maxim: "Love"

To Love, and to expect Love: a self-imposed construct in defense of the fear of aloneness; a systemic selfishness asking for another to act selfless in deferral to your own fearful selfishness, in defense of the universal fear of aloneness, i.e., we are somehow singularly more deserving, and thus create our own Love/in-Love construct to attract the devotion of another just as alone yet not as deserving.

To confirm or deny my own belief in this maxim would be to presume that I had absolute knowledge of the resolutely abstract/unquantifiable. If my personal faith-based opinion in re: this maxim were questioned, however, I would politely demure from judgment, so as not to reveal my lonely strategies.

Gnats

swallowing gnats with bile rising

a tomb of sleep

I hear the day

I fear its heat

and swing away

humming gnats o things of beauty

a tomb of life

I know the smell

I love the night

and blissful hell

rhythm rhythm count on fingers

clever here now

stupid there

they ask me how

I could not care

fingers blunted vodka singing

a week of me

of me and I

I hope this week

is not to die

Anarchist Come Poems

This evening I drove about Branson

marveling at the destruction wrought,

at the shyster bankruptcy

upon the pavement I once commanded

from atop a Santa Cruz skateboard deck,

when we smelled vagina upon our fingers

and marveled at the ocean before us,

an ocean of carrying these dreams of possible dreams,

that now when I smell vagina upon my fingers

I am ashamed

and feel I've left some part of myself inside of her,

something drowned in that ocean

now abyss

now brimming

swimming sharks,

and I a shark among sharks,

monster upon men,

seeing schoolmates grin from realtor billboards

wanting to scream at them that they peddle only blood

but not the blood that I crave and thusly seek

but a blood sterile and devoid of the immortality

I deserve.

----------------------------------

"Mean-Fingered Cops"

mean-fingered cops

laws made by those who plan to break them

assert their kinghood

while I need no king

while I am my own king

death to the kings

and the mean-fingered cops

a burning I crave

a burning and a subsequent raving

a raving I crave

long into endless nights

preluding endless days

which do not prepare

for night nor war

but do our war in stock of paper

and dance

in string and in song

in dreams of dead priests

and effigies stuffed

with legalese

a day that will not turn to night

and yinyang

a night that serves day

a changing lady

our lady

of the sun which never rises

but to which we turn

and carve poems from pain

and pleasure from alone

to know that as we die

in this night, our night

the someday sun

will illumine our dances and poems

our sculptures and songs

scriptures lectures all waiting

waiting for your day,

your someday sun,

we do this in silence

not for ourselves

but knowing that as we die

and someday there will be no I

so someday all cops will die

all presidents will die

all lawyers and priests

and money-changers and warmongers

all pigs will be slaughtered

by the marching night of time

and this time is why I carve and carve

sometimes from bits of my own skeleton

and with ink of my own bile

that these poems will remain

and be read and heard

in a day without cops,

saved as an historical record

of the pain

in a night with cops.

kill em all

-----------------------------------------------

I write

anarchist come poetry

obsessed with my cock

and terrified to use it

gunshots echo Kirbyville night

but the dogs have stopped barking

what had I done?

and when the pigs kneeled so heavy upon me

and named me a homosexual

and bloodied me

for what had I done?

drank drinks marvelous drinks

sucked some joint of spice

with Sugar my tranny neighbor

ran howling off into down

Missouri

while someone shattered windows

someone's shattered window

and maybe a drain pipe here

a drain pipe there

and I laughed in my leather

breathing a new october

until then kneeled upon so heavy

and when, then,

what did you say to me?

and when I left my bullets sown upon my floor

and upon my bed

and upon my tables

and balanced my guns on chairs

and had these dreams of feeling for them

in the dark

finding a tiny body

not a barrel in my mouth

nor a job to go back to

waking bloodied

for what I had done?

fallen down stairs

broken my nose

and bled oozing clotted snot

blackened my eyes so bright

what did you say to me?

ah, for I kept it all a secret

I slept as a ghost

ashamed to have friends

worried in their anger

and angry in their worry

but I kept it all a secret

for what had I done?

alienated, my own fault

due course

lawless drunk marvelous drunk

I expect things from my friends

which I will never give to them

and I expect love of lovers

whom I will never love

what did you ever say to me

I do not ask nor indict

but instead am straining to recall

what have you said

for what I had done?

