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ANOTHER POEM? WTF!
Yes, this is another poem. My head is chalk-full of these fucking poems. They’re all up in there like gray matter and fatty acids. So, here you go. See if you can figure out what kind of animal I am!
(You fucking hipsters. You’re hopeless…)
My neck, my neck!
Can you even believe
what’s happened to my neck?
All for the sake fuck’s sake,
of reaching beyond the break,
curling my ambition to reach great
throws of fortunes locked and crate.
Before the apples fall
before the dew rises
before the coons chew
through orange and plum –
I spread my mind
across vast distances.
Come to me, Come to me!
Oh sweet nectars!
Come to me, Come to me!
So that I might once more bask
in the glory of your sucrose.
After the apples fell
After the dew rises
After the coons doth chewn
through orange and plum –
Get away, get away!
You miserable beasts of the night!
Get away, get away!
Before I [expletive]
If my name weren’t Spot,
and I wasn’t Spotty,
I’d swear my name was Harold,
Because I think I’m onto something.
Let’s get back to my neck
because I’m really quite the
My neck, my neck!
Can you even believe
what’s happened to my neck?
It’s grown oh so much
my God it’s grown
I don’t know what to do
about my motherfucking neck
As if overnight.
It WAS overnight.
Am I any worse for the wear?
Am I the song of all time,
for an infinity exists within the distance,
between my face and my spine?
My one hope,
beyond the inklings of desperation,
is that the light at the end of my neck
isn’t a train.
The dog’s licking his balls again. Well, he’s been fixed for quite some time so I have no idea what he’s doing down there – but it annoys the hell out of me. Lot’s of things annoy me these days.
My family annoys me. My friends annoy me. My country annoys me. This entire fucking planet annoys me. I have lost my faith in humanity.
Being a DC insider has made me understand time and again that there is no place in the world for wishful thinking. Idealists get shot. Or drawn and quartered in front of the entire world on live 24-hour news coverage.
The cycle repeats itself over and over and over again. Good people sometimes come, they give us hope, but then you see them for who they really are. Behind the 6 centimeter thick blue curtains of the press room, oozes a culture of corruption and greed and general devilishness.
I hate it.
So I have retreated to a place far into the woods where no one can find me. I have severed all of my ties to the outside world but a precious few and, of course, those that cannot be severed by distance.
I have removed all of the distractions of what is “important” for others and have decided to focus on myself and my own well being. But my ghosts still haunt me. I think, above all of the disdain that I have for this world, the worst of my dissatisfaction is in my own self. I think I hate myself. I’m not sure though.
I know the dog doesn’t like me. Every time I walk up to it, it gets that look of fear in its eyes. Or maybe it’s pity. I don’t know.
To justify their immoral actions, smart people find reasons that were never there to begin with. Nobody is the wiser, and in fact those around them will extole them for their genius. Only you, and it eats away at your soul like acid rain.
I think I’m rancid. On the inside, of course. Not the out.
On the outside, I’m still a dashing handsome narsicistic political analyst and creative humorist.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Plead the Fifth.”
WordPress.com has asked me to add my thoughts to an ever-growing, ever-expanding cauldron of oozing discontent and hatred. The witch’s brew has boiled over. I am inclined to share my thoughts, in my most cynical manner. The question set before me is this: What question do you hate being asked?
It is a simple question. And an honest one. It carries with it all the years of hard-hitting truths that have been heaved upon the human collective consciousness over the past three centuries like bricks upon the sandbags of our identities. Insecurities abound.
Yet the manner in which I approach my sectors of thought is not easy. The road to understanding is fraught with peril and woe. Distant memories… of a life long past, haunt my aching bones. Or, at least, I hope it’s long behind me. For I have yet to live through half the memories that I dare dream.
A decent enough segue.
I am horrified by the thought of having to prove myself to a world that does not understand me. For once in my life, I’d like to do the things I do for the desire that I have in my heart. Not for the cameras that constantly monitor me from the atmos. Not for the approvals of my father or mother or siblings. Not for the pissing contest of life, or to prove that my dick is indeed the longest in existence.
My penis is just fine the way that it is.
I am content with myself being a strange, manically obsessive indecisive and straight-forward person with absolutely nothing to prove to anyone. Perhaps it is due to my insanity that I do not need the praise, the spotlight, the popularity.
Human beings are like giant balls of ego. Their pride is a sickness that will drive them all into the ground. Not me. I was proud once. Until I met this girl. She pointed some things out to me. She broke my shell. I changed.
When I walk into a cafe to order a drink and I’m still dressed in my ACU’s, please don’t thank me for my fucking service. Please don’t ask me where I’ve been. Please don’t ask me what I’ve done. My answer to you is the same as when I answer everyone else: I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not you, I promise. It’s me.
