| Insomnia is My Sinful Nature 2004-10-16 21:01:21 ET |
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Shadows play the lives of men out on the floor as the candle burns casting light by casting out the night upon the walls of this room where this betting match of Lucifer with strings attached jostles me through my thoughts so dark that even the moon to me mirrors the sun and no amount of heavenly intervention can on my behalf heal this with a herbal salve of sleep.
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| I'm aching for something... 2004-10-14 05:34:59 ET |
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I need some Bukowski...
"so you want to be a writer?"
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to ROAR out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never doea roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.
don't be like so many writers
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with
self-love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and keep on doing it
until you die or it does in
you.
there is no other way
and there never was.
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| Counting Breaths 2004-10-03 22:15:34 ET |
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<->...shut eyes, shut mouth...<->
Close quarters getting closer still and this time I choke, I die
Remember those nights we'd stay out til sunrise dreaming about new beginnnings
We could have stayed forever in this haze of illusions miskept
Sheltered and inept to the art of holding back...
Remember the smiles fading and laugheter filling our throats
We were everything the other lacked... and so much the same
If only I could let go and let go and let the blame pass from you...
...but I can't and you won't accept so that brings us to the here and now...
Apart and in a death struggle tightly linked through these rings arounds us like a mirror of Saturn
A mirror of something to turn the fight back to duels of the past and the passed previously bent and broken
We are the greatest of friends and the best of enemies
3 weeks later and still suffering from 5 years of forgiving
This time the table is level and this balance is fraught with a choice...
one voice
two words
three beats of blood through my heart
before the echo upon five pairs of closed eyes
...and now it's starting with you and ending me...
sixes and sevens
I'm hating nine and beginning at ten
<0>...open mouth, open eyes...<0>
FUCK YOU.
__and in the depths of my vengeful heart__
...all i want is an apology...
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| Neato... 2004-09-29 22:49:32 ET |
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I found this really cool Loop site... I don't know if anyone here as ever heard of it but it's real tight... but if you know of any other ones let me know cuz I love it all.
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| Okay... so this is a long ass poem. 2004-09-28 05:18:40 ET |
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The Jail Cell Confession
Confession: the visionistic of a delusionless spectrum analytical and deconstructed... thought out and thought interrupted... this is not something that I can stop... not a petty addiction by physical need but this mental corrosion by an inundated artform to which I am cursed causing ink from fingertips to bleed... black, blue, and red... all the colors to which I've grown accustomed to... all the colors that remind me I am not dead and so very alive... not blind but gifted or plagued by a sight that bears some unexplicable label to be named... that required more than a second's notice but a first's distinctions with years to comprehend and even more to forget... a thirst unquenchable and a hunger never complete... weather patterns show through with grey skies and forecasts bleak... confusion grips me like a chokehold from the angel Gabriel himself underneath the shade... all occurences and all the surrendering to need and the severing of want like a blade to flesh leaving no memory with me... every hour of everyday feels like the same... starving artist with a banquet around but no mouth to feed and all I have is myself to blame... do you hear the beating of my fabled heart with fabled life... a fabled lie from a broken part to which my wrist has grown accustomed with no matter the phantom pains after its long lingering removeal from my own control... this cannot be the way to which I am to travel... abnormal and constantly finding remans of past sins on paper napkins found in a dresser drawer long left for me to unwravel... this cannot honestly be my present link to past a futures with dulled pens and dry erasers... dulled senses and high powered phasers of rapture's premonition with my every breath dieing and left dead on the doorstep of heaven's gate and hell's backdoor... I can't wait too long to decide between taking the high road or staying dirty... but aren't both one ins the same... without the sin there can't be the cleansing of the blame... and in this world there's no end to talley marks of shame upon the faces of the newlyborn... newlywed... newlydivorced... the most present end in sight... adulterous and lying the people under one name are found to be... one hand the grip of purity and the other encased in trickery trechery and greed... and this why I escape... this is why I hide in words and volumes, metaphors and algorithms of similes mixed by creative -isms... I don't know any other way and I doubt I ever will in all my days attached to this body of my skin shedding death and sickness with cool breezes of instantaneous prose and diction... mirror images of a journeying parishoner of no known faith... an evangelist to his own heart... paper to shoulder what his lips create... flowing, falling, waiting to down reality... to put into words is to put into a category... a box for viewing... the poor excuse for a mind rich in fantasy and nothing to refuse... if only you could see the world how I see it... then... you'd... know... imprisonment.
Terrified: I know the true definition of a word used… of times lost to the confusion over the breaking of nerves and synapses… like a bitter memory chained to me… is this fear that grips inside still… it is never letting me capture the breath that has escaped… found it’s way through tunnels and passageways… through a break in the wall it has made it to the freedom that I can no longer see… I can no longer feel… and I’m always a step behind… taking the last lap in a race I’m losing within… odds against which I’ll never rise above and I’ll never win… a failure written in parchment upon the stones of ages… that play out their contracts til free agency then find another part of me to let die… salary caps of tradesmen’s flesh upon the weighted balances upon justice’s breast… beauty and misery mixed with ever closed eyes… so hear this… the hearing… the jury… the plea bargain… dotted and signed… run and hide.