where could I have

fashioned my rudder from bone and board

the resolute bones

of those who would laugh apart my victories

my victory of waking

my victory of sleeping

always a surprise

when one follows the other

skulls of Shakespeares, for now we are Shakespeare

Spin the cap, spread notebook spun hard, no sympathy with this my hard lust for words touching words, I'm screaming to tell someone, screaming at anyone, I want only to share this, what I do so late at night left alone with pen powerful pen and clean lined notebook paper, I love it and am crying, this is all I know to love besides her who would share it with me, no quirk and as no laboratory exercise but a thing my hand does just as it wipes shit from my ass and jerks myself off and signs-of-the-Cross and fingers guitar strings and fingers strange cunts, and O Lord how my hands hand me these bottles and fingers promises into my faggot gasping mouth, my tongue fucks my palate in a waterfall of-- a Niagara of welling welling emotive spill some oil spill I leave behind me, some disaster I am always walking from, shredding without sympathy yet I the most sympathetic raking coals across my pock-marked abdomen, but still, enough of all that, I choke back tears and here is the new nest, I mastering a fat new handwriting, a truce between my drank violence and the peace I find in love-letters of words the words so looming but it's the letters I kiss, it's the words I submit yet the letters are charged with my dick-violence, with my tongue-dick tongue-prick, if I had the chance I would prick the world fuck the world with this venom 'til naught was left but she and I, she she she, I want she so bad across the flaming world above the bodies we dance we always dance in our Hell, I nearly wrote "purgatory" but Blake or Dante or someone claimed the damned walked among flames that the angels with their screwed eyes saw as hellfire and we so happy amongst them, imagine, if tomorrow the coasts would fall and creep inward while we dance and dance upon Hiroshima upon Trail of Tears upon Auschwitz upon Rwanda, we you and I could be Adam and her Eve, we more than I imagined you and me was, all those pitiful gorgons of past/passed sense memory and memory and sensibility I now see them gorgons so boring and mute and lame and pale and deathly and resigned and weak and empty and empty and weak and mean and screwed and drift drift drift no "Melville" Jungian big-name big-name big-name big-name archetypes and so unconfused and sterile in their unconfusion, but you you! finally you broke those chains and now-- ah gawd weeping again! weeping again, I put such long long years lost behind such hospitals, but you alone, rose, rose me from defeat to defeat, a new defeat I gladly resign to which I gladly resign, I can taste your olive skin and I can taste your footprints and I can taste your smile never screwed nor squinted, always a spring a fall to which to whom I bleed I bleed I bleed ah the cunt I bleed for, kill all cunt but the cunt I bleed for, a perfect Georgian flower of tomorrow and yesterday, who knew she existed, who knew I could bend my back in these new and splendid ways which remind me, lost me for so long, lost me me me, there is still a beacon from far offshore and I chickenshit faggot pussy bitch stand gibbering and fucking these people, there she is, you fool, I fool, I sank so far this summer, I sank so far and welcomed the sighing and the sunk, the witchy shadows tracing nipple to jaw, such delicious tits but no war is won with witchy twitchy nipples, lucky guy when all luck runs out, who is this guy, lost last guy, I dream and dream, I dream of another dance in a crematorium, I dream upon dancing upon ashes and ashes of skulls of Shakespeares, for now we are Shakespeare.

notes

8/6/14

Did I just shit myself? Are sweat and shit running tandem down my leg, organic miasma Me-Me-Me?

Timed this right, I think. 1-2 drinks @ bar (double tall vodka, 2 or 3 ice cubes), transcribe "Prey" to internet, leave, buy smokes, home, finish home stash, sleep sleep. I'm not paying for liquor-in-public, I'm paying for wifi-in-public.

It all depends on whether or not there is anyone worth speaking to on the mezzanine.

Goddammit, every step of the way sneaking through shadows, I piss as I write this.

Knowing you can always be drunker, herein is my freedom.

A little chrysanthemum
with your pillow arsenic,
pillowed pill
and vote away
away against

O christ, here defeat looms!
A race against
dying batteries last call
caffeine's tug
water's float
interest's wane
moon's moment
caloric impulse
general freeze-eyed frustration
and nausea now!
because all of it
will never be enough.
When do I draw my line
and dead-eye that bead
through
a skull most familiar?

