Excerpts

January 28, 2002

So what did you expect?
A cheery, happy, little life
of nothing but sunshine and
cotton-candy and hookers?
Life is what you make of it
unless, of course, each time
you try to make something
you get the hell beat out of you
with the Big and Raucous Stick
of Righteous Indignation.

Do these pants
make my butt look big?
(Shut-upguys have feelings,
too, you know!)
I spent my day
in prayer and mediation
and quiet contemplation
as I spend most days
but the demons of the Spirit World
sought me and pursued me,
harangued me and antagonized me
to no end
and then they beat me
with the Mighty and Terrible Stick
of Unholy Wrathfulness
(though soulfully, of course;
very good about not leaving bruises,
are the demons)

Unreality hangs
at the periphery of being,
always looming just out of sight,
always just slightly beyond reach
life flows ever along,
bobbing randomly about
in the dark, icy waters
of a turgid river of timelessness;
even as complete numbness
offers the impending hope of oblivion,
I find myself beaten senseless
by the Indomitable and Bludgeoning Stick
of Unmitigated Despondency
and all that is to follow
as all that has come to pass
shall be shaded in sin
by the crimson irony
of my bloodied corporeity.



Desolation in Solitude

Creativity flounders
in the moment
banished expectations
cast adrift
intentions unendeavored,
holding back

inspiration seeping
crawlingcreeping
from depths
of desolation
each ounce
squeezedmost squandered
from diamond drops
of cognitive constipation

moving on,
finding something new
in exile, seeking
refuge from
myself?
the world?
the futility
of the moment?

breaking away
dissolution of desolation
drags down
ever downward
wrapped in shadows,
seducing toward degradation

light from above
feeling gray and cool
the dubious allure
of unreality.



Spectre of Living

Beyond the shadowlands
in the dark light
of inner-most, substanceless being
alone in my cell
but for the fulfilling company
of my compatriot Merlot

scent of moist earth
belies the sulfurous black offal
that condensates with airy embraces
silence surrounds
duplicity of existence
I cast off
adrift
arising from nothing
going nowhere


turned away
from the window of perspective
the Powers have gifted
self-loathingjust another excuse
to be weak

having given up the Ghost
feeling its vacancy
yearning to once more know
the taint of its fingeringly fondlishness
I stumble over corpses
of my former self
casually flicking all the little dead things
up into the night sky,
an if a sacrifice unto the starry Void

I am the creator
of lost worlds
ravager of souls


Spectre of life
looming, surrounding,
suffusing, consuming
through the darkness, light
black brilliance beaming
to be infused
or refused


through the window,
pain
slivers of inspiration, stabbing
shards of thought, bleeding
glimmer of light, refracting,
transcendingblinding
in second sight

Who will I be
almost gone
when there is no one
nothing
to save me from
myself
the world?



Complainte de la Butte

Alone in the world
in the universe
in all of Existence
surrounded by the illusions
of my yearning mind
I flounder
in the unreality
of me.

In solitary exile,
I must deny all
most of all, hope
or surrender
to the madness
of a world in which
I do not belong.