Let Me Write of Joy.

Let me write of Joy.

Its wispy love lives above and graces one rarely. You cannot grasp it in your hands. It is ethereal and without substance. It rapes you for one glorious minute and then flies away with a wicked will. To renounce it is folly, to embrace it is impulsive.

Let me write of Joy.

Her scent clings to me like cigarette smoke.

Silent Execution

Deviance defines us, brings us to know ourselves. But how far beyond the social realm are we truly willing to travel? The walk is easy on the legs but rough on the mind. For the gentle path winds one way. Look at your compass, Artist, and view only one direction. You of true the breed know of what I speak. We see it everywhere in our rugged isolation. It is dizzy, chaotic, and groundless.

Travel the road. Social ties are the toll, and the price is social stability. Let it all ride upon the swift avalanche, whose snows billow and buster, and destroy and maim until the flat lands end their awful descent.

Then how still the white bed lays while it waits for the summer sun's silent execution!

Square Reality

THE WORLD WAS FLAT

NOW IT IS ROUND

I STILL THINK IT'S SQUARE.

Reverse Aristocrats

Reverse aristocrats roam the streets,
Reverse aristocrats with inverted power.

Reverse aristocrats savor the slums,
Tasting the denizens with greedy tongues.

Reverse aristocrats unleash their royalty,
Upon the despairing willing.

Reverse aristocrats are unacknowledged by the media,
But lurk beneath the mainstream at every angle.

Their shadows are seen in the background of every,
Official Photograph.

Pay homage to the reverse aristocrats,
Because they birth,
Your child vice.

Delirious.

Delirious in the mornings.

Delirious in the afternoons.

Delirious in the nights.

Delirious in these times.

Bad News

Bad news in the papers,
Bad news in the world.

Bad news and bad feelings,
Bad news and bad doings.

Bad news in the papers,
Bad news in the world.

Bad news and bad reality,
Bad news and bad sadness.

Valentine's Day.

Kill the flowers,

Make them wilt.

Kill the flowers,

Turn them brown.

Kill the flowers,

And empty the vase.

Kill the flowers,

And empty the feeling.

Four-hundred Poems.

Four-hundred poems are a leg to stand on.
Four-hundred poems are a shred of hubris.
Four-hundred poems are a satisfying hurdle.
Four-hundred poems are a smile on my face.

The Bug

Feel the bug writhe within.
Feel it tickle and pester and demand attention.
It boils my blood this very evening.

I had thought it was dead. I had thought I had killed it. I had thought I had starved it into submission. But it was merely dormant, like reptiles in winter, opening its evil eyes in the best of seasons and casting its shadowy gloom over any sunny feeling.

A plague rides upon disturbed minds' bloodstreams. It tickles them with their antennae. And we laugh, and we cry, and we rage in response.

Oh vulgar reality, the bug feeds on your body! It is a flesh that purifies and strengthens the need to escape. The exit signs flare up when the bug is active, and it is up to us to choose which path to take. There is only one correct path. The rest are simple and rotten and reek of decay. The smell of inebriation wafts forth from them, but it is a beacon to the hopeless.

The bug is older than humanity, is more vibrant than a newborn, is more persistent than death.

To exorcise it is folly,
To cultivate it is vice,
To ignore it is futile.

Unguided and Out of Control

The infant's cherubic hands spin the toy world on its axis. Faster and faster it rotates until the screech of strain emanates from the frame. It is a speech understood by those who comprehend abuse.

The countries all meld together on the whirring sphere. Greens, yellows, and blues form a geographic kaleidoscope.

What a toy to give a child! The model globe: a representation of humanity's politics, exploratory history, astronomical knowledge, and geographic cognizance. The world's endless complexity shrunk into a tiny trinket that responds to the slightest touch, to the smallest will.

The one who possesses the model globe unconsciously suffers from visions of godhood. This the fool's power: the power that swells the victim's sense of importance. It is the power that is popped by the pin of reason. It is the ignorant power that swells again and again with willful indignance.

The whirling globe has unhinged itself, but the child claps its hands and screams with mirth.

Watch as the world spirals across the room. Unguided and out of control.

We Poets Who Write

We poets who write try to paint the night's mournful skin within words. We poets who write try to recreate the picture of inspiration. We poets who write try to wrap ourselves in twilight.

And we always fall a little short.

The night's feminine arms are wrapped around our necks, and we can still taste her nicotine tongue at the top of our taste buds. But how long has her tongue dwelt inside our mouths, tainting us with her intoxifying affection?

Appearance only tells the outside scars. It is action that tells of scars within. But numb confusion is everlasting.

The Goddess

The goddess comes to those who wait. Laughable are those who actively seek her. Their hunt is always fruitless, for they miss her by the fraction of a moment. They never find her, but they eagerly herald her discards: a strip of cloth, some wasted incense, a wisp of perfume. Behold, a soulless triumph! Behold, a goddess's mirth!

The goddess comes to those who wait. Patience is an open door for her. Humility is the light that draws her near. And love prompts her entry. Bow your head, and let her take possession of your pride. You can feel her as she flows through you, as you swim within her essence.

Out of time, every molecule sings divinely.

And at that time, invulnerability

is yours.

And at that time, immortality

is yours.

And at that time, the power of creation

is yours.

Who Cares About Tomorrow?

Who cares about tomorrow?

The men with money, who love their income and their starling future.

Who cares about tomorrow?

The misled humans who believe in eternity.

Who cares about tomorrow?

The blooded killer whose prey is planned.

Who cares about tomorrow?

An animal's logic is all the wisdom we need.

Untitled

My eyes are bruised, and the blood is dripping from my shredded self. The red river expands on the glossy platform, hot and horrible. In my corner the screaming voices blur. Hatefulness's reassessment mocks me, just outside the whirlwind. Its evil self victoriously cackles.

But I'll teach it a lesson as soon as I regain my feet.

Love, You Ask?

So it is love that you ask for.

Your love is a crack in my chest, jagged and angry, where the jet-black cockroaches roost. Their eggs are lain out of sight in the deep crevasse.

So it is love that you ask for.

Your love is the reality of imperfection, the loss of sanity, the revocation of rationale.

So it is love that you ask for.

Your love is a sordid shelter, shot and leaky, and the rain drips from the ceiling into makeshift buckets. They overflow with every drip.

So it is love that you ask for.

Your love brings tears to the weary, joy to the believer, and pain to the deceived. It is a force that tears through the emotions like a wolf to a lamb.

So it is love that you ask for.

Your love's roaches roam in the dusk. They consume without concern, they breed incessantly, they invade the moment. I feel hundreds of prickly legs all upon my spine, and their angry nest sits inside my heart.

I must apply the pesticide before the parasites overwhelm.