(what's a) six-pack of snow in a borrowed town?

Goddamn hiccups

Gross, one of those gross nights wherein I spit gross shit on the floor.

8/7/14

Let's clock it at 9:47 pm when I finally left my house today. The cashier who usually irritates the hell out of me with inane jokes and other assorted jibber-jabbers has apparently finally taken my mute impatience to heart and no longer wastes my time with frivolities, but now I am burdened with shame at the thought of how much of my own time I waste so self-righteously, and how I've won this skirmish, the sole spoils of which are the denying of consistent and well-intentioned interactions with another lost person so unfairly judged. I feel like a monster.

My ideal mate would be an absentee landlord. I want to marry an absentee landlord.

Tried to light my pen with my cigarette. No, the other way around, pen of fire, pen is fire, penis fire. Why are the pen or pencil never discussed as phallic symbols? I've been toying with the image/idea for a while now; writing as masturbatory, also as a powerful virility. Paper a come rag, or a fertilized womb, the difference being (to paraphrase an earlier thought) that ink achieves and retains vitality when dry, while sperm does not.

-------------------------------------

Going out for "a beer" with M shortly. Worried. Worried I may get The Thirst, knowing what happens to my mood(s) afterwards, with the 2 options being:
1. Buy more. Drink drink drink. "Seek oblivion". Oblivion? Nay, liberation! I can already feel its caress.
2. Quarantine. Evil pacing. Shake in sheets. Scream.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

New obvious idea: bring this tiny pad of paper to the porch/bathroom with me while I smoke/shit, instead of that damn phone. [The Smartphone Revolution is another nail in the coffin.] Even if I write nothing, nothing, nothing at all, I will have been more productive and have stimulated more neuronic wiring than if I had stared feverishly at my phone and bathed in the perverse light of social media's intense worry and self-obsession. Funny that as a self-aware (in each way including the admittedly narcissistic and meta-narcissistic) "writer", lots of stream-dream I I me me stuff, I react with such nausea and violence to others doing pretty much the same shit as I albeit in the social media medium. Am I any better, really, when all is said and done, I the prideful and aware and self-critical artiste? Doubt it.

8/8/14

Long discussion with M tonight in re: heroes, super- and supra-, ourselves and close friends and lovers, the way others' expectations become like radiation upon our backs, we mutate these illusions, holograms projected, respond weirdly and am/are not to be trusted. Everything I write comes with hidden manipulation, a military tactic, offense and defense entrenched in idiosyncrasies.

Earlier I sez to myself, Andrew, I sez, you should post on Facebook a plea asking your friends to never again [------] you. Can't remember what it was now, but please, friends, don't [------] me. I'm not worthy of your [------].

In my house tonight
there is a buzzing throughout
the eaves. I think it is
the ghosts of flies.

I'm horny.

New Notebook (July, pre-meltdown poems)

"New Notebook, pt. I"

So are ye taunting me now, boy?

Where'd ye get that fine new pen,

and where'd ye stash the last?

Remember that sorrow's secrets

bear somber children,

and ye will yet answer to me, boy,

to me ye will yet answer.

"New Notebook, pt. II"

A new day,

a new vista to be poached!

Line the lions,

and let us mow.

"An Ogre Laments"

An ogre laments;

Watch my lumbering shoulders,

each arch of bone

is a cramp to be mourned.

There is no savior;

Align yourself therefore

with Leviathan

and the dragons.

I am so fucking tightly wound,

trusting no one.

Furious, furious

let swing,

swing and sway

hung by my beautiful handwriting

and heavy breathing.

Storming rain

and still I without a name,

and still I without a ghost to hold.

Left alone,

always alone by choice

though offers have been made

to alleviate this gaping hole

this slit throat

at the heart of my conflict.

Shall I wail, what

shall I wail?

Should I wail, what

should I wail?

O that this thunder

sound as footsteps

of the comfort that never comes.

O that each aching shadow

I take as a companion

never to hold in my bruised hands.

Gather it all so near,

if only to have it at hand

when it comes time

to shove it all away

Out of booze again, goddammit!

Out of booze again.

Never will you know

how easy it is

to fade into the wall of white,

the sheet of lines,

never to return;

this is my gift,

and someday I swear I will not come back.