Laughing at the Madness, Peeing at the Moon

Life under the sun

And in the mud

Making love to bimbos and floozies

Thinking of making love to bimbos and floozies

Getting drunk

Wanting to get drunk

Weary of people, cold

Desirous of solitude and warmth

Longing for the sweet kiss of dreams

Longing for the world of Bach and Baudelaire and the gods

Life under the sun

And in shit

Observing more shit hitting fans with perfect objectivity

Facing defeat and damnation in brothels and sanctuaries

Soul numbed with the static malevolence of the world

Mind scorched and frozen and canned for consumption

Body fattened by beer and steak, covered in sweat, boils and hair

Dreams gutted by perfect dementia of harsh awakening

I wake up to see sad bonsais in sadder tubs drenching in the saddest rain at my neighbour’s cornice.

…

This face

tucked between the massive boobs of Lady Solitude

seeking deliverance from insanity

that arises from this relentless harmony of puppets

with similar faces and eyes.

This face

wishes to resist

This face is tired

So it tucks itself where it does

And yearns to be soothed by the milk and honey of love

And dreams of love: big, fat and pure

bursting out of cracks and crevices of the lonely world

and riding out to fight the puppets

…      

Little kid in sunshine

Do you have anywhere to go

when it rains?

Little kid in moonshine

I’m jealous of you

And of your magnificent desolation

…

Wish there was a puking-place

Where one could puke out this ill-digested concoction

Of boredom, insanity, bitterness and anger

That necessity of living shoves down our throats

Evil forces are in constant action, I tell you

And when one’s perfectly lonely,

And perfectly crazy

One gets to see them

zwiishing and zwooshing around

in sanguine geometry

across the night sky

and swiping down and perching

on the part of the brain that regulates

cognition

and then it breaks loose

through the neural haze

like a forest fire

like a sinister army of ants and hawks

like the three sinuous sisters.

Wish i could type them to death

and derive as much pleasure as i get

by squishing little red ants that crawl across

my bed-sheet of fade flowers and semen-scars

between my fingers

and feeling the dot of juice that ooze out

of their mangled corpses.

…

All great things come out of crazed boredom

Drive, zeal, inspiration etc etc are just gas

I’d rather turn the radio on

And hear voices ghosts mixing with the rainsound of allure

and resist this onslaught of cocksucking sanity.

And one day, I’ll get driven to the brink

And then I’ll be great and big

And then you’ll give me back

What you have taken from me

And I’ll break loose on you

In great wrath

For what you’ve done to me

…

The human condition bedamned

I’d rather have tiger condition

Or chipmunk condition

In lieu of this

Denial of that expanse

Where one can just be and

Do nothing

And not be made to feel guilty

or miserable

about it.

It’s like seeing vast empty fields

And filling them up with

Houses and factories  

without caring about

the flowers and the grass

The worst part of the story

is that there are no proper

places

For people devoid of ambition

And of all the nasty piles of shit

that we worship,

ambition is the worst

Religion and morality can never match-up to it

Because where these kill freedom

Ambition kills the heartbeat.

…

Ignition-point

is when you know that you are right

and that it’s high time to let

them know that as well

It takes a lot for that to come

for some people

and a little for some

The strength to endure

gains steam

from no specific point

or source –

It’s largely the regularity

of the mundane and the vulgar

That gives the audacity

to cross forbidden boundaries

and shows the glorious way

to the fiery gods of doom

…

Loneliness is not that bad all the time

It’s preferable to mingling with stupid people

and to take part in their stupid schemes

However, it gets pretty terrible at times

and you hear your solitude echoing

in the awful silence of stars

It’s as if all the sadness of the universe

has been dumped on you

and you’re there, another lousy specimen

of things gone wrong

Then is the hour to open the bottle

of untrammeled love

and set the night on fire

and laugh your merry way

to the vast lucid kingdom of reckoning 

The world is a sad damned place

and the gods are drunk old bums

who love sharing and occasional bottle or two

with the lost souls such as you

And in return

they show you their love

gleaming across the ancient regal skies

And then you don’t mind being alone for a while.

…

Lady of tender mercy

you be the third sister

of Dejection and Deception

and take me from their clutches

to faraway climes of happy dreams

Be kind to me, like no one else ever was

and set me free from

this sense of loss

that leaps up from unknown sources

and aims for the throat

This constant need to fend from

sharks and wolves

is wearing me out

There’s something sinister

working up

from inside –

Something profane

crawling across sacred spaces

and rotting the core

of this tender heart

Save it,

cleanse it with your gentle love

And all this yearning shall be yours

Lady of tender mercy

Nurse me out

of this the ghastly realm of pain  

And take me where we can

laugh in wholesome delight

at sunflowers in riot against the sun.

