Joey Cloudy online

A POEM RESURRECTED:

from the lost book of Evangeline, 

chapter 31, verses 41 to 59

December 28, 2015  

I can say without ego this is my finest sword. 

-Hattori Hanzo 

After the last manic pixie dream girl with bad boy and daddy issues 

is gone gone gone. And all that remains undulating in the toxic wake 

of our banal debauchery is suicidal depression. 

When all her glitter on my tee shirts 

finally falls away, slowly fading with the sensual 

musk of her little deaths on empty silk sheets, 

until I alone lay within 

the molten core of the meat house 

of unsated desires. A humble public servant’s 

announcement to all humanity, my confession if you will, 

as I bleed out while you read on the inside 

ensanguined lines slid over a soul faceless and eternal 

and I and eye ironically live 

in mental terror of lost time, mortal errors. 

The slashed flesh heals, we wear our warrior’s self inflicted wounded 

memories with all of the solemn pride of a holocaust survivor’s guilt. 

The scarred soul festers and boils until it erupts in 

random acts of senseless violence. Time 

devoured wasting away trapped in a spiraling 

repression confined to wither in this room 

as days become weeks become months become years 

six years sitting sedated on synthetic sorrows. 

I stopped writing as I lay plans within plans… dying. 

Is a poem fermented in penis envy, canonical insecurities 

and the inept pontifications of a boozed up philistine 

spewing impotent rage. Chalk it up to the game. 

Face the new paradigm, the long pigs on the soft parade 

feast well on sloppy second comeuppance. 

Short changed, dangling deftly as a participle 

in the Muses breezeway, a delicate reign falling 

before it can rise to one on her knees 

for the nectar of Eros drought. 

A dry well rusted pipes busted the succubus pumps 

ashes, ashes, dust, dust. 

No controlled hallelujah from Calliopes lips 

or primal sway of her hips. This busted oar dangles limp, 

hobbled Baracus drunkenly weeps, foundered upon the rocky shore. 

The dip a useless tool moves neither maidens head 

habitually failing to bottle the ship once more nor 

to rise even to the occasional poem. 

Morpheus whispers, 

“Is karma gonna hafta slap a bitch?” 

“Take the blue pill”. 

Is this a poem for all the people 

“who are no longer diving but sinking.” 

I do not want to write anymore. 

I am afraid. But, I will 

not allow this thing to infect me, invisibly 

fueling subliminal anger to blind rages. 

Secrecy is control. 

Those who abuse use our fear 

to shame us into a Stockholm syndrome silence, 

powerless we cover their sin with our muted amnesia 

no escape cowering beneath their greater power, 

usually for life. 

But, this is not a poem these are just the desperate words 

of a bard trying to stay alive in a deaf, mute and blind 

to human suffering world drowning in a sychophant 

sea, polluted with primordial sorrow a man-made madness 

satellite HD beamed into our flat screen skulls. 

I scream, you scream, liked, pinned, shared, memed. 

Everyday we witness another epic little atrocity. Forgotten. 

What if this is a poem? Who gives a pity’s fuck? 

Eventually, we begin the impossible 

transformation of becoming, human, being. 

Together we breached the ancient walls within 

the prison of the mind, abandoned 

our necro-nihilistic despair and unburdened, 

without the gaslight beast on our backs, 

freedom, freedom is just a line away. 

Read poems with stranger friends and lovers. 

Wherever the people gather to share good poetry 

I am with you. 

I am with you in wonderland. 

I am with you in neverland. 

I am with you in Disneyland. 

I am with you in Zombieland. 

I am with you in Armageddon! 

I am with you. I am with you. I am with you. 

I am with you 

forever. I am 

with you.