It’s me, because I have become jaded and cynical. I have begun to think that everyone I meet is a threat to me or my way of life. Everyone dies eventually.
I eat popcorn and watch movies. I eat pizza and attempt to get a few more chapters of my novel done. I call up my contacts in Whitehall and ask them to fill me in. They tell me to fuck off. This is my life.
I can’t imagine where it was that I flipped the rails. Where it was that my train came to a screeching halt and why I’m no longer working from a computer at my university, but from a computer… that I’ve never seen before.
So… Don’t ask me anything when you see me.
I’ve got nothing to show for it, anyways. I’m a failure. A miserable failure who masquerades himself as a death-dealer. In fact, I’m not even sure what I’m good at right now. So, the three words that you should always avoid when it comes to polite conversation with me.
“Have you ever…?”
Because my answer will always be the same.
“No. Fuck off.”
I recently applied to be a guest writer for the website Men Style Fashion. Guess what? They said yes. The following is the letter that I used to apply to the website. Perhaps this can be a source of inspiration to those of you out there feeling like you’re in the dumps.
Subject: Guest Writer
WHY I’M CONTACTING YOU: I’ve been following MEN STYLE FASHION for over a year. I love the amazing material that you’re able to come up with. I want to contribute to your website as a writer.
MY WRITING: I am an amazing writer. The only reason that I know that is that other people tell me that I have a way with words. I used to think that my writing was shit. But the masses seem to have amassed their eyeballs wriggling in their sockets like drug addicts upon my words. In my own way, I have also fallen victim to the narcotic that is my work. Not that I have fallen in love with my own work, neigh, I have fallen in love with the genuine joy that I am able to give others. I love seeing people’s faces light up with glee as I recite to them my short stories, my poems, my articles, my book chapters. I want to write for the rest of my life. I love writing. I’m in love with the processes of coming up with new material. I’m in love with the late nights, the cheap coffee, and the solid desk that – on the advise of Douglas Adams – doesn’t collapse when I beat my head against it looking for ideas.
My style: When I was in the eighth grade, I stole a copy of Playboy Magazine from my sister. It was one of the most important events of my development as a man. Not only did I experience the beauty and wonderment of seeing beautiful naked women for the first time in my life – but I was extremely surprised to discover that the majority of the magazine was a golden platter of extremely well written, timely and sophisticated relevant articles. One article in particular was about the decline of men’s sartorial excellence in the United States of America when compared to the rest of the world. Playboy offered 10 simple steps to step up any man’s wardrobe. Needless to say, Playboy Magazine was my entrance at an early age into the wide world of fashion. More than fashion, I gained a sense of style which I still maintain to this day. I gained a sense of purpose which absolutely is essential to any outfit.
I was raised in a household, however, that by all standards was far beneath the poverty level as defined by the stocky suits on Wall Street. I was – and still am – a poor. A single suit will set me back roughly an entire year’s salary. I make due by finding articles of clothing hanging on the racks at thrift stores and exchanges that relatively match those same items I have seen in GQ, Esquire, Twitter, and Pinterest. My income has given me a unique perspective on the fashion industry that many have failed to grasp. I know the difference between functionality and fashion. I know what it is like not to be able to wear dress shirts because of creases and wrinkles. I know what it’s like not to own a closet.
Being in the military has given me a sense of human mortality. Thus, I have gained an absolute affinity for all things beautiful. Before I realized how fragile existence itself was, I appreciated beautiful things but not as deeply as I do now. I did not understand the essential nature of beauty. Today, I understand that without beauty life is null. This is what propels me forward in my style. This is what defines my cut, as it were. This is why on some days I choose an inch wide lapel over a 2 inch.
The old adage is that fashion is senseless, but style is eternal. I have come up with my own pithy aphorism: lifestyle is half part style, half part life itself.
Thank you very much for your consideration.
Welcome to the great new world of the internet. Where miserable idiots reading poetry get instant gratification by googling the word “poem” and clicking on the first thing that pops up.
If you want to experience poetry as it’s meant to be experienced, go to the fucking library. Or a bookstore. Or, better yet, go to a poetry slam.
Go to a place where poetry comes alive and stabs you in the jugular.
You won’t find that here, you miserable moron. This is a place for naught the art of what art is nigh. This is a place for the assholes. The idiots. The morons. The gits. The buffoons. The sods.
This is where you all shall find happiness. I love you. You’re like baby birds back in the nest, surviving off of the scraps of my regurgitation. And so fourth, I shall vomit this utterly useless poem into your mouth. Enjoy it my birdlings:
THE SUNRISE BIRDS
The sunrise birds are out, you say?
The sunrise birds are out, today.
Time to start a beautiful day!
Rattled from my bunk,
rattled from my slumber.
First Sergeant’s on the horn –
shouting of his hunger.
Hot chow isn’t on the menu.
The singing birds are out again.
This time, they sing of pain –
was this whole long day in vain?
