Six Brazen Canons (And yes n how many times must the canons' balls fly?)

Canon 1

Tired and beastly drunk

I’m lying on my bed

Upside down

Like a me-sized turtle

In my insipid bedroom

Everything’s a joke here, inside and outside

As the phantoms egg me on

to entertain them

The masters are lash their whips out at me

to serve their purpose

The puppets mock my senses

to make me mock theirs

The goldfishes jump inside me

to make me know that I am here

And the shadows make strange patterns on the walls

to make me know that they are there

All this is getting to me pretty fast

And I feel like I’m being pushed to the edge

But soon enough, I’ll get my strength to have my say

And I’ll take my gun out and I’ll shoot at the world and at the jokers

I’ll shoot

at the jackass phantoms,

at the egotist masters

at the moronic puppets

at the ridiculous goldfishes

and at the lousy shadows

And they’ll lie in a sorry lump

right in front of me.

Until then, I kneel before my idols and my ceremonies

And mutter my prayer softly,

So that no one else can hear it.

I say:

“Dear Rifleman, fuck like it’s your last lay

Dear soon-to-be Hero, cower like it’s your last fright

Dear Gawd, I’m waiting for you to choke on your creation

Dear Hatred, I’ll face you soon enough”

Beware friends,

The mockery that goes on

in the world inside and in the one outside

will get to you too sooner or later

So keep your gun ready and wait for all the strength

to come to you, as it will surely come

When they push you to the edge of the cliff

Until then, kneel before your own idols and your own ceremonies

And utter your own prayer,

But leave me alone with

my idols, my ceremonies and my prayer.

My fight is not yours and your fight is not mine.

It’s like being forced to play the lead in a shitty play

Where the only way out is to destroy the stage, the others

and most importantly, the audience.

But never forget

That your play is yours and mine is mine

I’m the lead of my play and you’re the one of yours

and I can put an end to mine

whenever the fuck I wish to

And likewise, you can end yours too

whenever you want.

And it’s not suicide I’m talking about here.

I’m not even thinking of that

I’m just lying on my bed upside down

Like a me-sized turtle,

All drunk and worn out

and scratching my asscheeks as I burp.

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Canon 2

I have noticed

that survival is a liberal art

you can survive whichever way you wish to

but I’ve also noticed

that there’s no exact antonym for the word “survival”

because you’re not given the choice of not surviving

either you survive and the world declares you a winner

or else you don’t and no one declares you anything

and you go home dejected

and the sun sets over bridges and valleys and over mellow buildings

and your darkness which once was violent

sleeps like your pet dog on your rug.

and that’s where all these pretty much end.

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Canon 3

“This is well-written, but a few sentences have a rather damp impact”

“Dude, where the hell do you get all these ideas from?”

“A marvelous work! You’re a maverick!”

“You’re not saying anything new, this just an angsty outburst, a well-worded one, though”

“Be original. Your poetry reeks of Ginsberg and Bukowski and Eliot and Lorca”

“You have a way with your words, amigo!”

AHHHHH SHUT THE FUCK UP GUYS! YOUR LOAD IS BORING THE HELL OUT OF ME. AND ONE THING THAT I CAN’T DEAL WITH IS BOREDOM. SO JUST SHUT UP AND FUCK OFF, YOU, AND THE WHOLE ILK OF YOU. I’M NOT YOUR AMIGO AND THIS IS NOT POETRY. JUST LEAVE ME ALONE.

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Canon 4

Go away from here boy,

go as far as hatred and love can go

go to the naked broads sweating their moonlight in cheap hotels

go to the weary circus tents and the day-dreaming parking lots

go to the movies where the heroes can fly

go to the little fairies that dance with the big mountains

go to the garden of elves where the shadows of life make love to timid sunlime

your dream and your death doesn’t lie here

they lie elsewhere,

they lie in embers of the witches’ fireplace

they lie by sculptures of scorpions that fight the voluptuous waves

they lie in the streets that take all the beating from tires and from the rain

they lie scattered all over the rotund white belly of the other world

not this world. There’s nothing for you here.

Go away.

From this world

And from me.

I’ll finish writing this poem and I’ll take a shower

I’ll have my stale dinner and then I’ll plagiarise for tomorrow’s University assignment,

and I’ll also mail my resume to a bunch of possible employers.

