dustpan spleen
on small town demeanor and language
the city where i live akron ohio where i have been damned by the state for legislative reasons is a large scale implement of torture and dissolution the language spoken by its constituents is violently simple and the immolation of poetry and emotion is discernable in every word spoken what they speak of rarely transcends banal and trivial comments about the weather sports or their
pitiful daily lives which consist of either working spending or fleeting away time in moblike social gatherings where the slightest aberration is ballooned into an atrocious offense life for creative and expressive people here is of constant bleeding and perversion their aesthetic purposes beaten and driven deep into them by laughter and crude ignorant comments propagated by upward mobile human gadgets who have no real purpose in their shit eating lives other than to stockpile money and acquire the patronizing smiles and approbations of the other members of the mob personality in this industrial scab camp wasteland is only attempted by the drunk young and suicidal in regards
to the other members of the order of conformity hate humiliation and wasted life a non pleasing or not easily understood personality would defame a person to the rank of pariah they will be debased with the title "nigger" buried under socially acceptable epithets which are often accompanied by mocking laughter one person is no discernable from the next in their flat and minimal dialogue broken blank facial expressions and cash tainted capitalistic costumes designating their rank on the social chain which is based entirely on how many dollars one lines his pockets with social stature or sex all personalities are eerily similar all lives as well the voraciously attempted beautification of the streets and neighborhoods is lost entirely in its painfully unnatural
appearance there is no humanity here only objective creatures with some money making function the stink of the air rotten souls is some thing else
on the mediocre lives and poetry of those poets held in a high opinion by themselves and their surrounding patrons
these are the most awful of human beasts (save the death squads) godlike confident self loving opinions of themselves cause them never to question the worth of the bile they spew onto the page with their pop culture tinged minds they have fame sex money in mind with every god awful word they write never producing anything of human value they hate any poet that does not being able to deny the truth in their guts so they may go on looking pretty and prime for the plucking and misogyny propagated by the famous over their unknown supporters they perform a few boring tasks assure themselves of their own genius and compile a few pages into a tepid terrible whole that insults the reader his vulnerability and self with its bad meaningless content the good writing is often lost in the din of these bad meaningless writers of post disaster america which will evaporate soon as well as the scars they have left upon us with their abrasive egos and jealousy
on the hollowness of modern life and the dehumanization process
nothing is necessary
we are expendable human resources
we devour our true urges with the machinations
society drives into our brains
art has been destroyed and perverted
by money capitalism fame fear of truth
love has been abolished by money and society
what will it be today to silence your beaten life lust untill tomarrow when
hopefull you will die
meaningless sex? television? housework? errands? money? false art? listless soul gatherings
smouldering bonfires money? perhaps torture whatever it takes to keep that gag bound in your soul
so your body may putter forth in its absentia blankly just to appease that nothingness
you are garbage and nobody really cares or loves you
they just want something from you
on misery and happiness
each man is essentially miserable in this society which is nothing more than a pattern of structures
he needs what cannot be named or acquired so he suffers happiness is merely being able to convince
yourself that your not miserable with meaningless trinkets and rituals those
who seem happy have
thrust their quintessence aside in favor of the pursual of the material false
and attainable
all these things that obscure our misery and give us a false sense of contentment are nothing
more than symbols of this unnamable acquisition which we all yearn for
christians would call it
god existentialists would call it death
i wouldnt call it anything
akron spleen
last words
nothing here
wind gusts
bodies lust
dead in grass
passing time
seasons change
foreign eyes warm
someones brief
glassy eyed glance
balancing on the rim
of a bottle
all the freedoms of humanity corrupted
i will cut off each of your fingers
i will pierce your eardrums with toothpicks
i will slice open your eyes with a razor
i will grind your teeth in a mouthful of pebbles
i will slice off the skin covering your tongue
i will puncture your vocal chords with my thumb
i will slice your genitals into chuck with flints
i will scrub your armpits with brillo
