Archive for the ‘muse’ Category

Why?
The eternal why….
it plagues us as it nourishes us…
makes us dogs slaves to poison.

Why give birth to undying narratives?
Populating characters like pariah colonies-
is there some end to the badly drawn worlds?
the FAT and UGLY truth is that-
(you, me, the-long-dead-gods)
do not write for some beautiful exquisite meal
of words to be set out to the diner guests
in all their finery- NO!
we (one, anonymous test-subject)
create as a by-product
of living in a glitch-program-simulation

it is simply the claw marks
left on the cave walls
as we are dragged by life
insatiably hungry into the blackhole
of banality and TIME.

The Gift of Freedom #1:
Of never having been incarcerated
for the numerous crimes of my youth-

The Gift of Life : #2:
of never having succumb
to the diseases that have surely
brushed my essence.

Gift #3 (or Reason):
For only briefly entertaining
the madness that comes
from the unchosen unprofession
of poetic engineering.

The Gift that is Number #4:
[Fearless Fear]
which also contains:
the gifts of speech-
not sleeping
and staring the carriages of death
in the eyes unflinching.

And Finally (the fifth) Gift:
Membership for five lifetimes
into the Imagum.
Where I bear my hands
to the winds and give life
to sentences of frozen ink
that vampires of the future
unborn
may lavish over or ignore
as is their specific will.

Hell of Accumulation (c.2003)

Posted: October 14, 2013 in muse
Tags:

I’m having strange dreams
that hell is gonna be-
All my accumulation
cast like a bad spell on me-

My books piled high
Rising above the flames-
Lines of mad poetry
Screaming through my brain-

My muse lashing the whip
with horns on her forehead-
Ink pouring forth crimson red
my skin fragile like breaking lead-

This is eternity
this is my punishment-
For all the lies that I penned
for all the poems never meant-

For all the paper wasted
with bad grammar mistakes-
For immature literature
and lyrics so basic-

Now I face satan
before my accumulation-
I’m put on probation
for years of useless creations-

As a hapless narrator
I made too many characters-
In the fabric of fairy tales
an irreparable tear occurs-

But I can’t stop my mind
I plea uncontrollable-
I feel so responsible
For every mad syllable-

Please don’t damn me
I’ve been damned enough-
Chained by imagination
wearing creativity handcuffs-

Cut off both my hands
sew my mouth so I can’t rant-
Keep the sane world
at a safe distance-

I know I mock the gods
I start and I can’t stop-
My stories begin to define
more than they ever thought up-

In the end I regret it
that the unimaginable got said-
That I was born a pandora head
Unleashed like a plague of the unread-

 

subCULTURE museSPY

Posted: October 14, 2013 in muse, strangers
Tags: , , ,

a (warrior) sits before me
on the bus-
a (WARior?) of being diffiCULT:

a (sold)ier of the ever multiplying
sub(cult)ures being (subject)gated
as (sub)jects of CAPITALs
think-tank-boardroom-focus-group
divide and target

(she has a thick black scarf-
round black sunglasses-
black tight-fitting clothes-
three different piercings
between just her nose and lips-
her hair is shaved
into a circle
like some ancient
eastern samurai
this western warrior of the weird)

her hand[held] brain DIStraction                             MACHinE
is shaped like a cartoon kitten
with white wires feeding her her pleasures
into her ears-
my [hand]held disTRACTion
machINe
is my pen and pad as I
unashamedly
scrutinize her_use her_
as a tempORary muse
because her appearence
amuses me to the [point]
of inSPIRation

what better gift can a stranger give
than the inkblood of a secretive crafty artform

The Muse’s Fury

Posted: May 13, 2013 in madness, muse, poetry
Tags: ,

When inspiration comes

You ride it

Like a surfer rides a wave.

It is almost too much-

This day could break you

If you hadn’t prepared for years.

You know well enough

To have a pad and pen ready.

But you are dumbstruck before simple things

Like escalators

Do you take the up or the down?

The mall fountain change glitters through the water

Copper and silver coins and you stand transfixed

While the people traffic flows around you and you write

In a fury.

It is one of those days

The muse comes at me in all her rage.

There is no rest for my right hand

On a day like today

I write.

My mind becomes shut off to every other function.

Normal life becomes walking through the mall

On an overdose of literary GHB.

The pop muzak is drown out

By her incessant demon muse cackling.

Like a Greek hero lost on the archipelago

Of time and water.

My pen is the last unbroken oar

And I paddle desperate

Through the storm.

No gods or ghosts have given me

The secret codes to defeat her.

She is unbanishable.

She is my mind.

She is every synapse.

The mall is the maze of the Minotaur

Of an unending bull market.

Even if I’m moving

I am really just waiting in line.

The pop lyrics try to poison

My poetic sacrifice to her

My muse is the only pop star

That never fades-

And is in a suspended state of supernova.

Get another cashier

We are running out of paper

But the crazy still flows

And has to be written somewhere.

While she comes

You can’t charge the inspiration

To use it later.

There is no going into artistic debt.

The product must be manufactured now,

Used now.

Consumed now.

Later is a void

With its own overflowing surplus

Of ink and energy.

Pauper Poet

Posted: May 13, 2013 in muse, poetry, poverty
Tags: , ,

Who needs money?

As long as I have two dollars to buy a dollar store notebook and some pens,

I’m happy.

Having a computer, a place to sleep every night,

A shelf full of boardgames, and HBO is just icing on the cake.

Being able to write poetry on the bus- priceless.

Being able to write in an empty classroom while the kids are in gym- priceless.

Being able to write poetry from the roof of a 32 story building- priceless.

Being able to write poetry when I can’t sleep at night- priceless.

I’ve been writing since I learned how.

I’ll never run out of things to write about.

How could I not be happy?

Even when I’m depressed I know its just inspiration.

Even when my heart is broken,

And I have to give up something I love,

I know its just inspiration.

If my life becomes less comfortable,

I’ll be more inspired.

I’ll burn through three lives worth of inspiration,

And still be writing.

Maybe it’s the ink in my blood.

The world looks like a blank spiral bound notebook,

When I wake up,

And I write myself into every situation,

I think might turn my muse on.

Because when she is naked,

Silken white lines of beauty,

Flow from her like laughter from a tab of acid.

That ant whisper sound of the pen sprawling across the page,

Is the music for the microcosm.

The universe in my head lays draped over this world,

And its excess hangs off the planet,

Like an astral tablecloth.

Nothing can stop a passion to create,

Not lack of money, or skill, or even time.

Passion takes a man to the edge of reason,

And he jumps,

Knowing the waves below offer the warm sustenance of life,

Art, and everything worth falling for…

Blue Ink Medication

Posted: April 14, 2013 in madness, muse, ode to possessions, poetry
Tags: , ,

bleed through the dead hours

on watch with blue ink sprawling from my fingertips

always equipped with a spiral bound pad of canvas

and a pen

draw out the lines of zen

and the art of mental repair

it’s my paper wad pill

kill the time steady the chill and shaky coffee buzz

pick under the crust of my literary inhibitions

fourteen years of poetry

and I still haven’t connected all the words

like sanctity perversion

lines like demographic masturbation needle

spy chamber headcase

ten levels of thick hardened lyrical skin

my eyes blue ink glazed over

teeth crack open new packs

of plutonium ink capsules