Untitled (or A Necessary Evil)

[Hello everyone! I have been missing you all quite a bit, and am oh-so grateful to be part of the Heart Rape Club. Lately, I've been working on vulgar, spontaneous, almost protest poetry, in a cool kind of existential way. So anyway, here it is]

Part I:

I look like a crack addict waking up from a coma,
patched beard
bloodshot eyes
and nicotine dreams.
And so I thought
Tonight,
I want to be nothing,
and in the utmost sincerity,
especially nothing like you.
No hard feelings,
strictly platonic.
Yet,
why do I strive for this conversation?
the “what will you do with your life?” coffee chat.
In the underground,
a good friend of mine once told me his liver was diseased,
but I never believed him.
He didn’t believe in medicine.
And yet,
I am befuddled by patience,
The only virtue on this earth
Which actually works
Over time.
And yet,
We must live for the moment,
When truly, the moment is 20 years away from now,
But what do I know?
I’m no philosopher,
At least not an educated one,
But I guess you can call me a genius for the simple minded.
I want to embrace a meaningless generation,
A generation too comfortable to find anything worth fighting against,
You call it bad writing,
But I call it bad reading.
I eat and sleep and live
through carbohydrates
and other bread-related foods.
As the portrait hangs
Mid-air from the ceiling
Like a chandelier attached to a chain,
I wonder about life
And artefact.
Simply because there are no more connections.
Words are just words, words are not wounds
They don’t equal anything,
And yet,
We try to find the answers.
And yet,
The “self-help” section never works
The only thing that ever works is a set of weed
And a box of cookies.
Why keep buying books if you haven’t read the ones you already own?
I don’t know,
They comfort me.
It comforts me to be surrounded by good ideas.
Makes me feel at home.
Except the True Crime genre,
True crime books creep the fuck out of me; The Burn Farm, The Final Shot, Death’s Shadow. Why are our murderers our new celebrities? I have had enough of the Cold case files.
Christ, they’re worse than the New Age freaks.
And yet,
We need persistence
And emotion
And rationality
And irrationality
And Plato.
We need fucking Plato, and Nietzsche.
But the Ancient greeks,
The mighty Greeks with their necks tall and embracing,
What a wonder, the ancients.
What the fuck do I care?
I’m so on the nose that it hurts,
You should be expecting a nose bleed anytime now,
But the pain goes away.
And we are free to feel it, and feel it go away.
But,
We’re free,
We’re free,
We’re free,
Says Linda.
And everything is free
We simply create the numbers for it.
I hate numbers.
If Hitler was alive today, he’d probably hate numbers too.
Does that make me a fascist?
I hope not.
I hate Hitler,
But I love Tarantino.
And the poetry is blatant,
To be enthralled and encapsulated and catapulted into words
The walls
The pen marks on my fingers and legs
The over estimated sex.
It’s all numbers.
And they say,
“Let’s free ourselves from the bounds of time,”
And I say,
“Go fuck yourself, stop overthinking.”
Just speak it. Or act it.
Because we are as free as a clothespin;
Not the wind,
Not the lone ranger,
But a tightly bound piece of wood
And they say time is overrated,
But what do I know?
I’m no philosopher.
I guess you can just call me a genius for the simple-minded.


Part II:

I am in love with conventional beauty
And it’s about time I admit it.
Don’t hate me because of this, Please,
It’s not my fault.
It’s not my fault
It’s not my fault,
That I don’t want your dark brooding eyes
Or your sad morose smile
I don’t want your hipster mannerism
And I don’t love your stupid poetry.
I want to be nothing,
Especially nothing like you.
No hard feelings,
Strictly platonic.
And yet,
Why do I strive for this famous dialogue?
It’s not my fault I want shining blonde hair
Like the sun beams against the falls of Alaska
Its crumbling ice caps,
The ones made without caffeine,
Slowly tearing apart.
The apartheid of polar bears
We don’t care
And it’s not my fault
I blame society
And sociology
And in no way am directly responsible for the blame.
But I want to love your poetry
And impasto paintings
And shaded sketches on the back of your notebook
But the only think I can think of is a smile
Something you cannot offer me
For I am in love with conventional beauty
The cog in the wheel
The piano’s player
And the dancer’s rhythm.
We all spin and spin and spin until we are dizzy,
Go fuck yourself moderation,
Let’s drink until we fall in love
And then by then,
When I am out of money,
Which I always am,
I will realize what it means to be nothing,
Spending every last penny,
On my search for conventional beauty.