Archive for December, 2009

Consider Enlightenment or… whiskey


29 Dec

——–

Our reflection, at times, becomes us.

Though, at times, when we become our reflection and then afterwards look into the mirror – it is wholly possible that we may no longer recognize ourselves.

Sometimes, we may turn into the Art that we create.

Sometimes, we may go completely insane in the lonesome masquerade of faces before any routine salvation beckons.

We seek the benchmarks for desperation. They’re measured by 50 grams per glass.

We seek money as we seek prophets as we seek religious blessings. As we seek anything that is nondescript.

There is nothing.

I repeat: There really is fucking nothing in any of this.

——-

Fuck pt. I


27 Dec

——-

Sitting around with my two favorite friends – a bottle of whiskey and Mud Waters while he’s sliding his fingers over the frets of the guitar. The room whispers something about misery and intuitive self-destruction. But the noise slithers too softly, and the liquor has made me moderately deaf.

Fuck.

The writing won’t come that way. Neither will she. But I know a couple women who grow like weeds around my backyard; they will cum, with the little enticement that I’m capable of providing.

Fuck.

——-

——–

Merry Christmas to all you heathens


25 Dec

—-

I fucking hate Christmas

I fucking hate the necessity for sexual sympathy

I fucking hate that I have to pretend to be Bukowski

I fucking hate that I have to pick her up from the train

 —because it’s cold, and she’s cold, and I have to feign warmth

I fucking hate Christmas

I fucking hate the necessity for the pint of Old Granddad

I fucking hate that I have to pretend that I was waiting for her phone-call

I fucking hate that she needed to see me tonight

because she’s not the one I want to see; she’s a knot, and I’m not here for her

 —

I fucking hate Christmas

I fucking hate the necessity of sexual sympathy

I fucking hate that I have to pretend to be romantic

I fucking hate picking out music for us to listen to, a movie for us to watch

I fucking hate that all of it doesn’t matter because she just wants to go to bed, anyway

I fucking hate that I prefer spending the night by myself

I fucking hate that her family isn’t here to spend the KMart-holiday with her

I fucking hate that she brought me a carton of American Spirits, gift-wrapped –

like I was a goddamn hipster

I fucking hate hating all of this

I fucking hate spewing out vulgarity, and her acceptance of it like a sonnet

I fucking hate that Christ wasn’t born today

I fucking hate that she spent last midnight at Mass read by a pederast

I fucking hate that Michael Jackson is dead and these faggots are still preaching

I fucking hate that the last time I loved I was called a fatalist

I fucking hate that that those I loved don’t understand why I’m preoccupied with death

and I fucking hate Christmas

  —and I fucking hate that she’s here expecting me to sympathize

 —  and I fucking hate that after falling asleep next to her I’m going to dream of someone else

 —and I fucking hate that I’m going to lie about dreaming anything because the bourbon will kill it

I fucking hate the fact that this poem has no meter

I fucking hate that I’m forsaking any style here

I fucking hate that I’d rather be sober and alone

I fucking hate lying about the fact that I want to be with someone that no longer exists

I fucking hate that I known plenty dead

 —and I fucking hate that I’m plenty jealous that they no longer

 —fucking hate

I fucking hate Christmas, princess

I fucking hate that she isn’t you

I fucking hate that you’ll think that this was written to provoke you

I fucking hate that you won’t realize that I’m trying to only provoke myself

I fucking hate that your absence doesn’t matter much anymore

I fucking hate that this is all I feel like writing tonight

I fucking hate that I have 40 edited pages to type up and that because I’m playing host – I won’t

I fucking hate that I have to finish, if only to see you

I fucking hate not being in control

I fucking hate Bukowski, and Miller, and Dostoevsky, and Salinger, and Fitzgerald, and Hemingway,

I fucking hate Wallace, and Eugenides, and Toole, and Cummings, and Nabokov, and Kundera

and every other fucking writer that made me fall in love with words

 —and made me fall in love with you

———

———

the nightmare smoking his quiet cigar


22 Dec

——

“In this condition I have always fallen in with thieves and rogues and murderers, and how kind and gentle they have been with me! As though they were my brothers. And are they not, indeed? Have I not been guilty of every crime, and suffered for it? And is it not just because of my crimes that I am united so closely to my fellowman? Always, when I see a light of recognition in the other person’s eyes, I am aware of this secret bond. It is only the just whose eyes never light up. It is the just who have never known the secret of human fellowship. It is the just who are the real monsters. It is the just who demand our fingerprints, who prove to us that we have died even when we stand before them in the flesh. It is the just who impose upon us arbitrary names, false names, who put false dates in the register and bury us alive. I prefer the thieves, the rogues, the murderers, unless I can find a man of my own stature, my own quality.”

– Henry Miller

——–

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