i will cut off each of your toes with my razorblade teeth
i will drive needles and tacks into the bottoms of your feet
i will snap each of your bones with a tin nut cracker
i will fill your lungs with tar
i will pollute your liver with oil
i will seal your ass shut with a cigarette lighter
i will stir your mind with a wooden stick
and seal you into a wooden box
purgations
cleansing through pain
self mutilation
television doesnt capture the pathos and solitude
identity is a disease
reading is the cure for self hatred
speak no sentences speak no finities
speak not of logical occurances or material words
your strings of vocalise
should be as everchanging
infinite, the imagination
drive mundane thought from your mind
drive reality from the mind
occupy the mind with anything
that makes no sense
riddles without answers
believe what no one including yourself tells you
only peruse as if examining a shape aligned before the eyes
the absense of truth is the only truth
words define reality and the world
one can surround himself in anything
with the right words
there are infinite words for a stone
out of electronic devices lies are blared
to weaken the soul
humanity doesnt exist
so closed minded is that bag of meat
sure of his own brilliance calling out his
inanities from the preserved body in drink or electronic stupor
each man is infinite other men
there is only one singularity
that is everything
all in waking done is art
all in sleeping done is dreams
when education stops the rest does also
dreams are the collective palette
of our waking visions and art
the man who despises art is the man who is empty
the man who creates bad art is the man who is broken
the man who damns the outcast is eternally alone
all we ssee speak hear or experiance
is woven by our own selves
the external world
is only colliding stones
infinite realities
free yourself from the reigns
of others
expunge your agony
in literature
the illiterate poet
they will tell you what you need to know
america is a fire
america is rape
america is a raping fire
crawling through oily sheets
america pulls apart beauty
and with it builds profit
america cannot create art
america can only create destruction
this is not life
there is something eternal here
if you sit in silence
of mind
you can hear it whispering to you
you can hear it breathing
groaning behind the silence
can you feel it
waiting in the empty darkness for your breath
for your eyes
waiting behind the wind
to clog your senses with bile
can you smell its stink
those vague traces of rot
and flatulence carried on the wind
to sear your nostrils
the houses stare down at you
questioning with empty eyes
your silent agony
behind every face it sits in waiting
peering out at you from behind false eyes
lubricating each false daily gesture
empowering the lifeless thrusting of torsos
upon invisible salt mines
it sings softly behind the wind
calls gently your name
mocking you in hushed tones
behind your back
sits rotting
behind your homes
behind your clothes
behind your skin
behind your thoughts
rotting waiting watching smiling
wailing in the night in the gut
slurping blood off linoleum and pavement
licking sweat off skin
swallowing drowning in your own polluted thoughts
and imaginations
it sits in your black empty hearts
beating your rancid blood through your lifeless bodies
pumping feces into your minds
just enough to keep you staggering
sickened but smiling
through each empty churning pulsating day
your skin rotting in silence
your dreams melting in the somber sun
i wander through the night
i crawl under the earth
stomping through the rain
back hunched over
face ablaze
carrying in my mind
a season of clanging pots and hands
searching each face
each crack in the road
each rushing past blur
looking for you
dont commit suicide
your far too powerful
your far too beautiful
your far too misunderstood
think of all those that rejected you
think of all those who made you suffer
for their own selfish hipocritical reasons
dont commit suicide
your far too important
instead of suicide why not commit homicide first?
so they know your name for five minutes
so they will regret their wretched selves
and what they did
kill children kill families kill political figures
kill celebrities kill animals kill anything
as many as you can so they will know your name
and wont smile so bright when they
mutilate you in your next life
for the sake of all of us suffering now
dont go out like a cigarette
go out like an atom bomb
and show them how useless you really are
make them suffer
make them sob and cry as you have
mutilate their children
mutilate them kill them bomb them
homicide before suicide
it should be a law amoungst the suffering
be something other than a statistic
all it takes is a couple of pulls of the trigger
send hot steel into their smiling faces
for the sake of all of us
save us!
save us!
homicide before suicide
mass murder before suicide
homicide instead of suicide
after all
jail aint that bad
as the life your living
now is it?
what else can you take from me?
air? love? sight? smell? taste? touch? hearing? insanity? hatred?
death? freedom of thought? food? sexuality? dreams? nightmares?
