& at this point , too now, I’ve never had to want a
Way to go; too exhausted for beach-combed
Starlettes — not politic, too popular!, enough for my
Own home, there comes a time to leave,
Or be, alone: I’m not the type of “bright” to make
Holiness shine. At more than half
Of twice my age it aches — ever so civil (‘as if
From social’s evil’) — or very little left
To know, and even further — more to
I’d go a lone road forever painted against the aging
Stench of graft, skin too tight on — my bank
Account’s a holocaust. — and always left a
Traffic stop to go.
“His clothes don’t fit too”
Right, and tight around my chest — a little
Baggy flourish at the knees (eyes like flouride stains)
Still-born summer’s climax fading from re-
Collection, and yet to ebb again, — but acres left of
Torment before a-sleep
Chimes in, magnitude magnificently under-bred:
No punk but in details, as in punctuation, always
Short a need to…
I don’t, it can’t, and silver-seeping dark two
Decades hence — today — won’t hope to
Fill my empty need for show.
His charming delusion of paranoid schizophrenía (pronounced
in the clinical way, sic’) is evidently made manifest, clearly
according to its post-industrial turpitude of all-out hypotactical
aggression; patently. Whatever ‘subject’ finds apparent form
of recourse to such Faulknerian feats of juvenile, yet archaicizing, —
one couldn’t term ‘expression’, as much as would be evidenced
by many proofs, a debased or infantile fascination with continual
design — and re-, a sign of deeply disturbed by consciousness
common among neurotics of the century prior: “Please, all held
comment to the end.” (Plausible pausing of posse comitatus
lunch brigades, silver-state weeping for hilarity’s sting, an
agèd system crumbles like snack cakes….) Clearly, the
profligate attempts to commune if I ate with septic ambivalence.
I never had much luck with trying fails,
Not quite like Yoda said, but something close:
An escalating series of one’s own too
Dire cost — no right way but to make it go
Along; for too long I have no one
But patient dreams — a sylvan scene and much
Too occupied by shaded arms of darkly
Pseudo-military goons. As if,
With no sad music to atone, then one
Could never hope to make a self renew
Th’ aborted fetus of a season spent
In spying out the ambiguity: I
Sit day by day, ignore the sun go by.
We dream of jailers’ thought, frantic subtitles
Of depth — freedom’s death and nothing more to say.
But happiness ensues not from your own
Perception’s time: It stands aloof and yet
Renews its due. So here sit I having
Had twenty years, many of them wasted
(both years and lucky lives within them), gone —
Just years between more foreigners, their wars
And ‘shock’ of news seems not to grant one awe:
A special form of access to what you knew.
(The truth being, in my lonely and somewhat
impoverished hours I can write like this for
royalty, heads of state or even spies, which
might impress if you knew how easy ’tis)
& so I go with not a thing to do.
Outside in chains is nothing best
Taken as if hyperbole;
But without trying is no rest
Attained: An end is just a seam.
There’s little point in making less
Trying sorrow seem to win,
I never tried t’ accept one guess
For truth and nothing left to give
Grants privileges to ideal form,
Mere respite from the gravesite’s words:
In time even poetic war
Means ‘progress’ goes to feeding birds.
Hell and the Apocalypse are a picnic-parade
next to the neo-50’s Plathlike holocaust
I daily inhabit; Cobain’s “hate myself and want to
die” has become ‘I hate you all & want to
try’, which is perhaps how it started: Tupac,
not technically like those, — though
he was always already practicing for death.
To(o) many lines of paltry winding
depth seem but a caveat on which way it goes:
Shakespeare’s few peers were as prolific, in their day, or popular,
not both, and Webster’s devil or duchess, well…
No comment on such similarities: Can you
imagine how many people ever asked the author of
Paradise Lost, “Milton: What. The fuck. Are you
talking about?” You want me to fuck and talk
like Jeanie McHays? — too late!, should I
tell you, all, what? — about how old Mr.
Eliot made me before Ted Hughes undid me?
What Crow means on the Satellite of Love? I’ve got
none, an atheistic virgin whiteness (‘cept: One,
a very military stain), born again agnostic; hates
and making up his mind — too fond of poetic figures
as though mere rhetorical tropes, not enough
hair gel to make my photos shine: I’m over-
actively anti-lazy — so can’t hold a job, —
blow-dry too infrequently; hate not doctors
but their tone — thereof, a lack and have forgotten the
careful art of flirting on the phone.
nothing left to last beyond fetish, stamps and
scars — I still can’t let frigid passion ‘justice’ win.
The longer I remain in here is better, you spend too
much time in that head — well I’ve got twins; and
can’t hear any voices so much as “feel” one’s own.
Now, that it’s time to take no doubt I feel like
one should notice grammatical punctuation — closing
and dozing off, — punk rock to a White House
official; plenty of time to deal with mouthing
Off, and none to do “it” in.