The world is a forest
we cheapskate light on the forest floor
high above flies the body of the bird
of cool. We fools look up to see if she’s gone
halcyon, junky of the cloudless skies
deal me more words, I want to play.
I want to prove I’m here
I want the spirits to turn me on
and live as long as the fish
who dies in the gizzard of halcyon
The gizzard of Halcyon was originally published on Meandering home
The hatred of my hatred vindicates me:
I am still a consciousness
in and of the world, death foreshadowing
in all of its tissues
My body tortures itself
I must watch, I watch
pain is no measure as my spirit is gone
this is not suffering: I am an automaton
I don’t want to wait
while life flees from me
like a scared rodent flees
from bigger rodents
Ceci n’est pas un poème déprimé was originally published on Meandering home
You want to stare into the abyss. You imagine you will discover something there, a boisterous polysemiotic laughing that reverberates against your high temples.
You want to plough into new and unique territories uncontaminated by other intellects and you realize it is the fervor of your fear that strangleholds you: the others! the others! They have been wherever you had imagined and intended to go, their intellect is vastly greater and more productive.
The little extra money you earn with that job you despise so much goes to an army of dentists but they never find anything. You have relabeled dentistry your hobby because that is how you cope, in theory. In practice you hate. You hate the pestering phenomena that have invaded the intimacy of your skull’s bone. Some part of you desires to go insane, to surrender to a benighted delirium and never return.
You undergo upside down cruci-fiction. It gives you a bit of distraction but the throbbing pain that has hijacked your nerves keeps adapting, the wretched heart of your world is now inflamed, you are forced to witness the conflagration of all inspiring thoughts before you can bear them out. Your tongue is continuously being cut off. You don’t want this solipsist war, you don’t want to be the unsung war poet hero of your jaw-trenches, no Siegfried Sassoon, goddammit.
You want to feel the love of life. The promise of a white screen and a black cup of arabica coffee and innocent thoughts stumbling over each other on the fertile hills of your imagination.
Not the unimaginative torture devices that the devil has clamped on your quivering synapses. You remember your dreams of vastness, bright rain forests of colors refracting into ever expanding horizons, endless otherworlds populated with the luring echos of your enchanting dreams.
You wanted to be original. Achromatic, atonal, a-physical. You needed all your fucking nerves for that. It is not tolerable that they are busy authoring this mundane and godawfully boring pain. You need the pieces of your mind to fly freely ahead of you like uncanny moths with translucent wings but every second of your mind is created by the tissue of your nerves that is infected by death and entropy.
You curse life with big words. You want the darkest and saddest prose chiseled in the rotting sepulcher of your mouth, and close it off for an eternity. You want all your words to have the quality of infinite loathing, you want them to spew nauseating black acrid fumes in the face of the lie you were sold as reality. Your whole life has become a maddening séjour in the antechamber of agony. You have set up camp near the gates of hell. You are forced to smell the decay of the remaining flesh on your lips. The rite of nihilism has overtaken your soul, your innermost being has been poisoned and putrefied. You want to grow tumors as large as lava stones to push this devil out. You want to vomit every organ in your body out and turn your skin inside out, you want to die a million times and reincarnate with ever so slightly less of that goddamn tooth pain.
You are tired, lackluster. You spell your curses with a dry mouth, you contemplate your duty to be alive. Tomorrow you must be ready to suffer again.
Maledicendum was originally published on Meandering home
I will be ninety-five
and I will play my violin
in the shade of a tree
I will play from memory
for you, for the people
for being under a tree
I will be ninety-five
leathery, hunched, but alive
this is my pension plan:
know me as the violin man
My violin will be three hundred
and ten, old wood that sings
in the young shrubs, and then
becomes the echo of its quietude
I will be ninety-five
and play odes to the songbirds
my heart’s a hiccup
of improvised memories
I will be ninety-five
thank you for listening
thank you for the coins
in my old red fedora
I will be ninety-five
and I will play my violin
and I will a happy man
I will be ninety-five was originally published on Meandering home
There is the commitment of a slow suicide inside my mouth
flaring nerve tissue makes me a beast of seconds
foregone my extravanganza, the wordsome Walpurgnis Night
of wild hue candelabras burning into the popliteal
intimacy of progress – relinquished
Swearing and sweltering I lock myself in debasement
reddish eyes sore at glaring screens a mind wants
closure phosphorous burns at the inside of my gums
two heavy arms lie on this black dusty keyboard
fingertips are punching through with fierce patience
dictating the gangrenous trace of my existence
into my fucking laptop.
It is time for a salt rinse.
Cum granu salis was originally published on Meandering home
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Eroticism was originally published on Meandering home
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Pain and its absence was originally published on Meandering home
