too late

I shall not die unartistically; my body is to perish the abandoned shell of unquiet soul.

You couldn’t kill me when I bore no treat. You can’t kill me as of now for I ain’t to be harmed.

This is a construct. The soul is long spread.

Too late, too late; this treat walks live with the dead.

acoustic isolation

There’s a song that sings
what I want to hear
But my mind is deaf
it shuttles off and scream

Alarm, bell, calling, pitch,
warning buzz, adverting whistle,
a shout, a conunseling tone:

My mind screams to alert
for trouble, whether is none
or one’s to come.

And I can’t hear that song.
It sounds, I collect, yet no
signal get to where it’s at:
dopamine stays still, soundproof deaf.

a pause to prose and pause (excerpts)

“A pause to prose and pause”

And so it comes that the poet can no longer bear to verse to punctuate to divide to paragraph rhythms allegories neither embellish.

Prose becomes necessary, also the pause that follows — to think because all that was written, though still true, was badly or mildly felt.

But he feels.

“Have you seen above?”

Oh! Have I seen land!
I’ve seen land, safe coasts
and green and
swimming waters

Throughout every sea
I’ve sailed or un-
shipped to…

Yet I have not seen ocean
in its almight
Pressure too much
The feel too much to enlight

(but frightful as it is
therein spreads life!)

“Despite it all”

Life has being a ever
growing puzzle of
beautiful pieces
each itself another puzzle.

It has presented itself to me
as fractals of Beauty and Tenderness
Yet I wait and long for its end since childhood.

fading

I am data
waiting to be lost
Remainders of me
in others’ memories
will fade away
Like “footprints on the beach
— and the tide is coming in.”

* this last bit is from a Doctor Who episode (2005 series), “Silence in the Library”.

“A pause to prose and pause”

And so it comes that the poet can no longer bear to verse to punctuate to divide to paragraph rhythms allegories neither embellish.

Prose becomes necessary, also the pause that follows — to think because all that was written, though still true, was badly or mildly felt.

                But he feels.

—-/ /—-

“A building gets torched. All that’s left is ashes. I used to think everything was true about everything. But now I know…” (James O’Barr)

“Have you seen above?”

Oh! Have I seen land!
            I’ve seen land, safe coasts
            and green and
            swimming waters

Throughout every sea
          I’ve sailed or un-
          shipped to…

Yet I have not seen ocean
    in its almight
Pressure too much
    The feel too much to enlight

(but frightful as it is
therein spreads life!)

– – –

“Three little syringes in a pile of blood and epoxy resin — and a note-to-self”

No more analogies, metaphors, figurations, interpretations or comparative analysis and all else involving oceans from a self-taught with no teaching skills who can’t even swim.

There are other means to stop the brain

Climb up a mountain. More pressure, less air. Lower the oxygen going to the brain. Dumb one self. It’s kind of like sniffing glue, except that you come back with scratches all over and built up musculature.

“Despite it all”

Life has being a ever
growing puzzle of
beautiful pieces
each itself another puzzle.

It has presented itself to me
as fractals of Beauty and Tenderness
Yet I wait and long for its end since childhood.

I had too much to dream last night*

Last nights dreams involved cocaine, cigars and anal sex. I think it’s normal if I’d wake up feeling like those people who scream “U-/S/-AY![x2]”.

There was also some Edgar Allan Poe in it. I couldn’t remember The Raven, which I’ve known by heart, at least parts of it, since I was like 12 or 14, but couldn’t get it. But parts of it appeared as I browsed my mind, as in using some sort of search mechanism, only it was written in an older kind of english, more phonetical, and I then had to re-write it as the original poem was, and then wasn’t quite sure I was doing it right.

* The Electric Prunes – I had too much to dream (last night)

song: go along

I guess that I have made the same mistakes again
I guess I almost drove a fellow friend astray
Too sad I’ve cause much fuss this time
Just hope it’s not too late for me to fix my mind

Go along not to look back
just go along not look back
I’m sad but it doesn’t matter

It’s time for me to learn to grow on my on
And find out how to find the limits to my bound
I guess I’ve lost so much so you just go along

Go along and find your way
I’m sure we’ll never meet again
It’s lonely but I’m hopeful for a brand new day

Go along I’ve lost my way
Can’t see as far as that new day
But hopefully your nights will shine

to madness and joy!

Read this today and wanted to share its beauty with you. The poem is entitled “One hour to madness and joy” and is part of Walt Whitman‘s “Children of Adam”

ONE hour to madness and joy!
O furious! O confine me not!
(What is this that frees me so in storms?
What do my shouts amid lightnings and raging winds mean?)

O to drink the mystic deliria deeper than any other man!
O savage and tender achings!
(I bequeath them to you, my children,
I tell them to you, for reasons, O bridegroom and bride.)

O to be yielded to you, whoever you are, and you to be yielded to me,
in defiance of the world!
O to return to Paradise! O bashful and feminine! 10
O to draw you to me–to plant on you for the first time the lips of a
determin’d man!

O the puzzle–the thrice-tied knot–the deep and dark pool! O all
untied and illumin’d!
O to speed where there is space enough and air enough at last!
O to be absolv’d from previous ties and conventions–I from mine, and
you from yours!
O to find a new unthought-of nonchalance with the best of nature!
O to have the gag remov’d from one’s mouth!
O to have the feeling, to-day or any day, I am sufficient as I am!

O something unprov’d! something in a trance!
O madness amorous! O trembling!
O to escape utterly from others’ anchors and holds! 20
To drive free! to love free! to dash reckless and dangerous!
To court destruction with taunts–with invitations!
To ascend–to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!
To rise thither with my inebriate Soul!
To be lost, if it must be so!
To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!
With one brief hour of madness and joy.

Walt Whitman

This poem is in the book “The Complete Poems of Walt Whitman”, Wordsworth Poetry Library, ISBN 1853264334

cover of wordsworth's complete poems of walt whitman