And then I’ll put on some music and drink some of the cheap liquor that lies well-hidden

and safe from the prying eyes of the others – the judges, the detectives,

and the evidence collectors.

And when I’m drunk enough I’ll throw up and I’ll pass out

with the music hanging down the roofs and window-grills of the world like sagging tits of time

Tomorrow I’ll wake up with a terrible hangover

and I’ll puke some more

I’ll take off my old underwear which’ll be biting into my thick thighs by then

and I’ll scratch my itching groins – all sweaty and senseless with twenty four hours of bondage

And then I’ll shit and there’ll be blood in my crap like it’s there everyday

And then I’ll shower and I’ll press my cheek against the cold tiles of the bathroom wall to make myself feel good about life and I’ll shave and I’ll clip my nostril-hair and clean-up my toenails and wash my old underwear

And I’ll put on a fresh pair of boxers and a freshly saddish smile to see me through till the next morning

And I’ll get ready for one more tiresome friendless day.

There’s no one and nothing for you in this world boy,

So don’t jostle for space with me in here

Go away,

Far far away.

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Canon 5

God’s dick in the cunt of Beauty

is too much for the world to take, just like

every form of Strong Art is.

The world abhors creation of the New

The world loves reproduction of all that exists

So God, fearing disharmony and mutiny

mostly plays along

But at times He (feminists excuse)

gets pissed off with all the repetitive slogging

And then he takes out his massive hungry phallus

and gives darling Beauty a deep hard stab

And then the world starts trembling and dark volcanoes erupt and wolves from lost forests start howling and the sun and the moon join hands to split open the sky and the stars pour down like splendid bright rain and trumpets and bugles blast their glorious shots into the ears of the monsters to let them know that their time to roar out has come. It’s all very terrifying, just like strong art is

and the world abhors terror.

I have discovered with time

that it’s better to drink all alone in a room

than to drink in a bar teeming with rodents and unknown drunkards.

I can safely curl up inside me and tinker with the outside without facing the damned kickbacks. I can observe the Moths circling the electricity in perfect round loops and the Ants crawling up the walls in perfect straight files.

And I can think of God and Beauty screwing the hell out of each other and thus creating Strong Art through strong coitus. And I can think of how the whole damn world despises Strong Art and reacts violently to creation of anything that is new, undefined and alien to it.

Meanwhile, the Moths and the Ants carry on their movements through perfect order and geometry.

I don’t bother them and they return me the favour.

It’s all very nice and convenient this way.

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Canon 6

The best part of being tired like hell is that

you stop worrying about reasons of life and death

You look at things the way they are and that extra dump

does not clobber you down to tame submission

The plants seem greener in sunlight,

The chickens and the presidents are mostly well-fed

The gunners are busy raping the farmer’s daughter

The sidewalks are meant to get kicked but not to strike back

And the sewer-pipes lead to a strange empire where the king is a skeleton that wears ten diamond rings in its ten fingerbones. The rings glisten though you don’t know where the light is coming from

and you hardly care.

That’s all that there is to the world

May be a bit more is left to be undone and a few more treasures are there that await looting

but you give a damn because now that you are tired and now that the Angel that was supposed to bring you dreams and good news has lost his way in the electric meshwork of neurons.

So you don’t care for the hymns the he-mans and the hymens any more

Outside, the hearts are in riot and the bulls are trampling the sunflowers.

The telephone rings and she tells you that she still loves you but she isn’t in love with you anymore

“that’s another piece of information” – you utter at the back of your head though you don’t say that out aloud.

You are going to graduate soon and you don’t have a job yet.

Your dad blew a fortune up for your law school education. You would rather have had the money by yourself to blow up on poetry alcohol and whores. These are the other pieces and when you join them

and arrange them in all possible and permutable possibilities and permutations all you get are weird shapes and forms that make no sense at all.

But you are too tired to bother about all these.

And you are too tired to ponder over symmetries, eventualities and causal links

All you can see now is a staircase with yourself seated at the landing

and a plump waitress with homely curves coming up. She is more graceful than the farmer’s daughter who is being raped by the gunners. Her lipstick is more costly too.

You want her to take you in her arms and mother you back to your strength

And then she’ll be the mother no more.

And then you can safely toss everything else out of the same window through which your father had tossed your poetries out when you flunked for the first time. You can safely cease to care.

That’s all you want when you are tired like hell.

And that’s the best part of being tired like hell.

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