I guess I’ll have to wait and see –
and die another day.
When you’re sitting at home alone dressed in nothing but your tee shirt and socks, gorging yourself out on the decadence of chocolate chip ice cream from the tub – I hope that whatever it is you are mindlessly doing on your laptop is worth the feelings of silent guilt and shame that you feel when you finally step on the bathroom scale. As for those of you who read poetry to entertain your cyclical nature as insatiable mammals – God help you, you miserable fucksticks.
I have more poem for your appetites. Savor these words. Swish them around in the front of your mouth like a 5 ounce glass of chilled whole milk on a warm day. Suck on them, devour them like they are guts – and you are a zombie from the popular television show THE WALKING DEAD. I know you can’t get enough.
I shouldn’t be encouraging this. Poetry is a gateway drug into the vast abysmal nature that is literature. But I do it so well. You might as well call me the fucking kingpin. So, without any more fuss – take this baggie. Read this poem so that you might crawl shamelessly onto the next high. But just know that you’ll get no sympathy from me at all.
Blithering, bumbling buffoons of the night –
HEAR MY CALL!
who so gallantly strode
upon the white stallions
We, as the collective entity that is the millennial generation of America, decided not to turn out to vote in this midterm election. This saddens me. This grave error in our generation judgment of the future has led to the demise of our education until the year 2020 at least. This is not to make you feel culpable or implicit in anyway as to this feature. But, it is your duty, your civic duty as an American citizen to turn out to vote. And you did not.
Certainly, within the confines of what it means to be a writer, one of the most common uncommon questions asked of me is: “What is your favorite word?”
What a loaded question.
Oh, how I do loathe those who ask this of me. Not because they are terrible human beings, I love them all. Not because this is an absurd question that one should never ask of an author – it is a perfectly legitimate question, and an author must know these things.
Neigh, I loathe those who ask this of me because of the simple fact that in so doing, they have made one awfully big assumption about my character. They have assumed, wrongly, that in my wanderings upon the surface of this Earth through space and time I have accumulated – anthropologically speaking – enough knowledge about the nature of humanity itself to have gained a particular affinity for what one would call a favorite word.
The answer to this question can vary extremely based upon a multitude of variables including how much coffee I’ve had on a particular day, what song I recently listened to, what sort of books that I’m reading at the present moment, whether or not I’ve made a mistake in the last forty hours, how the last conversation with my publisher went, the design of the hotel lobby that I most recently bought a coffee in, and the sheer vastness, scale, and scope of the glacial mass that I most recently visited.
Today, and at the present moment, my most favorite word is Stalactites.
But a few hours from now, my most favorite word might possibly be Whig, Willow, Wasp, Wop, Womp, Wang, or Gilgamesh. I highly doubt it, however, because I’m still really thinking about Stalactites. I just recently heard a story on TED Radio Hour from NPR, and in this there was a man who spoke of his adventures voyaging into the depths of the Earth as a spelunker. Spelunking is also an amazing word.
Perhaps the reason that I do not have a favorite word is that I am generally insecure.
Whatever the reason, I choose not to have a favorite word, because there are just too many words.
People – the way that I word that statement makes it seem that those multitudes of people are vast in their number, however those people might be real or imagined, one can never tell these things – always ask me why I never post on a regular schedule.
As I have said before, this blog is a collection of my thoughts in word form. I can’t ask thoughts to stay in my head or else I’d have a massive implosion of information the size of an atomic bomb in the middle of one of this planet’s most populated cities. I also can’t rely on thoughts to come at me at normal intervals like, say, colors of the rainbow or drops from the end of an icicle. Thoughts just don’t do it.
Neither do words, to see more in formation on THAT topic, see my previous post @blogpost.
Thoughts can come at me anywhere, anytime. They can come at me on the train. They can come at me on the toilet. They can come at me in the middle of a swamp in the middle of a jungle in the middle of a country that you can’t quite seem to remember the name of but it doesn’t matter because I’m only there to incite a revolution and I’m leaving that shithole of a country in four hours.
Thoughts can come at me in any sort of interval that they like; galloping, galavanting, glooping, gloping. They can hit you much like what Emininem akined the nature of fame itself: a ton of bricks. They can hit me like the cascading torrents of a waterfall atop a lonely swimmer in the furthest reaches of the Amazon. They can hit me like a sudden and random urge to urinate five times in a single night and absolutely none the night next.
I can’t put a stopper on creativity, or thoughts, or words.
More often, thoughts might not come to me at all. I sit patiently in my mind shelf, waiting for files to get sorted and put onto the shelf like they normally do, but nothing happens. Which is a really crappy feeling but I don’t drown myself in a pool of my own tears – writer’s block is a normal part of the author’s struggle for identity.
Why do I not post regularly? Well, my dear fellow, my thoughts are definitely not regular.