Wednesday, February 27, 2013

For Lonely Poets who have Considered Suicide When the Truth Wasn’t Enuff





1.
my inner self feeds on the shadows of my 
subconscious, a feast that my super
ego can utilize to dine with the divine

but the id in me still hungers

my life, like others has been circumcised by stars
no, not those shining beacons of wonder and delight
westward leading, still proceeding toward an 
emaciated ideal glowing brightly in the east
the levitating bar
the internal glass ceiling

as a man i think myself 
to be master of the universe
as a poet i know i am

but what would your happiness be had you no public for which to shine

some cat named nietzsche said that 
like a hundred years ago
over in europe too
wonder how his 
lines can hit me
with so much 
truth 



2.
day follows day and its contents are added
the new contents themselves are not true
they simply come and are
truth is what we say about them

said william james
but the philosophers are dealing in shades
we who live and breathe know truth
with brutal intimacy 

truth, the hand that slowly twists
the jagged dagger into the muscle bound back of atlas
droppin’ 30 pieces of poppy seeds  on the way home
(a retrospective substance)

the noble nature of the great titan 
is steady silence 
eyes saddened and alone
veins pulsing and taut
condemned to gaze upon 
the harsh realities of the world 
from the outside in 



3.
the vampire doesn’t have to say
the light will kill him
he is already a creature of the night

it is the call of the wild black yonder that now beckons me
the shadow that my soul makes when it has fallen to earth 
the part of me illuminated into darkness
an unstill life silhouette of thus and thus

every time i gaze into this non-stop mental mirror
from behind a set of cool dark self mutilated eyes
reflections of my mental state are all that i can see
and yet the cracked lenses are uneven
the sharded pieces scratch and scrape the 
thick greasy membranes of my cerebral vortex
get stuck in crevices
plant seeds deeply

its gotta hurt
there’s just no other way


4.
the days of my childhood have long since ended/ ended but not forgotten/ i done moved on/ from rhythmical riffs of emotion and design/ to mutated distortions of thought 
and funk/ george calls it da cosmic slop/ a multilayered embryo of impulse and destroyed desire/ forced into flight before the hatching/ and even if these wings don’t never sprout
it ain’t gonna keep me from flying/ cause me and brother wind are like a pair of siamese twins/ separated at the medulla oblong-iforgotta lock the gate on the backyard of my thought patterns/ the unchained melodies have escaped me and continue to run free at 
this very moment/ they are breeding with stray mixed bred free verse mutts/ the off sprung mongrel aesthetics that will one day find their home in my pad need not fear/ for they can take nothing from me that i would not part withal/ except my pen sir/ except my pen 



5.
they raised the price on dreams again
now one must choke and bleed and vomit forth excellence
now one must exceed the boundaries of the skin 
just to dance the 2 step
but i gotta tap out savior glover beats 
across the hardwood floors of the milky way
and when i look toward the heavens 
in search of my constellation
my starry guide
i can’t make out the celestial bodies 
from those handcrafted flying machines 
that now plague our once friendly skies 
i never had that problem back home
and i don’t wish to defy gravity
i want to become one with it
only then will i truly be able to soar



6.
i accept my fate and await what may come 
joyfully 
like the gentle brown bear 
who snuggles in to his cave for the winter
knowing that spring will come 
whether he lives to see it or not 
it does come



7.
and when all else fails let the words be a prayer
a holy scripture offered up as sacrament 
unleavened

it is the spirit of my spirit that makes it rise 
never me, never me



8.
i must become like the shapeless smoke rising from a
single spark of incensed stick: nothing but motion, 
impulse, funk, with nothing left to do but spread

no greater power or higher calling or more urgent
matter than to reflect the light until dawn, with hopes
that by morning the people will have found their sunglasses
again

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