation exudes very graphic overtones, which I have dubbed the "My name is Renfield effect." The silent terror only escapes detection at the level of human hearing. On the mental level it is vaster than the depths of space.
To wring the truth
From my dry and blistered tongue.
You tell me the answers.
You tell me you are right there
In front of me,
But I can not see.
My eyes swell,
Bruised by the light.
The dust in the air
Forms pulsing constellations
Where the sunlight filters through it.
The discord on the floor,
Illuminated in patches,
Reminds me
I was trying to crawl to a corner,
To shake in peace.
I seek comfort
In my personal hell,
And the concrete
Seems to understand.
I feel we share something,
The concrete floor and I.
We are both so cold,
So unforgiving.
The humor reaches me
There,
Not far from my own stench,
Not far from
The place where I removed my guts
And spread them out
For everyone to see.
Funny
I can not even remember
What it is I am not forgiving,
Only that it is not forgiven.
When you come by
You tell me
That once I had all the answers
And now there is only filth,
Putridity.
I remember
Why I don’t want to remember
Anything.
You,
Oh,
The avenging angel
Sent to purge the fallen from the ranks,
You
The voice of God’s purity,
The messenger from
The dream
Of decency
That spiraled out of ancient masculine hegemony,
A wet dream
Of masculine control,
A dream of
A religion fit to rule,
Fit to put the women on their knees
Where they can properly worship
With hands clasped.
I am done with
Your dream.
I can only guess
The look of horror on your face,
The revulsion in your words,
The contempt
Must spring from hatred,
And so I am happy
Because I
A mere mortal
Have earned the hatred of God’s pristine messenger,
I have taken the step
That leads to total condemnation.
On my knees
Slave to sensory pleasure
I want only more.
A single wish by the damned
Would be wasted.
I would wish only for a stronger body
So that I could torture it longer,
Fool my mind into thinking
That I have what I always wanted,
Only to laugh when
The warm glow vanishes.
It leaves me here.
So I know
Why you have come,
Arbiter from society’s cruel clutches,
You have come to mock me.
What I have left
Feels only pain at the sight of you,
So perfect,
Once so beloved.
When I look into your eyes
I see only myself
Trapped in a puddle of excretions.
If only the shakes would stop
I could speak
I could try to change
The evil things I think,
But it is too late.
You are leaving.
Outside the wind blows,
But the windows are closed
And here there is only
The smell of my skin
Scaling onto the ground.
If only I could turn back.
I realize the only way to move,
The only way to stop the shakes
Is to do it one more time.
As I reach for the syringe,
For what precious little I have left,
I think only of spitting
In my executioners face
When I see him again.
Beyond comprehension
The needle finds the vein,
And I plunge the fluid home.
It’s all gone now,
Everything.
The image of the room
Crashes to the floor
And shatters.
The memory
Of what I could have had
Lingers in the air before me a moment
Before it falls to the floor
And shatters as well.
I crawl through the slivers of my life
Heaving,
Blood on my festering lips.
In the farthest corner
The creature I became
Comes to rest
And moves no more.
I know not what happens next
For I have gone.
I have been painted into a picture
For a grim and gory fairy tale
To nurture the offspring
That will choke the world
In the time when the rivers run black.
*-*-*
The extreme imagery of Wax on the Altar resulted in an attack on the two locations of, at the time, the only surviving copy of the work other than the handwritten original. A line was inserted into the manuscript, one of true blasphemy. After the event took place the vandal successfully changed the password to one of the sites. I could have removed the line from the site I still had access to, but that would not have fixed the overall problem. There was, and is no address, to send a letter to about it, as near as I have been able to determine. I would not correct the copy at this point. I never put vulgarity beside the name of Christianity's messiah, but to prevent someone else from going through the experience of being judged for having done so I will leave it stand as though I did. Both sites have been cracked and passwords changed now, so I can't access any of it. I can only comment from a distance, not change the writing (which I never did, anyway).
The compilation exudes very graphic overtones, which I have dubbed the "My name is Renfield effect." The silent terror only escapes detection at the level of human hearing. On the mental level it is vaster than the depths of space.
2001
That was the year I created a website archiving a large portion of my poetry. It was probably 70% of it, at that time. I rewrote some of the material while I was drunk, plain and simple. I didn't make it better in any way, regardless of what I was doing or thinking at the time. That's why I started restoring it all.
There's been a fair amount of controversy over some of my work. By the time I put together Wax on the Altar and Cinnamon and Cyanide I had become desperate for recognition. I decided that the best way to draw attention to myself was to create shocking material. It worked. Everyone who read the compilations had a negative reaction, sometimes extremely negative reactions. It became notorious. I used those reactions to bring attention to my good stuff, and in that light it was successful.
People hate a lot of my writing. I get that. I will not, however, say I was wrong to write it. My life has been incredibly boring. The things I write about are nothing like my life. Words are just a big game to me. I can make simple words seem kinky, and kinky words seem normal. I can write fiction people would never suspect wasn't true, and non-fiction that nobody would ever believe. That's what I do. I am proud of it, because it is the greatest gift God gave me.
