Poem: Philosophy Volume 1

Living in a boarded-up brothel, casting no aspersions

at all and ever on, or prayers to the holy

father casting judgement, for He has no hands to feel

eyes to see or heart to beat, being only

a fact of existence, that He’s done

what He did is a world worth living

for after all, I resent

the magic of it, the love expressed

among the infinite variations on one

three-chord structure, emotion seeped

in splattered paint, subliminally experienced

fractures of society, family and personality

existing as the background noises

of life, living is the background behavior

of death, whatever, the fact is

it’s fascinating to be alive, whatever happens

to this planet, so just pay attention.

 

While present, vigilance is warranted

for in the end, the truth,

it burns like a scar forever

joyous, horribly lovely

screeching pain forever, mangled organs

parade across bleating elephants

put butt-to-butt, but it’s funky

which is all that matters, because, joyful tranquility

is a salve, not a solution, the only option

available is a bullet, to speak truth

he loudest way possible to the powerful,

life and death being the only

things they understand, by the truckloads

we must die, randomly in tragic

happenstance or poisoned

by the groundwater blood, flood of death

come through merciful, hopefully

we’ll have made it count, in the end.

 

So if as we’ve surmised death is rendered

senseless by the fog, and our limbs could separate

at any moment, so to speak, or literally

because things that crazy have happened,

pointless chaos is the writ, but hope demands

clergy bound strong, chaining penitent

to the sky by their eyes is the way

to retain subservience, perhaps happy

songs jump to the ceiling, but as one

all dance alike in the church, into the future

without armor, knowing there is but one

way to be, hotshot, vulnerable

open and recording, for memory is all

that exists in the mind, malleably unreliable

as it is, existence can appear as a torture

storm or not, for the end is a mirror

of the past, showing that happiness

is a lie to yourself, until its not

behind you anymore, for it is always

there, just open the door to your soul.

Poem: Philosophy Volume 1

Poem: Gin

I’m winning whether or not I know it, because

in the end I will have won, which is what we provide to all of us

the sense of victory, like deal-makers and carpet-layers

of the apocalypse, they will be remembered

by the forgotten, the agents of doom

planted in the ground, the artists unknowing will sweep

rendering all efforts fruitless, for only feelings alike thrive

as flowers at dawn, facts are like dust

in history books, specks might come

to be the seat of power, cementing expressions is necessary

facial stasis, for this fear of the heartless

craftsman is the highest ideal, for it is love

cowering from the threat of losing you, it is not weakness

O society, you darken the created day

with the sky falling, powerlessness provides a tonic

or mixing with liquor, pity and privacy

will be written down, remembrances of the past

as it really was, foggy.

Poem: Gin

Poem: Polaroid Future

I can see the future, a field and a forest

where horror howling hangs from trees

by fibers, like numbers, haunting masks

red-hued and craggy, jagged scars

everywhere on the street, in the street

they breathe a rhythm with the fading heartbeat

of the city, we see the future set

to grow as the world shrinks, exploding

through the picture frame, finding out what is

true human will, seeing the universe

as a coliseum, rather than flags we plant

knives in the backs of brothers

and sisters, I am so scared.

 

The sin curve will break, no doubt

hard as could ever be, I will breathe

blood and sweat, until I’m old and dead

8 times out of ten, I won’t get to see it

when the world is heaven, unbound and borderless

house to a dying breed, knives out of our teeth

at last, so that we can finally grow

truly together, but I’ll be having fun

in the carnage, because I am an artist

of the downfall, flowing over humps and rapids

taking pictures of the trip, I’m pretty sure

hopefully, because there’s always the chance though

I don’t like to think about it, that war is coming..

Poem: Polaroid Future

Poem: Brutality

Tapestry of stories blood spattered, full of sex

and acid raindrops on the pavement, the universe imagining shadows

under streetlights, walking and whispering whimpers with their legs

reaching all the way up, hepatitis waiting

way over the horizon for each the same, how far is up to her

in this day and age unless things go very wrong it’s forever

for everyone involved, though a rapist would deserve a fiery hell

burning from the inside out, loud and bright for everyone

to feel indifferent to their nearness, his children would piss on his grave

before they commit suicide, paint a note on the wall in blood

while you die slow and alone, making for good copy

say the editors once more, crying aloud again

again and again, once more on the anniversary

party is a shadow hanging still, acting as a blindfold would

from the fires of the future, savagery emerges

smelling of bath salts, cardamum and a callous heart.

Poem: Brutality

Poem: Political Philosophy

Think of it, crazy rhythms and comprehensible conversational

nonsense words, that’s a party, but man that’s tough

to write at normal speed, because you can only hunt-and-peck

with your left hand, so when the ideas whoosh past

it’s too fast for you, you’re stuck and that’s all there is

to it, with this crawling pace it’s easier to sift out the sand

though, to see the shape of most things.

 

Is it?  Chuckle at your own arrogance, like you’re any closer

to the door or whatever it is in the center, just because you’re trying

my patience, it’s no easier to see the point now

that you’re putting an effort into understanding what

in the name of god is going on, it’s in fact more

frustrating stanzas clawing at nothing, but we’re not to ground yet.

 

You can instead realize that this poem does say something

about the way disability is double-edged, it forces an awkward power

into movements and speech, in many situations it seems to me

quite useful but I don’t fucking want it, the power to force

placation and pandering, eye-rolling donkeys to chew hay all day.

 

So you’re an alien, a stranger study to be made

of the world a symbol of how you’ve progressed,

which is not uncommon for the minority, all of us outside

looking in with judging disdain, but me they parade

with my trachea scar, it is horrid but a symbol

of power absolute, feeling a gross unwanted advantage.

 

Political philosophy is not fool proof at all, obviously

watching chatterers fumble, sweat and vomit

onto my TV screen and into my ears Sunday Morning

proclaiming what they’re told, whatever they’re told

regardless, everyone just does their job.

 

So here’s the challenge, take your job and shove it

whatever it is they expect of you, all of us together

must become uncommon, not just exceptional

but weird and misunderstood, standing on parapets

with a hazy surmise, seeing what’s coming

as none ever could and yelp horrified, by way of stating

the obvious, for we can’t deny it, any more.

Poem: Political Philosophy