Unearth me. Without the salt of words that you borrowed from the people of yesterday, who sold you the poisonous idea of right and wrong. The blood that flows from the fingertips of honest poets is not accounted for by the gatekeeper of flattery. It is neither allowed to flow into the hearts of the wicked to change their ways nor make an entry into the castles of the perfectly positioned to help their eyes see a reality that transcends the sparkle of the gold they have collected from their legal endeavors within the fences of their doubtful morality.
As the final mourn of Handel’s left toe rings through the pink hallways of my manhood, I come to strip apart the falsity of my present envy. My envy for the men clothed in soft leather, with words that sound like milk spilling from the breasts of half-clad goddesses, watering the soil of humanity’s shit-situation and bringing flowers out into a sunlight that does not exist. I envy these men. And my envy is justified by my inability to be dishonest in the light of English Literature’s demise. Let them have their way, these men I envy. Let them suckle at the breasts of these perfect goddesses, and garden their pastures and grow fruit that will feed their hearts to enlightenment. Then what? Boring breasts. Boring fruit. There is more solace in the epilogue of Handel’s madness and the heat of Beethoven’s orgasms that, to my absolute delight, seem to carry no other meaning than their very selves.
I seem to have sold my penchant for strange and distasteful metaphor throughout the evolution of my severed public poetic self through the last few months. I’m unlocked now. Somehow, the real me seems to have found a way through the clouded sunshine of summer to find the foot rug of autumn to sell its apology of an existence to. And to you as well.
Distasteful metaphor is the calculative entity that determines man’s sanity. If all seems to be sunshine and honey, vagina and bunnies, nothing would make sense anymore. We need distaste in this world, don’t you think? A certain sensation of contempt for the erected edifices of human ideality. Such a distaste can only lead us deeper into the mystery of our un-intended existences. I’m not trying tragedy for an avenue of creativity my love. I’m a photographer, who uses words instead of light. Look at my work, won’t you? I might not be your perfect doomsday man, but at least, I seem to capture enough tragedy to give you the best perspective to life.
The last sound of midnight’s violin will tear your skin apart to reveal your raw, tender heart. You haven’t let anyone touch it, have you? Seeking your cowardly shelter beneath the dry-straw roof of yesterday’s broken delights, you’ve shelled your raw aliveness in a steely cage made of cheap pop music, golden dreams of the afterlife, and an endless addiction to the scents of the weekend. Let it out! Your raw heart darling, let it out. It wants to be touched. Nothing can hurt a creature that has never soaked in the slavery of touch before. Let it out.
Your raw heart, let it out. The intensity of hurt is designed to help you wake up to life again. It is like a scissor used to unveil the most delightful present you have waited for your entire life.
Let it out.