….  

The Distraught, the Forlorn and the Abandoned

will choke all the Gods one day

in these dank alleys of downtown

where sewer-pipes rape the gutters and cesspools

in brutal rapture

and strike straight down to the center of cognition

And flowers of sublime splendor

will shoot up from their corpses

and then the Damned shall know

that the great big thumb pressing that was them down

was never real

And history of the world shall dance naked

In the pure ecstasy of freedom

..…

Reject all that squeeze the heart dry

Reject all that iron the brain out

Reject all that weigh the soul down

Start with bad poetry, stuff that

seek to tie you to the stinking sty of words and phrases

and to enchant you with fake images and

preconceived ideas of beauty

and refuses to let you bet against life and embark sunbound

Reject it, it’s cowardly to cling to this

and if that’s the only form that you can think of,

be an investment banker or a shipping clerk or a wagonbreaker instead

Reject all that attacks you and if they persist

grab them by the horns

Reject the notion of love that you’ve been taught

to believe in. It’s bullshit and you need to unlearn it

before it destroys you with compromises. True love is something else

and it’ll come to you if it has to or else it won’t

Reject the pursuit ambition

It doesn’t really belong to you:

It’s another one of those idols that you were made to start worshiping

before you even had the idea of choice

Do what you want to do or else do nothing

Reject all religion and laws and commandments

which inject the poison of sin, pain, crime, guilt and damnation

before you choke on them like so many others have before you

There’re a lot of things that seek to club you down to meek submission

to browbeat you till you’re on your knees before those false alters

Nasty big structures and seats,

Bogus landscapes of power,

that preach the lame hypocrisy of rights and obligations

Dreams and prophesies meant to trick and hypnotise

Constructs that wave flags of false allure

Fight them away, declare war, destroy, subvert,

go all the way,

It means a lot, but that’s the only way

There’s no half-measure, no fallback option, no Plan B

And no uncrossed Rubicon in this

The only real way ahead is through rejection

So keep pushing forth, or else all will be lost

before you know.     

……..

Objects lose essence

in the real womb

when the mother is killed

by ideas of flesh

that bloom like wasted flowers

inside conditioned chromosomes

and wilt within the blood of life

And we eat real food

shit real shit

and die real death

There’s nothing greater than this

lurking in the great beyond

except this grisly dread

echoing and reflecting itself,

showing signs of what could have happened

had the mother not been killed

And this perception of

what can never be enslaved by thoughts

and chained to dark prisons of  

the empire of the brain and the central nervous system

freezes the mind up

in terrible fright

of muddled reckoning.

But the real sun still rises over massive real mountains

And real breeze blows through real wildflowers in frenzied mirth.

…….

Bubble boom bubble bust

Sad ocean foams shimmer in sad sunlight

Little people, lonely people, with balloons red green bloo

Spots a little glitter in the half-crazed half-drunk rush

Waves and trees, tress and houses, houses and sparrows

Vision worn out by relentless clarity

Bombers nose-dive into the fog

Lost songs from lost kingdoms

City life breaking into decadent carnival

Because that’s the best the lost and the losing has to offer

And that’s a lot

Because at the end of the day

The idea still is to have fun,

To refuse to writhe in agony

To celebrate living in the grand style

Once you have lost everything and have nothing to lose.

And thus you are absolved, kid

There’s no home left for you to return to

And no place for you to go

And you are beyond the jurisdiction

of those monstrous stony Judges without eyelids

No more suffering for you now.

…..

“Man you write so well, I’ll buy you a drink someday when I return”

“Have you heard Mahler’s Symphony Number 9 in D major? Isn’t it sublime beyond words?”

“Do you think there’s really going to be a Third World War? Will the human race survive?”

“Do you think Rimbaud would have resumed writing had he not died?”

“Don’t you think if we could all read other peoples’ minds it would really be funny?”

“You know, there’s this strange ritual in Papua New Guinea where tribal boys have to wear gloves filled with poisonous ants to prove their coming of age”

By the time I logged out of my Facebook account

He was drunk, and he was typing something about

Virgil or Bunuel or Jack Kerouac or the Paris Commune or whatever

And it began raining.  

Later that night,

I was lying atop his fleshy girlfriend

She had pulled her blouse down

And I had her left boob in my mouth

It was still raining.

It was a splendid, grotesque night.

And he was away, dreaming of Bunuel and WW III.

….