Days engulfed in tedious routine.
Tedious rise,
Tedious drive,
Tedious cage
Filled with tedious people
All pretending to enjoy their tedious lives.
Their lives mirror my life.
Their fake smile,
Their facade of interest.
It insults me. All of it.
For I know they feel how I feel...
Then it's over.
Tedious drive.
Tedious wait
wait
wait.
Then she walks in.
We smile
We laugh
We talk
We feel
We love
We live.
Then the morning comes and
I do it all over again.
Wednesday, December 7, 2016
Friday, November 25, 2016
On Late Night Bukowski Reads
Bukowski
Poetry
Read on the toilet.
Is there anything conceivable
That be more appropriate?
I can picture him now
With a slight grin on
His unkept face.
A slight nod.
A slight nod.
Proud.
Monday, October 24, 2016
On Feelings
Allow yourself to feel.
Anything.
Everything.
Feel the deepest, unspoke, and unexplainable love,
Feel hate and rage against anything disagreeable with fathomless passion,
Feel dreaded mourning as you allow tears to flow even in rain,
Feel the sadness and loneliness of a broken and destroyed heart,
The sadness of a death, the only thing permanent on earth, feel
The mourning of a lost friendship. One of treasured memories and organic feel, feel
The hate of betrayal from family endlessly trusted, feel
The love spoken of by poets like Shakespeare and Keats.
Allow yourself to feel.
A Brave New World.
One of eternal feeling
Even if it means the end of us.
Feeling. It's what makes us human.
Love, hate, jealousy, pride, envy.
They may all one day be the end of us,
But what a poetic and beautiful end it will be.
Feel. Feel. Feel. Feel until you can't feel anything at all.
Anything.
Everything.
Feel the deepest, unspoke, and unexplainable love,
Feel hate and rage against anything disagreeable with fathomless passion,
Feel dreaded mourning as you allow tears to flow even in rain,
Feel the sadness and loneliness of a broken and destroyed heart,
The sadness of a death, the only thing permanent on earth, feel
The mourning of a lost friendship. One of treasured memories and organic feel, feel
The hate of betrayal from family endlessly trusted, feel
The love spoken of by poets like Shakespeare and Keats.
Allow yourself to feel.
A Brave New World.
One of eternal feeling
Even if it means the end of us.
Feeling. It's what makes us human.
Love, hate, jealousy, pride, envy.
They may all one day be the end of us,
But what a poetic and beautiful end it will be.
Feel. Feel. Feel. Feel until you can't feel anything at all.
Friday, October 21, 2016
On Writers
Quick thoughts:
I've been reading a lot of contemporary poetry as of late. Last night I went online and read Keats, Burns, Shelley, Eliot. I read Faulkner. I read Tolstoy. The reason I looked back at these classic authors was because I began to feel conflicted about the true meaning of what intellectual elitists would call "great writing." Yes, yes, I get it. Art is a feeling put to paper, to canvas, to music. It's also relative and subjective. The writers from the romantic period, the renaissance, the baroque, the Victorian Period all had a way with words. Man, could those fuckers make the nastiest and most grotesque shit sounds like the most gorgeous thing you could ever read. They decorated their writing. They varied their syntax and used diction in clever ways. It was calculated. It took time. They made it sound like "art." I use to appreciate the awe inspiring beauty in this form of writing. I still do, yet now it doesn't seem as organic as it once did. Perhaps because it never was. Perhaps it was never meant to be. I read it and roll my eyes. I read it and call bullshit. It sounds like they're faking it. It sounds like they are saying: "Read my shit and see how smart I am." And I get that. I really do, but the words make me feel in those works. The words and the structure. Nothing else. The stories are stories. Love, lust, fucking, hate, envy, jealousy, war, family. The list can go on and on. Stories are recycled. Blah, blah, blah. Reality is stranger than fiction sometime. And that's what appealing. Reality. I want to read about how life really is, not what people think life SHOULD be. This idealized writing is, in essence, a show. A facade. It's everyday situations and people elevated into some unreal bullshit. Hemingway, Steinbeck, Palahniuk, Bukowski, Orwell, Huxley, Celine, and Sherwood all have a polar opposite form of writing. It's simple. It's clean. It's raw. It's not meant to impress anyone. It simply is. The words and structure don't make you feel, the characters do. Their situations and their conflicts do. They filth does, their insecurities do. Their boringness. Modernist. Gotta love them. They could all give a fuck about structure and conventions. "This is what I wrote, read it or don't. I could give a shit." And there's something to be said about that. I like reality. I like people placed in situations and telling me about real and raw things as oppose to idealistic and adorned characters and situations. Tell me the truth, Keats. You're the one that so eloquently suggested that beauty was truth and that truth was beauty. So be real then. Tell me what you really think about that couple on the Urn. They'll never get to fuck and cheat on each other. They'll never shout insults at each other. They'll never eat or sleep.They're too busy falling in love. Please. Tell me the truth Shakespeare as you once did in Sonnet 130 with your hideous dark lady and your four day romance in Romeo and Juliet. You ended it before it got ugly. You, Shakespeare, had me and lost me. So, thank you modernist. More specifically: Thank you Bukowsky. Thank you for writing about your fat prostitutes, drunkeness, nights on the shitter. Thank you Steinbeck, Kafka, and Hemingway for being honest. Thank you for showing me what drives people. Thank you for not sugar coating love or friendship. Thank you for being organic. Thank you Orwell and Huxley. Thank you for long ago showing us our present as well as our grim future. Thank you for painting an image of people I can walk out my door and see.