Personified: this moment that I’m in is the one that tears at me within like a rat in a burning box escaping at every weak seam til death halts it with one lifeless choke… and I choke… leaving marks in me that no amount of time will ever allow to be erased like lost chances and passing faces upon paths I will never take with choices I will never make written on paper passed before the jury as I cannot escape… I cannot look away… I can’t speak a word as though I choke again… their words leaving me covered in the shit I’m stuck in knowing full well what happens next because how do you pay for what never had to begin with and what’s the price for writing letters and burning names in the fires of your heart and never loosening the holds of that one… the fear… can you keep it from changing you… can you keep from changing through the rearranging of place and setting of thoughts and never-ending moments of temporary insanity toasting the evenings that ring of survival and whether or not you can learn to separate your mind but never your body like an anchor to a reality that is more fiction than any dream you can create through pages and pages of tear stains, sinking ships and burning skyscrapers tumbling through the stairwells taking you to the highest heights of a weak foundation like a building built on quicksand hiding the end result until it is too late and to fall is only natural like gravity taking hold and apologies evaporating into the air losing their value before they are heard… depreciating til the lips from which they flow fall to the floor as if to give in finally to their false story… their fake lines… like from a book of lies that they can quote but never carry… I never asked “why” just looked for where to sign… where to find a way to attract the pointed fingers and accusatory glances knowing I was looking for a way out… a way to hide from the actions of these hands… this bottle… this wheel.
Premonition: permanently planted arms outstretched in 3 and 9... the positions as a permanent reminder of answers to questions never asked... just decisions made and promises broken for I plead no contest to what brings me before this court and now I am scared… hollow soul and hollow mind… from a density of expressions to heavy stares that my eyes trapped me with their glazed over guilt that shines giving light to every inch of my broken form of glass shards glued together like puzzle pieces that never fit… if the force of these blows doesn’t impression their outlines into a painful congruency then the frustration will kill this imprisonment inside a solitary cell of flashing lights and padded passageways… of answering machines and busy signals… of long vacations and business trips… of broken locks, heavy walls and an open door just an inch from grasp… exit lost and indiscretion found with much less than microscopic eyes prodding and pleading… bleeding and emptying me into test tubes for a tempestuous wave of scientific reasoning for right and wrong… bought and sold to the highest bidder at an auction for one… and the cue cards transfix tongue to mouth to create some kind of vibrating glow of fluorescent truth…. I am my own guilty verdict… my own prosecution with no defense… my own judge and my own jury and the defendant who has no chance to fight the case without appeal and only incarceration can save.
In Reverie: black surrounds and pounds the skull into subconscious submission… with imagination slaughtering the sun and holding open the window for the moon… and I have arms outstretched… like an aging abandoned Eskimo upon the ice awaiting death’s cold grip upon his heart… frozen and weak from years of curse and sin that cause him to be fearful of his next adventure as the droplets freeze to his pale skin and his feet incased in ice with only the wind to incur any movement within… haunted by insecurities so profound that the canyon of discrepancy and self-doubt would never fill… leaving an empty that will never fade… never ending and never fleeting… neither applying to an already lost beginning in a blizzard of dizzying hopelessness at the greatest of costs… like a scene from a badly edited picture the gaps in between plotlines seem limitlessly present furthering the need for direction in a sense of worthy confessions before the altar built upon shaky ground… trying to make amends with one less than the two that brought me here by the three that I haven’t met before… and shallow pools of regret seem to never get me wet… why… the sun is up and moon is down brushing the tips of my toes with a frigid cold that reminds of times in my home safe… and I’m flying above the lines of beds like gallows… above their strangle-hold on my reality and yet… and yet I know that I cannot escape and can never win against church and state… this is my mistake… and I… must… accept... waking up to catch my breath… drowning in my sleep.
Unfastened Sentinel: these fingers around my neck feel like my own… the grip is unfamiliar and yet well-known… and my eyes have played tricks on me for too long to be mistaken… when right is left and all I have is my whimsical forsaken truth… and that is ripe for seasoning on the critics plate and all I can do is embrace this nausea… the moment is upon us for change... realization hits like a concrete block to my windshield of regrets... me, myself and I... we can change this… tomorrow is a new day and adaptation is more than just an exclusion of the contemptible... the end… this can only be my forgotten remembrance… my avenue to realization and affirmation of my consignment in these days... no longer accepting the tragedy that is my existence but rather furthering the sensations that I have when I pick through this thesaurus of innumerable references to thoughts previously owned by ones better than I… Kerouac, Bukowlski, Miller and Yeats… I have fantasized my whole life away in a flash of passion and fire drinking down my sins in the most moving of fashions… to walking naked and the opportunity’s of living by sending out words to live and die… to the wrong color in life and writing in the blackest of inks… tones measured and beat kept to a skipped track… the weight of these sins taken from out of my lips and placed on the back of the most permanent of reminders… recollecting my thought in a sense of the word is the best thing that I can do… and I must either accept or halt their marching into the swirling and adhering of space where no natural law can control their fervent pitch… their deep howling growls… never satisfied with only a passing but the susceptible… searching for a reason to be… and I am never free from their prying nails into my fragile flesh… I can only absorb so much with so little and sandpaper regrets thin out my skin… I am open to mold by letters… to be used by words… phrases of picturesque quality search out and destroy with their daydreamt liberty… the risk of finally finding “FREE” in something more than just a dream.
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