youll never take death from me
we are all the gods of death
we are all gods of genocide
try taking death from us
you cant
well keep killing
as long as you keep taking
for your silly selfish reasons
drunk walking in the rain
soft music warm in my ears
i stop at a gas station
to pick up a pack of cigarettes
all alone not a person to come home to
i make eyecontact with
two hateful female eyes
in the parking lot
and close my eyes
smiling warmly on myself
in solitude the imagination can convince you
the foulest of industrial wastelands
are as sublime as the booze
and blood soaked roads
of paris
circa 1840
how bright once
were the colors of the setting sky
so bright
they burned themselves
into the canvas
my memory
how fragrant once,
was the skin of each
passing virgin or lover
how soft once,
did their skin appear
how deep and swimming,
once the color of their eyes appeared
how starved and lusting i once
was for anyone, and everyone
how flowing the poetry once was
like blood from an open wrist
drunken,now,dull,no more
tired,sick,bored
no more, the colors of the sky
burn my eyes
no more
all there is
is what you see
when you close your eyes
erase mundane
finite thought
from your mind
loose all thoughts
youve been given
sink into self sea
let go
function as dead
as a nonentity
live inside your daytime
television lives
your contrived dramatics
the sad beliefs
fashioned by your useless
parents
out of their television
tainted pools of experiance
so they can feel important
by causing someone the misery
they are too jaded
and wasted to feel
chelsea
they want you to be less than you
they want you to be bland
they want you to be plain enough to understand
they want to bleach you
they want you to be boring
they want you to be nothing
they want you on their bookshelf
they want you to suffer
they want everything you have
they want you to believe their lies
they want you to be simple and two-dimensional
fucking vultures
every last one of them
they would suck the skin off your bones
and the dreams out of your head
if they could
and bang on their plates with your bones
staple your mothers clit to her eyeball
buttfuck your father
they want you to be humiliated
fucking vultures
every last one of them
poetry instead of a cigarette
poetry instead of suicide
poetry instead of television
poetry instead of life
one poem
two poems
three poems
matches struck and smoking
one breath
two breaths
three breaths
hairs plucked and falling
one vision
two visions
three visions
and now you can call yourself a genius
one love
two loves
three loves
and im still embittered
one death
two deaths
three deaths
and im still here
one lie
two lies
three lies
a little shitshower for a brief sniff of recognition
five seconds you dont have to stare your nothing in its empty face
one beer
two beers
three beers
and im quite drunk
one slash
two slash
three slash
sinking deep into darkness
soft,thick
fast,fast,fast
all of your visions
are from TVs and grocery stores
never look over your shoulder
fatigued of feeling passion
for nothing but the want of passion
fatigued of the sun
fatigued of poverty
fatigued of lonliness
fatigued of life/death
fatigued of poetry
fatigued of society
fatigued of the pop art black sun
blinding me to silence
fatigued of eyes peering into mine as i rush by
fatigued of the ideas of the past
fatigued of the false poets,lovers,masqueraders
desperate to be something
clinging to some shred
something to drape over their empty
fatigued of repitition and platitudes
fatigued of want lust self hate and self
fatigued of trying
i just want to be
a vapor curling over tepid water
you ruined my life
ive forgotten how it feels
to be alive
you murdered me emotionally
footsteps
im dead
no poetry
no passion here
you murdered my soul
for a handful of dried leaves
the two people that read this
will tell me to get over it
but i wont
it will just keep burning up
in my guts
my thoughts my identity
swallowed by hatred
i will find you
and i will kill you
exhausted
lonely
as i write
a few more words
to chase away
your shrieking voices
fear is what keeps us going
fear of death is what
keeps up from dying
there is no pain
but only relief in death
death is the only pleasure
this life has to offer
from this kingdom
of lies agony solitude and detatchment
that youve built for us
to keep us buried
to keep us stricken
to keep us lost
to hold us in terror
fear of death is all that keeps us going
and death is the only pleasure
life has to offer
our emotions have been sublimated into a brazen euphoria
nothing to do
but bring children
into this pointless existance
and make them suffer
because you have to do something
or the anxiety will set in
must be causing pain
at every moment
to justify
your own
nothing to do in this life
but pound blindly
on the nearest person
with misery hammers
fury scherzo
you sit there
in your queer fantasy worlds
loved by your close circle of friends
who have the same ideas that you do
not an enemy in the world
writing self indulgant happy go lucky shit poetry
saying what everyone wants to hear
perhaps ranting what everyone wants to hear
if you suffered some petty indignity
like someone telling you
you arent the 8 year old princess of spain
and it isnt the 1840's
from your fat overweight american landscape
of cheap meats sold everywhere
of booze sold everywhere, 2$ for a quart of beer
soft fields of grass to run through
and dance like your in a movie
you peer out through your glossed over lives