I'm not done writing new material, nor has hundreds of pages of old material ever been available for people to see. As long as I am able to, physically and mentally, then this is what I do. I love it. Anyone who doesn't understand what I do would do well to leave it alone. You won't change the words, you won't change the truth and you won't change me.
I'm just a little bit curious. I'm human, that's plain to see. I want to know everything. Someday won't that be? I write not because I'm furious. It's all just another page to me.
That's pretty much all I had to say.
Have a nice night, if you're in the Western hemisphere.
Good morning and good day to you overseas.
Sometimes even my mistakes have mistakes.
oops
There's been a fair amount of controversy over some of my work. By the time I put together Wax on the Altar and Cinnamon and Cyanide I had become desperate for recognition. I decided that the best way to draw attention to myself was to create shocking material. It worked. Everyone who read the compilations had a negative reaction, sometimes extremely negative reactions. It became notorious. I used those reactions to bring attention to my good stuff, and in that light it was successful.
People hate a lot of my writing. I get that. I will not, however, say I was wrong to write it. My life has been incredibly boring. The things I write about are nothing like my life. Words are just a big game to me. I can make simple words seem kinky, and kinky words seem normal. I can write fiction people would never suspect wasn't true, and non-fiction that nobody would ever believe. That's what I do. I am proud of it, because it is the greatest gift God gave me.
I'm not done writing new material, nor has hundreds of pages of old material ever been available for people to see. As long as I am able to, physically and mentally, then this is what I do. I love it. Anyone who doesn't understand what I do would do well to leave it alone. You won't change the words, you won't change the truth and you won't change me.
I'm just a little bit curious. I'm human, that's plain to see. I want to know everything. Someday won't that be? I write not because I'm furious. It's all just another page to me.
That's pretty much all I had to say.
Have a nice night, if you're in the Western hemisphere.
Good morning and good day to you overseas.
Sometimes even my mistakes have mistakes.
oops
Out of Time
I lost a lot of time changing my computer arrangement. I intended to post something from Roll Call of the Lesser Devils here, and something from Wax on the Altar at the adult content site. I failed. I did post the second poem of Wax though, Corpus Deperditus.
I'll probably finish that entire compilation before Roll Call. It doesn't take a lot of content to freak people out. I think it's like 20% of the size of Roll Call.
And now it's off to the world of responsibility.
I'll probably finish that entire compilation before Roll Call. It doesn't take a lot of content to freak people out. I think it's like 20% of the size of Roll Call.
And now it's off to the world of responsibility.
Poetry Restoration Project.
Notes on the short poems of Roll Call of the Lesser Devils:
Some people still think this is akin to a personal Wikipedia for me. I write this for my entertainment, and for the entertainment of whoever may read it. It's just something I enjoy.
- I studied Keats through an advanced English literature program before I got to college. I wasn't in love with his image or his poetry, but I was awestruck by his shorter works. Before that I equated the quality of writing to the quantity of work. I began experimenting with maximizing impact and minimizing the number of words used to do so. The experiment was something of a failure at the time. Instead of showcasing the power of word selection, in my opinion the poems came off as lackadaisical or the product of a short attention span. By the mid 90's, however, when I wanted max impact with few words the earlier experimentation helped me achieve that goal in a very big way.
- I wrote a large percentage of the short poetry of Roll Call while I was staying in the Pontalba in New Orleans. For those who do not know, the Pontalba are the oldest apartments in Louisiana. They overlook Jackson Square in the front, but go back a half block to the middle of the block they are located on. Inside each of the apartments of the Pontalba are private courtyards open to the air. The front has the famous wrought iron railings across large front porches, with French windows that open out onto them from the main sitting room. The rooms and quarters at the back are not as large. The servants' rooms are small, but the ohers are spacious and quite comfortable. The one I stayed in was furnished completely with antique French period pieces dating back to the period of the Pontalba's earliest days.
- I was there during the most horrific period of drug addiction I have ever subjectd myself to. In 1989 I was still doing crystal meth. I had discovered a source of real PG, which I constantly did with the meth. I was also taking LSD regularly, rolling on ecstasy whenever possible and smoking weed at all times, day and night. That was the spring when I stayed awake 7 days out of every 10. Thinking about it now causes me anxiety. It was horrible, what I did to myself.
- I wrote almost all of my short poetry in public. I spent night after night writing at Cafe du Monde, 100 yards from the apartment. I also wrote on the Riverwalk all day, many many times. Thousands of people stopped to read what I was writing.
- I was going insane on the inside, but the poetry just seemed to become more and more divinely inspired. That's what I think now. At the time I thought it was all garbage. I burned over 1000 pages because I was so twisted up inside.
- During the period in the Pontalba I was engaged to one of the most beautiful girls in the world. I never stopped loving her. My mind was messed up, but she could always find a way to reach me. She would take my hands in hers and get me to focus on her face, and then she would talk to me until I was okay again. I've never loved anyone in my life more completely. She used to go to The Crystal and Oz with me, and we would bring girls back to the apartment for sex. I never participated because I was in never never land, but I've never forgotten how incredibly hot it was. I miss her.
