I wrote this because
I forgot that it didn’t matter;
That I wrote this to destroy
The unanimous spatter,
The clatter, and battered,
For the batch of mediocrity
I choose to shatter
And tear to tatters.
Mad, mad, mad, mad-hatters
Might think me a bit madder,
From the height I blabber
To the depths from a ladder
Borne from entrails of the nagger
And it’s nagging.
I wrote this to fill a void,
A blank page too much destroys,
Like Death’s silence louder than noise.
Have you dyed the coffin splatter
Black with the make-up platter?
Are you too shook-up to look up
From the words and page-up
To the definition, a fuck-up
With the red squiggle;
Is your page filled-up…
Have you crushed the norm,
So it clutches the morn,
Enticing the storm,
And the Dawn borne
to night too close to the morn-
I wrote this page as a mentalist;
Fundamental and existential;
Archaic damnation on a scroll
Too quick before the Act, and the troll
Beneath your bridge
Rewrote this page
To near the ending of Earth’s menstrual
Cycle, bleeding from its Magna Carta
Clam; seeding new life, Constitution-ally
Devoid of righteous seething,
Breathing out, exhaling gold dust
For oxidized iron manacles;
Dig on X the skin-map says:
On the mark painted bright
By a stale breeze of the laughing drunk,
Told by the Miller daft before a Knight;
Calm by the fire, forged to quill-pen writing,
From third-word tongue and two-cent
Lung, equivalent solidity
Of cigar smoke rising from the lips,
Warmed by improvisations that
Black-balled humanity far from the oyster’s
Pearl just around the corner, how Sailors
Think in secret and in push, to whaler-
Obsessions and those great white collar
Delusions of happier finds,
From a polymer moral to the plastic
Conclusion; pewter as silver,
And silver are all dreams buried
Tarnished and decomposing.
Dig on the X the Earth-map says:
Can you dig?
Can you dig?
Or is the shade to dark
For the growing tree’s bark;
Stark in the plight,
And a lark blots the Sun.
Where did it go—Life—?
You dug to long;
Low, but not deep enough
And blotted out the Sun!
There is no treasure left,
There’s no pleasure left,
There is no measure left,
Or cleft notations to subjugate
The silence left
When the Music quit ringing,
And now the mind is reeling,
For reality and death grows
Closure and out of Nothing
Grew lament for a living Done;
What’s left of you, what's left of Man,
What’s left of All when you blot out the Sun?
I wrote this to interrupt a page,
To disrupt perfection and mock
Its colonic indifference:
The Mad Satyr, sings for his fare,
His wage for a boat ride’s sage,
To pass the journey’s foreboding way,
Oh Fate; that delivered the Great Papyrus,
I give it back for the Fire, and the Pain,
For the wretched and depraved,
For the purity, the knave and the fits—
I interrupted God once…
When I shattered the clay pot,
He could never fix.