looking for some cause to fight for
and when you find none
you dramatically create one and fight for it
to give yourself a sense of self importance
that your life has some meaning other than self indulgance
and you deserve that well fed body
and those friends that toss rose petals at your feet
that television you stare at
those badly written books that your sure of their genius
you gorge your soft guts on vanity and self important art
creating phony disney world shit
your sure will please everyone
or just enough people
to please yourself
in your happy go lucky carnival lives
you walk streets that are soaked in the blood of the poor
you suck down meals without ever having known the pains of hunger
with your well funded lazy intellects you dissect whatever
upsets your poor little carnival of petty limp wristed human shit
clad in halloween costumes cavorting in a downpour of champaign
ignoring the screams of the poor
youve been practicing all your life
ignoring the bleeding song of the suffering
youve been practicing all your life
your ears are clogged with golden cotton
your eyes are cloudy with grease
your sensitivity is dulled by a life of indulgance
mounted on your pedestals
thinking they really love you
and are not just faking it out of weak fear
thinking they all really love you
they really love how you create lies to conceal what they fear
in your phony bedrooms of love and wealth
concocting miseries for yourself so you can create bad art
death walks through the tunnels of your mind waiting for you
and the poor, and the suffering
who outnumber you by the millions
wait with their bleeding arms full of screaming unpleasant poetry and art
that hates you more than you hate it
we wait for you in our hovels
rationing out our meat
feasting our eyes with visions of our own privation
we wait gluttonously
to chew the perfumed meat
from your well fed bones
and shit it into the gutter
where we cower in the night
sharpening our blades
piecing together our bombs
igniting the fires of the mind
and lapping at the truth of lifes suffering
in the same way you lap at the words of those fearful enough
to say just what you want to hear
in your happy land of fun and joy
we hide behind your glamourous decorations
the truth in our guts boiling
waiting wanting lusting
to spill out all over you
to cover your satin sheets and golden walls
with your own oversugared blood
hide as we hide
behind your televisions
behind your fabricated struggles
powered by your anger at having no soul
having no art
being nothing
struggles which are nothing more than the absense of a struggle
you proudly puff away on your expensive tobacco
and self richeously deliver your petty tortures to those
who cant tell the difference anymore
london bridges falling down
falling down
falling down
dont commit suicide
commit homicide
and take as many useless lives
and liars with you
as you can
they will be forgotten
and their jeweled bedframes
will rot in the acid rain
we gluttonously lap from the roadside
you can poke the gorillas as much as you want
with your limp twigs and jeweled scepters
but eventually
their going to tear someones
moth erfucking leg off
tide
the greatest of artists and authors
in their lives are lost in a tide
called the mainstream
manufacturing sweet chocolates
to line fat spoiled asses
those who tell the truth
are beaten into the masses
but they dont die
they throb like a beating heart
waiting for their post life acclaim
wiping their asses with pages of
your lies
you bad artists
you famous creatures
why are your fucking voices so loud
raining your phony hatred down on anyone
who tells it like it is
just smile and knod
the pain will all be over soon
stove
all i can hear
are shrieks of pain
jabbering voices in the night
spattering to themselves
sharpening their knives
with their backs raw
inside the dusk
broken bodies hang from the branches
sobbing
when they work up
enough energy
tears that sink
into icy clay
all i can see
is multicolored shades of blood
dripping from cracks
in reality
all i can taste
the scent of diesel
chips of rust
between my teeth
i shiver in my rags
and clutch my walking stick
with crooked fingers
dried blood
i cut open my gut
my bowels tangle
around my twitching legs
pleasure and happiness
missing
send columns of smoke
to darken burning skies
light spills from cracks in doorways
into swallowed eyes
buy emotions
on streetcorners
again
starved debutantes
bragging poets
flattering journal scratchers
weekend drunks
social drug users
fame dreamers
bored intellectuals
light their firework shows
in the carnival
filling the night sky
with much synthetic fire
no one can see the stars
the wrinkles in faces
eyes turned toward
the chinese dust fires
fizzling in the sky
empty burnt cardboard
collecting on the pavement
like sunken gravestones
morning
im not special
im codependant
i dont care enough to be suicidal
im already dead
everything is just a copy
the sun rises each morning
to reflect blinding rays
into my pale eyes
tired bored nothing interests me
i could pretend to be a genius
but i would make people mad
because i would be broke
so ill pretend to be mediocre
and get a place of my own
where i can sit drunk
peering out the window
remembering vaguely
when i could create illusions as potent
as august dusk swamp gas
with words
we reviewed your book joe
what do you think?
its jack kerouacs on the road,
verbotim
no its not, i removed the word
the
from a sentence on page 53
...
genius
