madrigian (madrigian) wrote in ode_to_failure,
madrigian
madrigian
ode_to_failure

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The Last Poem.

I wrote... when i could not write. Hope that makes me a hero. Unearthed I this from somber bruises some time past... October 23rd two thousand and four. And keep in mind, this was when i resigned... and still do not deign to take back the throne. So ladies and gentlemen in fellow blackface, I give to you....



The Last Poem.


Every memory makes me sad.
The randomness of memory.
grandmother. her worker's breasts.
the trees. I had so many goddamn plans!
I was just a kid, but I wasn't crazy. But
I'm crazy now.
It's all just pain. All of it is just
pain.
Not disease, it is clean, just tears,
skin. It doesn't rot. I told myself
beginnings were golden, I was face down in
a pool in the middle of the night looking
for the plug. I got out and toweled myself
off, I got on the phone with a beginning.
I demanded to return to the beginning.
and the eternal passage of time, the
ageless time, it makes me want to stop
writing poems.
with time
I have ceased to believe in poetry.
Something tells me of its evil.
of its stationary blind beggar images.
Unfulfilled. Unfulfilled. My father's
dreams were, my mother's dreams...
I'm unfit to live in a world where
compassion can happen only through
selflessness.
What honor it was to me, I could say "my
first duty is to my self before all
others" and be content, knighted by an
imaginary king, a bit of blue ribbon
reminding me of the distances.
The only way to fit is to break.
I can't fit.
I am unfit.
I can't care.
I don't believe.
I don't understand.
I say "what is there to understand?"
I suffer... oh, I suffer.
I think I should be a policeman.
I feel like the clipper ship poem.
I should be a policeman.
I should have an ordinary life that is
extraordinary. It would be nice instead of
coughing up blood to art, and wanting to
worship the worship of his worship
humpbacked michaelangelo with his chained
hands.
i could learn something.
What does the grave digging give me?
I understand only that I do not love
myself.
I do not.
Come thou, my wife, my children, my
home... attend to me, we can all lie, it
is easier.
The poet, I don't care for the poet.
I discovered the shelter of Poet, but it
has been dissembled into ruins by my mind.
I can't hide there anymore.
Poet is gone. That fragile sunken-eyed
weak-chinned irish poet. The constant
horizon shattered.
Poet is gone. without a note, without
goodbye.
Madness will not shelter me. I want to
know so many things. I want to know if
animals cry. If they know Hamlet.
I want to know something.
For a goddamn change.
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