Broken Painting

Broken Painting

I want all kinds of things,
Like a life with no work, no hardness,
Simple moments floating around,
Like paintings, to be looked at.
I want lots of whisky, laced with magical syrups,
To do all kinds of things to my mind.
To be innocent, I want to be drunk with innocence.
To know nothing, and be in foolish awe at every penny,
Striking glass, spilt water on the floor, boiling milk.
And to laugh with the wind and dance madly,
To shave my head, leave my hair to wildness in winter.
Let the snow freeze my balls and the sun of May eat into my lips.
I want to leave my tongue to touch the rain, leave my ears,
To be slaves to the senseless semblances of old music that live today.
I want to be a bad poet. A good one. To listen to good music, and bad.
And drink cheap wine, expensive whisky, illicit rum,
To die young. To waste my years into old senile rebellion.
I want the world.
But here I am, sealed to a plastic chair and brightly lit screen.
Looking at the reflection of a large universe,
Dying every moment.

I want to fuck her with her hair pulled back,
Pouring peppered boiling whisky into her mouth.
Watching her groan for more, and smiling,
In all that dastardly pain.
I want her seething and rolling in thorned cotton,
Screaming for her blood to come rushing,
Through into the light,
Spurting through tiny holes in her skin.
But we as men make pacts, as women we settle,
For cheap roses and hot chocolate.
For expensive wine, satin clothes,
Plastic condoms and boring nights before a dead flickering screen.

I want me, in absolute insanity giving origin,
To new life. To let the whisky that dances on my lips,
Birth some great new verse. Great new dream.
But then, I’ll stay sealed to these old ambitions.

I want no schooling. I need breed insolence,
Bloody wreckage in all that is orderly.
I want to heat the blood of every working class drug addict,
Every tobacco smoking fool who’s sold his life to repetition.
Every alcohol consuming shit-speaking contract-making,
Hair-trimmed half-spectacled well-dressed dead body,
I want to teach them how to dance.
But then, I settle as a brother to them.

Only defeat makes me write, and I waste my wisdom,
To be ashed into the trays of self-righteousness.
Dead, already.

In those older years the words came from honesty,
Now they come from disgust,
Flavored with a strange taste for life,
To keep on living.
For what? Who knows?
The song keeps pouring away into the future,
And we remain, stuck to yesterday

We are the men and women of our dreams,
Freeing our hearts violently,
Fucking each other with our lies,
And seeing the final freedom in our bondage.
What a joke?
Life! Aha!
It takes a great taste for madness to understand it.
A madness to want nothing and yet all of it.
And then the cowardice to switch your love to that whisky bottle again.
A deep column of sweet shining gold,
In the sweet embrace of which your dreams find a marriage,
To everlasting non-happening.

People have forgotten the charm of tragedy.
To stand and behold, the subtle subliminal flavors,
Of injustice and monstrosity. The evergreen messages,
That linger beneath the ever-elusive grasps of death.
Tragedy is our friend! Our friend! She remains,
Till time frees us from whisky and women, men.

Here comes the bad news, we are all going to die.
And between the lines I see it,
The great hoax. The things I’ve wanted, the things I’ve had,
And between the photographs of red lips and heavy breasts,
Lost trips to wonderland in chemical indulgence,
Forgotten bibles and bashed folklore.
Between it all, I have found myself, and yet,
Not the self I quite expected.

Give me more drama,
Or I will fade away into the backstage of existence.
Forever left unsatisfied,
And screaming for one more breath,
One more inch of open eyes and honeyed lies,
Never to return.

Touch It

Touch It

It takes wounds to write,
Several. And if there are none,
We must hurt ourselves to create;
Through wounds the light can come out.

From what glorious futuristic vision,
Does our elation stem from?
It feels like that good feeling,
Which we chase our entire lives,
Hoping to touch someday,
Forever eludes us, cheating, escaping us.
It seems that our imagination is discontinuous,
With the heat that operates our bodies.
We have decorated ourselves with job titles,
Expensive suits and beautiful wives, husbands, whores,
Jeweled our invisible images with neat talk,
Defensive vocabulary, heavy wallets and hearts,
Spyked with the endless thirst to be emperors of our world

As we build elevators to glassy penthouses,
And leave our eyes in the basements of our dreams
We come to hear the toll bells of our honeyed hells,
Through the streets of our cities, that like garbage dumps,
Harbor and nurse the whims and what nots of our erect penises.

We are a “touch it” world, where we need to feel,
Our toes wringing in maddening glee
Every inch of our feeling selves dancing,
Every cell mourning and dying to ecstasy;
There is nothing more than that
In all our endeavors;
Our chivalry, our righteousness, our goodness,
Our poetry, our dance, our glorious revolutions;
Everything is a “touch it” thing,
And if it isn’t worth our mental erection,
We will abandon it by dawn.

Two types; one the suited, the other—the nature guy,
Both don’t know and both are right, both wrong.
They will battle till this chapter of life comes to naught

Our wounds will be ointmented with whipped cream,
Made from steel butter and urine ice.
Our world moves toward a dark time,
When hell will erect its massive edifices on our lands;
Our endeavors flourish only for entertainment,
And death comes racing; greatly motivated,
To move this wheel of time into nature’s deepest abyss

Our satin-saffron clad priests will perhaps survive this descendence,
Chanting their verses in praise of their Adiyogi.
But they would’ve missed, they would’ve missed.
Life is no great thing without the darkness,
Without the hurt, without the fear,
Without the knowledge of possible annihilation,
From a very un-enlightened perspective

I will come back,
To give you better renditions of our mysterious fates.
Until then,
Bask in sweet sorrow and drink to our demise,
Chasing the dreams that you can touch,
Relaxing in crisp and clear sensation,
In confident erection, eyes open,
Tongue tucked behind gritted teeth,
And a loudly beating heart.
We crave all things that ask and beg and plead,
Mourning, “Touch Me.”

Screamjack