i can be a writer

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
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
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
i could learn something.
What does the grave digging give me?
I understand only that I do not love
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
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.
  • Current Music
    swanee how i love you how i love you
i can be a writer

might as well

Victor Laszlo was a scratched up heartthrob and when
Valentino died, women slit their wrists all over America
and Europe, their thirty-foot wide faced god
in Nietzche's bed chamber now.
Their light nested in his draped shining rag hats gone
the morse tapping news voice cutting along the maps
of their daily routines -
now going to the stairwell
to the door
wringing the shower curtain of mercury poison
reaching for the workers to reroute their damaged roads
open the dams of their veins and free them
for the questionable competition for the shiek's slender hand
in Jazz Heaven alongside all the rest...
if earthly desire is all but abandoned on the journey upwards
the vast unmapped clearing
through the screen and to the cloudy stage
a blur scurries across with a smoke emitter
and the house is filling.
  • Current Music

(no subject)

i'm new.
i love to read and write, which, by the standards imposed by my community, classifies me as a failure. so, i am thrilled to join a community celebrating failure.
  • Current Mood
i can be a writer

many prophets have failed

Many prophets have failed, their voices silent
ghost-shouts in basements nobody heard dusty laughter in family attics
nor glanced them on park benches weeping with relief under empty sky
Walt Whitman viva’d local losers -- courage to Fat Ladies in the Freak
Show! nervous prisoners whose mustached lips dripped sweat on chow
lines --
Mayakkovsky cried, then die! my verse, die like the workers’ rank & file
fusilladed in Petersburg!
Prospero burned his Power books & plummeted his magic wand to the
bottom of dragon seas
Alexander the Great failed to find more worlds to conquer!
O Failure I chant your terrifying name, accept me your 54 years old
epicking Eternal Flop! I join you Pantheon of mortal bards, & hasten
this ode with high blood pressure
rushing to the top of my skull as I if I wouldn’t last another minute, like
the Dying Gaul! to
You, Lord of blind Monet, deaf Beethoven, armless Venus de Milo,
headless Winged Victory!
I failed to sleep with every bearded rosy-cheeked boy I jacked off over
My tirades destroyed no Intellectual Unions of KGB & CIA in turtlenecks
& underpants, their woolen suits and tweeds
I never dissolved Plutonium or dismantled the nuclear Bomb before my
skull lost hair
I have not yet stopped the Armies of entire Mankind in their march toward
World War III
I never got Heaven, Nirvana, X, Whatchamacallit, I never left Earth,
I never learned to die.

- Allen Ginsberg

If you feel resonance.. you've managed to stumble upon the right place to be.
Welcome to a place for poets, writers... all. Whoever weaves a rhetorical noose around their own necks each night before going to sleep.
This is not home.
There is no home.
But that doesn't change anything.
  • Current Music
    Bach's dusty wig of deaf organ pipes