A POEM RESURRECTED: from the lost book of Evangeline, chapter VI, verse IX

by on December 28, 2015 :: 0 comments

I can say without ego this is my finest sword.
-Hattori Hanzo

After the last manic pixie dream girl with bad boy and daddy issues
is gone gone gone. And all that remains undulating in the toxic wake
of our banal debauchery is suicidal depression.
When all her glitter on my tee shirts
finally falls away, slowly fading with the sensual
musk of her little deaths on empty silk sheets,
until I alone lay within
the molten core of the meat house
of unsated desires. A humble public servant’s
announcement to all humanity, my confession if you will,
as I bleed out while you read on the inside
ensanguined lines slid over a soul faceless and eternal
and I and eye ironically live
in mental terror of lost time, mortal errors.

The slashed flesh heals, we wear our warrior’s self inflicted wounded
memories with all of the solemn pride of a holocaust survivor’s guilt.
The scarred soul festers and boils until it erupts in
random acts of senseless violence. Time
devoured wasting away trapped in a spiraling
repression confined to wither in this room
as days become weeks become months become years
six years sitting sedated on synthetic sorrows.
I stopped writing as I lay plans within plans… dying.

Is a poem fermented in penis envy, canonical insecurities
and the inept pontifications of a boozed up philistine
spewing impotent rage. Chalk it up to the game.
Face the new paradigm, the long pigs on the soft parade
feast well on sloppy second comeuppance.
Short changed, dangling deftly as a participle
in the Muses breezeway, a delicate reign falling
before it can rise to one on her knees
for the nectar of Eros drought.
A dry well rusted pipes busted the succubus pumps
ashes, ashes, dust, dust.

No controlled hallelujah from Calliopes lips
or primal sway of her hips. This busted oar dangles limp,
hobbled Baracus drunkenly weeps, foundered upon the rocky shore.
The dip a useless tool moves neither maidens head
habitually failing to bottle the ship once more nor
to rise even to the occasional poem.
Morpheus whispers,
“Is karma gonna hafta slap a bitch?”
“Take the blue pill”.

Is this a poem for all the people
“who are no longer diving but sinking.”
I do not want to write anymore.
I am afraid. But, I will
not allow this thing to infect me, invisibly
fueling subliminal anger to blind rages.
Secrecy is control.
Those who abuse use our fear
to shame us into a Stockholm syndrome silence,
powerless we cover their sin with our muted amnesia
no escape cowering beneath their greater power,
usually for life.

But, this is not a poem these are just the desperate words
of a bard trying to stay alive in a deaf, mute and blind
to human suffering world drowning in a sychophant
sea, polluted with primordial sorrow a man-made madness
satellite HD beamed into our flat screen skulls.
I scream, you scream, liked, pinned, shared, memed.
Everyday we witness another epic little atrocity. Forgotten.
What if this is a poem? Who gives a pity’s fuck?

Eventually, we begin the impossible
transformation of becoming, human, being.
Together we breached the ancient walls within
the prison of the mind, abandoned
our necro-nihilistic despair and unburdened,
without the gaslight beast on our backs,
freedom, freedom is just a line away.

Read poems with stranger friends and lovers.
Wherever the people gather to share good poetry
I am with you.
I am with you in wonderland.
I am with you in neverland.
I am with you in Disneyland.
I am with you in Zombieland.
I am with you in Armageddon!
I am with you. I am with you. I am with you.
I am with you
forever. I am

with you.

editors note:

Is this a poem? I can’t say, but someone help me find the top o’ my head! – mh clay

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