Some people still think this is akin to a personal Wikipedia for me. I write this for my entertainment, and for the entertainment of whoever may read it. It's just something I enjoy.
Roll Call of the Lesser Devils 106-110
106.
Behold your white plaster walls
They crumble
A breeze through your heart
Envelops softly
All grays washed away by waves of green
Living fields of emerald, chartreuse and kelly
Return, dispense gladness and cheer
And all who notice not
Make themselves unworthy of freedom,
The servants of the power
That keeps us all
Living poor between white plaster walls,
And guillotines in concert halls.
Turn back now
There's no place to go
And nary a beat from the metronome.
107.
Twilight flickered,
The autumn sky pressed down
Upon the earth,
Held dear treasures in place
In trunks fashioned from rosewood,
Filled with warm, red flowing thoughts,
Close to the heavens, closer still
To pent up joy in a longing heart.
The colors of the evening life
Cascade before appreciative eyes,
But offer no solace to the lonely ache.
The evening lights are all parlor tricks
I thought to my self,
Before suddenly I could see,
The deep soft brown of the soul behind your eyes.
The darkening sky holds treasures, dear,
Like casks of wine made from true emotions,
Captured, a state of illumination,
For the two are one,
And are always, you see,
For even I this comes to be
When the twilight
Flickering fades.
108.
Pleas
Speak to me often in innocent words
With light shining softly
Through your long, soft hair.
Speak to me long of the days without end
When we loved from the dawn
And loved harder by dusk.
Speak from your heart,
So dear to me,
For if cherished have I
Then cherished are thee.
Tell me quietly
In the dim light
Why it is that I live
(to love! to love!)
Hold me tightly
And don’t let me go
As the seconds tick by and by.
109.
Frame 97
I hear her voice calling to me
Across the sea of groping souls.
Her desperate plea for mercy,
Cages my heart
For I have none to give.
There is none in this life,
But she calls out for it
As if there were.
I feel her pain incessantly.
If only we could just
Be done with it.
110.
There is not much in the way of beauty
Nor tidings of gladness and joy
In the ailing world to which I was born,
In which I will die in the end,
But the wind and the rain make me happy
In ways that can not be expressed.
They are the rod and the staff that comfort me.
The elements dispel the memories
Of illness and sickening self defeat.
The wind makes me laugh
In a tone my friends fear and misunderstand
As my soul flies giddily away.
[Notes: I have a great deal of notes to go with these five short poems. I plan on posting those either late tonight or early tomorrow. I'm suffering from some sort of terrible sinus infection, which shrugged off one round of antibiotics as though they were placebos. And I still have to go to work, so this is going to be slightly delayed.]
Behold your white plaster walls
They crumble
A breeze through your heart
Envelops softly
All grays washed away by waves of green
Living fields of emerald, chartreuse and kelly
Return, dispense gladness and cheer
And all who notice not
Make themselves unworthy of freedom,
The servants of the power
That keeps us all
Living poor between white plaster walls,
And guillotines in concert halls.
Turn back now
There's no place to go
And nary a beat from the metronome.
107.
Twilight flickered,
The autumn sky pressed down
Upon the earth,
Held dear treasures in place
In trunks fashioned from rosewood,
Filled with warm, red flowing thoughts,
Close to the heavens, closer still
To pent up joy in a longing heart.
The colors of the evening life
Cascade before appreciative eyes,
But offer no solace to the lonely ache.
The evening lights are all parlor tricks
I thought to my self,
Before suddenly I could see,
The deep soft brown of the soul behind your eyes.
The darkening sky holds treasures, dear,
Like casks of wine made from true emotions,
Captured, a state of illumination,
For the two are one,
And are always, you see,
For even I this comes to be
When the twilight
Flickering fades.
108.
Pleas
Speak to me often in innocent words
With light shining softly
Through your long, soft hair.
Speak to me long of the days without end
When we loved from the dawn
And loved harder by dusk.
Speak from your heart,
So dear to me,
For if cherished have I
Then cherished are thee.
Tell me quietly
In the dim light
Why it is that I live
(to love! to love!)
Hold me tightly
And don’t let me go
As the seconds tick by and by.
109.
Frame 97
I hear her voice calling to me
Across the sea of groping souls.
Her desperate plea for mercy,
Cages my heart
For I have none to give.
There is none in this life,
But she calls out for it
As if there were.
I feel her pain incessantly.
If only we could just
Be done with it.
110.
There is not much in the way of beauty
Nor tidings of gladness and joy
In the ailing world to which I was born,
In which I will die in the end,
But the wind and the rain make me happy
In ways that can not be expressed.
They are the rod and the staff that comfort me.
The elements dispel the memories
Of illness and sickening self defeat.
The wind makes me laugh
In a tone my friends fear and misunderstand
As my soul flies giddily away.
[Notes: I have a great deal of notes to go with these five short poems. I plan on posting those either late tonight or early tomorrow. I'm suffering from some sort of terrible sinus infection, which shrugged off one round of antibiotics as though they were placebos. And I still have to go to work, so this is going to be slightly delayed.]
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