On Sporadic free mind nights, I glean hope
and listful wish for merriment and the melting innovative
wash
of inevitable crisis overcome
by intelligent design fantastical
and moral awakened ’man of the dirt
On erratic scream in the coming dark days I curse
evolution
creating this beast
and what sociopathic greed malevolent stare into extinction and laugh
with bursting paper green eyes
and wish it never envisaged
On habitual sunken eyes of the afternoon rise
I sit idly slouching by
and watch madness curtail madness uncoil
within our blackened hearts
and frostbitten toes of the retreating soul
and stupefy the mind
with unfathomable awe at my impossible present... Being
And the New Moon sets the eternal cycle in motion once more
Tag: Short
Impermanence
Dribbling lines in the blood-stained sand are but fleeting nicknames in the churning larvae construct of time of human super imposition laid upon the confused face of iris green and supple oceanic skin and cracked white decimate teeth which has no name other than metamorphosis beauty or absolute soul incarnate
Defense Rations
I'm addicted
to doing nothing
or flushing my life away into the plastic ocean to swim with cigarette ends
and endless bottle caps
and a corked archipelago
stained the colour of ethanol blood
all the while telling myself that it'll work out
living your dreams in your imagination
is ok
when it's as vivid as mine
or yours.
I once read
that Einstein worked 4 hours a day
and he was a frizzy geinus
so why shouldn't that be true
of me or you
i ask myself
though i know i know sure, i know
it's all conciliatory lies
comforting shameful delusionary conciliatory lies
and yet it still remains
the rational defense of a lazy beanpole
trapped for a quarter century
in what if's and drowning imaginary possibilities
and christ
what if you actually make it?
Fuck you
sip on my watermelon nectar
sit down and watch me
make a fool of myself
singing to JT you cringe while
I'm in my element element basic 00's element
you know you feel it
nodding your head in a secret ashamed guilty groove
my homeless hair swaying
prancing through the fairy air
as we sip gay gordons
through llama and cactus straws
sometimes you cry
and I cry too but we do it together
shut out the backwards falling backwards criminally insane indoctrination nuthouse world
pretend it's not there
for a moment
we exist in this outrageous space
multi-faceted as joseph's coat we pass
through
screaming haemorrhaging gacking fracking
deep the buried joy we'll find
love and joy and togetherness and not giving a shit
we'll know forevermore
because fuck you
depressive black beast always
we'll get you
and shove you deep up your own hollow vacuous rectum
never to return
motherfucker fuck you
The Devil’s Work
How often do you think a Devil doth lie and greet you as an angel just to squeeze into a soulful pantie and twist it awful wedgie tight whilst you holla righteous holy purpose and how many once courteous are now finished broken at the hands of a monster so belligerent and coy it's forlorn to tell the difference it happens so often by earthen hands whose aren't so always kniving dastardly thieving as monsters proposing as angels that it must though you'd never know for sure
Ode to YOU
There are millions of writers
who are better than me
wittier and more expressive than me
almost all of them
in fact
and many more
who should be poets
and don’t know it yet.
But
none of that matters
I love this shit
and one day
if just enough people
can feel me
and I’ve lived just slightly enough
to fill that bar of happiness
every single body seeks
I’ll die the gladdest of men
and hopefully too
will all of you.
Always love,
Your dearest degenerate
Whim
You don’t need
to be a conspiracy
theorist
to see through
the fog.
All you need
to know
is that the
politics
of Caring
does not exist
in power
crazed
men.
And
when it does
maybe then
everything might
be
a little
better.
Dogmatic
In the beginning naught did shine but light and hope and clouds they all had lustre,
Then the Journey snuffed it out.
In the beginning there swam free peace conscious and curious lives we hungered,
Then the Journey snuffed it out.
In the beginning both beast and man sweet harmony sang and we fed them and they fed us our joy,
Then the Journey snuffed it out.
In the beginning O’ heavens they were hallowed and unknown too was hallowed though thy name On High unknown,
Then the Journey snuffed it out.
In the beginning there was but green and blue and rustle and trickle and crack and splash all over,
Then the Journey snuffed it out.
In the beginning connected all did feel and balance all knew well,
And then the Journey snuffed it out.
In the end all was bleak exhaust flew through the cracks and poisoned,
The Cycle shall reset you.
In the end there was no peace and wonder was survival dead,
The Cycle shall reset you.
In the end the beasts lay caged or worse and mania-amaranthine so long beset them,
The Cycle shall reset you.
In the end the heavens all had clogged with hopeless quests to conquer,
Thy name unknown endured.
In the end there was no green or blue just black and endless thunder,
The Cycle shall reset you.
In the end the link it severed and all life fell asunder,
The Cycle shall reset you.
Dogmatic.
Courage
When the curtain falls, where will you be?
Probably roasting in the fire with everyone else.
Go on, Give me a nice internal scream,
Maybe the camera will pick up your hopeless twisted despair.
I’ll post an emoji on there that cries with laughter, just to lighten the mood.
There.
Now off it goes to my closest friend.
Oblivion.
Turn yourself around, Subject.
Watch your creations disassemble the irrational ambitionism you gave them. Isn’t it beautiful?
For one to return to that from which it was hedonistically ripped. That, is art.
What you’ve done, subconsciously and with robust naivety,
to foster fake meaning and concoct a great poisonous grey matter purpose
in order to get a continuous hit of its alluring fake-peace high.
Folly Folly Folly
The deed is almost complete,
and only when it is shall you see the depths of your own misdirection.
Maybe then you will be worthy of life.
Not that you’ll have enough left to act.
Grunge Is Not Dead.
An angel quivers in the doorway, unable to breach the threshold. The band, so twisted backwards, dares her to take a step – tentatively she complies, difting into grunge. She’s all alone, save the air of suicide and a raucous riff that bounces against her silent self-conciousness.
A demon in flowery disguise catches her eye to beckon her to him with an upside down smile and the promise of euphoric intoxication. She stutters, yet a mad glint lingers on the periphery of his amazing aura. It’s too much to resist. In a second he’s commanding her conciousness, convincing her of the plight of existence, the futility of resistance and the purity of punk rock.
It works.
The night is young yet darkness is ancient and tonight its cacophany swirls an angel through its timeless tyranny, exalting in its ultimate conquest over society and the spirits of the damned. Where did it all go wrong?
Who says it ever did.
RJP's Vernacular 