the Destruction of word(s)

Poets Attack

From one to another
spam each myspace
look for Kerouac
or Bukowski
tell tale signs that they are among the afflicted
sick sick people with words
tell me how they enjoy my writing
add me as a (peer) friend
language mutilated on a screen
like a butcher with a twitch
to be something what most others do
the words waiting never come the way the words should
but other times fall on top of the head of any passerby
some to suffer others to inspire
others to live in the alleys with bags of wine
to understand or interject is beyond logic
the better part unwritten
the part sprinkled with details about the girlfriend
who drank too much and fucked her cousin
and well the way society works there is no common place
no like minds can hold each others’ hand
fuck it just drink the wine like the others do and think
wait to act just type it out and think
thinking never killed – well these grapes are shite
and the acid in my stomach makes me want to vomit
salvation has never been so un-transcendent
and their others who would have books
others would do readings
and yet the one in the house
scribbling away into the night like a possessed criminal
going over the plan
every step – every details
eyeing up the plan
going to approach the victim
a bloodbath of verbal viciousness
my poetry meant more when I was young
and the older I get the message is more
smoke screened and hidden
and well I must admit I regret the way it has come to this
a beggar – a poet for food
but my words cut like a knife
waiting for a sheep in the crowd
in rush hour lunch sprawl
the marching bees I will splatter them all.





My bones

Feel like they have lived millions of lives
And I may not rest soon
They seem like they could fall apart
My skin carries them around like a potato sack
Duppies lay waiting for them to crumble
Foundation not as solid as it could be
I drink and smoke too much they say
But I laugh often in this stupor
So who’s to say what is in my best interest
I’d rather stay inside than be around others
Even if they are just like me
I don’t need to be related to or appreciated
I am much better being here alone with my bones.







Friday Nights Are For Fuckers And Not Writers


Ill will and temperament were two features I often expel in my writing
But there is a time and place for all and well I am neither here nor there
Stories all layer on top of each other falling as one would say into place
Vegas reminds me of the splendor and squall and I stay inside to write
And I may be drunk the whiskey is my salvation the bottle is Babylon
I have a girl but she lives too far away and we only see each others when we can
And who cares about me what do I need me for –

My insight is skewed Friday nights well those are the nights for weekend warriors
My apartment is often a mess and the bottles lie with the trash
The coffee in the morning is the only rest for the wicked and I think about being happy
A distant dream unattainable and I try to avoid the little special things
That make life worth feeling – so many questions that cannot find any true answers
And I smoke and the ashes hit the ground and never soak in the news
I feel like an idiot with a guitar with no strings and I keep strumming along to something.












Block

Everyday waking up numb
And wanted to go through the poetic motions
But vomit leaves my mouth
Clutching onto a pen to scribble the noise down
On something but left with chunks
Of popular goings on and catch phrases
And well everyone needs to suffer
All my favorite writers seem to suffer
So if I am happy maybe that’s the problem
In these cold plastic days love is not a gamble
But to write I want to throw it away
And go back and forth with drama
Give me some inspiration to write about
The man who sleeps in a different bed every night
Is the man that most want to read
Not the stalwart that never leaves his woman’s side
The culture wants sex and violence and drugs
The genre needs it to survive
To reclaim the greatness of what it once was
I always wanted to find something to be great at
And everything I strive for is out of my grasp
And my fingers are beginning to look thin and pale
Every day I become closer to becoming a skeleton
But the words dribble out like magma
And leaves a whole in the table and I struggle everyday
Thinking of poems in my head that never written down
Become day dreams and delusions to be back in college
To have time to waste my days away in front of the screen
Typing and writing typing and writing
No other cares in the world
I would be like Robert Johnson and sell my soul
If I could write something real –
But I would hesitate and negotiate and back down
Weak kneed and hesitant my shining traits
And I would rather sit at the bar and struggle
The true poet is one that works on his words
Day in and out until they are perfected into crisp language
The language for the people by the people represented
A people’s voice not a politician but a poet that can say or do anything
And not leave out a word to any generalization
But now it’s 3 am and I am just blocked.

Labels: charles bukwoski, jim carroll, kerouac, modern poetry, modernism, new poetry, new york school, poetry