I've been reading a lot of contemporary poetry as of late. Last night I went online and read Keats, Burns, Shelley, Eliot. I read Faulkner. I read Tolstoy. The reason I looked back at these classic authors was because I began to feel conflicted about the true meaning of what intellectual elitists would call "great writing." Yes, yes, I get it. Art is a feeling put to paper, to canvas, to music. It's also relative and subjective. The writers from the romantic period, the renaissance, the baroque, the Victorian Period all had a way with words. Man, could those fuckers make the nastiest and most grotesque shit sounds like the most gorgeous thing you could ever read. They decorated their writing. They varied their syntax and used diction in clever ways. It was calculated. It took time. They made it sound like "art." I use to appreciate the awe inspiring beauty in this form of writing. I still do, yet now it doesn't seem as organic as it once did. Perhaps because it never was. Perhaps it was never meant to be. I read it and roll my eyes. I read it and call bullshit. It sounds like they're faking it. It sounds like they are saying: "Read my shit and see how smart I am." And I get that. I really do, but the words make me feel in those works. The words and the structure. Nothing else. The stories are stories. Love, lust, fucking, hate, envy, jealousy, war, family. The list can go on and on. Stories are recycled. Blah, blah, blah. Reality is stranger than fiction sometime. And that's what appealing. Reality. I want to read about how life really is, not what people think life SHOULD be. This idealized writing is, in essence, a show. A facade. It's everyday situations and people elevated into some unreal bullshit. Hemingway, Steinbeck, Palahniuk, Bukowski, Orwell, Huxley, Celine, and Sherwood all have a polar opposite form of writing. It's simple. It's clean. It's raw. It's not meant to impress anyone. It simply is. The words and structure don't make you feel, the characters do. Their situations and their conflicts do. They filth does, their insecurities do. Their boringness. Modernist. Gotta love them. They could all give a fuck about structure and conventions. "This is what I wrote, read it or don't. I could give a shit." And there's something to be said about that. I like reality. I like people placed in situations and telling me about real and raw things as oppose to idealistic and adorned characters and situations. Tell me the truth, Keats. You're the one that so eloquently suggested that beauty was truth and that truth was beauty. So be real then. Tell me what you really think about that couple on the Urn. They'll never get to fuck and cheat on each other. They'll never shout insults at each other. They'll never eat or sleep.They're too busy falling in love. Please. Tell me the truth Shakespeare as you once did in Sonnet 130 with your hideous dark lady and your four day romance in Romeo and Juliet. You ended it before it got ugly. You, Shakespeare, had me and lost me. So, thank you modernist. More specifically: Thank you Bukowsky. Thank you for writing about your fat prostitutes, drunkeness, nights on the shitter. Thank you Steinbeck, Kafka, and Hemingway for being honest. Thank you for showing me what drives people. Thank you for not sugar coating love or friendship. Thank you for being organic. Thank you Orwell and Huxley. Thank you for long ago showing us our present as well as our grim future. Thank you for painting an image of people I can walk out my door and see.
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
On Art
Art. A simple feeling.
A moment of
Sadness,
Exuberance,
Love,
Hornyness,
Loss,
Passiveness,
Glory,
Brokenness,
Extacy.
A moment experienced,
Written,
Then gone....
Yet not gone.
Art: a feeling captured,
And yet,
Is it art if no one sees it?
A moment of
Sadness,
Exuberance,
Love,
Hornyness,
Loss,
Passiveness,
Glory,
Brokenness,
Extacy.
A moment experienced,
Written,
Then gone....
Yet not gone.
Art: a feeling captured,
And yet,
Is it art if no one sees it?
On Needs
I had it all. Everything.
I was unaware of my need for
Anything.
Anyone.
I was complete.
Then she said: "I love you."
That moment I realized that
Fullness
Was an
Emptiness
And everytime she says
"I love you" I feel full,
Then the very next second
Empty again.
I was unaware of my need for
Anything.
Anyone.
I was complete.
Then she said: "I love you."
That moment I realized that
Fullness
Was an
Emptiness
And everytime she says
"I love you" I feel full,
Then the very next second
Empty again.
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
On Pink Floyd's Time
And there I was listening to
Pink Floyd's Time
Thinking:
"I can spend my entire life creating something.
Anything.
Days and days and days on
Anything.
Days and days and days on
End,
Breaking my head. Isolating myself.
Losing friendships, losing sleep,
Losing time.
Losing time.
I could lose myself and
My sanity. I could pour all of my being
Into my work and never achieve something
As perfect as Time.
Nothing as time-less,
Nothing as clean.
Nothing that raises the hair on
People's arms.
Nothing of such reverence.
And to think these guys
Probably wrote it
Sitting on the shitter, deep drunk,
Eyes red on a Saturday night.
Yet rather than grieve at the fact
That I'll never create something as sublime
I am content that someone lived who did.
Content that everyone willing experienced
What I one quiet night sitting in my quiet, dark
Room experienced. Pure elation. A perfect
Moment never to be experienced the exact same
Again.
Then Time went on.
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