The Brave Write Tragedies

The Brave Write Tragedies

Let me dip my hands into your heart,
And hurt you well with words and verse,
And take you back into my world
You are my lover, my reader,
And my wish is to enslave you
To beat you a million times,
And make you bleed and beg for more
And kiss you gently when you’re wounded,
And whisper laughter into your ears

Come dream with me, sweet beloved,
Of old castles and sparkling streams
Of that great archaic place,
Where our fairy tales are made
When we were little — boy and girl,
I watched your little skirt dance with the wind
And in your eyes, I remember,
The twinkle that made me a prince
How I wished that when we’d get older,
I would build you your own castle,
And feed you berries in the spring,
And keep you safe and warm through winter

I’ve aged like a warrior who has no war,
To bring his mind to solace
Look at you, oh darling sunshine,
You’ve turned grey beneath the sun
There are no castles and no spring,
But just bricks and noisy streets
Filled with lost dreams and broken soldiers,
Who never braved the breezes of tyranny
How we let our hearts go rotting,
Into dreams we never really cared for
How we weep and mourn now in misery,
With heaps of gold in our halls of diamond

Is it too late, my beloved damsel?
To find a better place in this firmament,
This great wilderness of life,
In which we’ve stuck too hard to the past
Do I have enough to bleed?
So that I may find you once again
Of what good is poetry if it heals not my heart?
Of what real purpose is this weak artistry,
If it brings not my life the light that I crave

I can write whatever tale I want,
I can end it in blood and tears,
Or belittle the spring in the fragrant glory,
Of my eternal verses on love and light
But why is it that I lean toward tragedy?
Do I hold a softness for melancholy
Am I made of thorns and sad endings?
Forever lost, my beloved damsel,
Are our dreams of castles and elysian gardens
The cotton touch of your long and tender fingers,
Are but a fainting dream,
In the cemetery of my memories

My years on this earth are but the reflection,
Of a strong inner thirst for beautiful tragedy
I am made of tears and midnight wailing,
I am the heart of sorrow itself.
Be lost, forever, my sweet damsel,
I gave you no castle, and the work of my hands,
Has brought no fruit to your thirsting heart
Let our tears be the testimony to this tragedy of life,
And let our deaths tell no grander tales,
Than those that we lived
When our eyes close gently beneath the moonlight,
Let us not forget that it is us who write our tales
And the brave write the deepest tragedies,
And shed tears that are salted,
With grand cosmic laughter

Screamjack

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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.

Puppets in Paradise

Puppets in Paradise

Dwindled in boredom,
Aching for feminine touch,
Salted in pretense, rage, and fever,
Aching,
For all things dark under the sun

Come now, hearty one,
Who lost his laughter in the rains of time,
Who has given his humor to idiots and thieves,
Come lay by me, and rest beneath the moon,
And find your solace in a dreamless sleep

You cannot go searching for Canaan with an empty heart,
You cannot dance if meaning is your purpose
I have beaten senseless to pulp your notions,
Of grave family, ambition, thieving religious greed
I have removed the division between your Science and Love
How many years through which you will sell yourself to this prostitute?
These equations and symbols that swerve in ignorance

Kiss rain,
Before it slips like dust,
Through the dreams of the stars
Hire the scent of the wind,
Before she lays once more,
With your enemy laughing,
With another damsel in his arms,
Who you fucked last night
Dip your arms in this bloodstream,
And let it turn to a lily farm
Come leave your melancholy at my doorstep,
And run to your wife before it’s too late

My heart only aches with more lizard tales,
Reptilian nonsense about aches and lost lakes\
Can you come look into my meandering self?
A little fading dream in a colorful adventure
I have heard the fools bring color to concept,
The blasphemers with beady eyes selling their shit,
To cravers and ravers on these shit streets,
People simply seeking some last inch of archaic wonder
It won’t come with your words stupid wonder child,
Leave this place,
My whisky loses its charm with your senseless ramble

The heart seems to be a hole for treacherous things,
So come, let’s behold treacherous things
Let us glorify the sickness of our glorious race,
Let us decorate our dysfunction with inner murder,
I will teach you a new yoga. Would you dare to hold my hand?
I will bring you a breath that will tear your limbs,
Cut your tongue, burn your hair, break your heart,
Do you dare to know this magic?
These old fools sell you their ecstasy nonsense,
Let them rot in their white light and saffron-robed kindness,
Let them rot in their godly folly, their selfish understandings
I will give you the very edges of darkness,
I will kick your innards into that maddening awakening
Over there, in that dark place, you will find yourself,
On the razor’s edge, where you will lose me,
And I you
And us both, find ourselves, and never look back again

These folks don’t dare the infinity of the human being,
They will bring you to a hurtful finitude
Where your endless potential becomes an endless illusion
A thirsty search for some great money dream,
Where these losers bow down to you,
As you are puppeted on a plastic box,
Doing things that make them laugh

You derelict soul, you broken mind,
You are here to be whipped into a mold
Like butter into cake batter,
They will make you thick and tender,
But you will be dead

Who dares look into the workings of anger?
Who dares kiss him before a mirror,
And shed tears of rage for all cosmic life,
Do you remember tears? I wonder.
The world’s evil is a mere comical folly,
In the eyes of the eternal cosmic darkness
And we waste our years with the plastic box,
In drama, rage, and childish conversation
Go live! Stupid wonder child,
Bring yourself to open capitulation
No one cares for last night’s visions,
No one dreams of you. No one cares for you.
So alone, the snow comes down,
And we’re drenched again in yesterday’s dreams

We must rest now.
We’ve beheld enough treachery,
On this useless night
Ah! The stars seem to have not moved.
Things shall remain as they are,
Tomorrow.

 

artwork: Enchanted Doll – Maruhana Bachi