poem
-
Fuck Poets I ain’t fucking no more poets! I mean it. I’ll still be friends with’em And hang out with’em once a week at the bars, bookstores, and record stores. But outside of the readings, workshops and features I’m through fucking them. They’re all “door knob sucking crazy.” The bartender’s right as the weatherman. The
-
Eulogy for Robert Cochran “…they wanted to blossom and that means being beautiful, but you want to ripen and that means being dark and taking pains.” -Rainer Marie Rilke Five a.m. I dreamed I had a vision of your effete corpse dancing naked decomposing meat marionette attached to invisible wires bloody hollows weep crimson
-
HOW’S THAT WORKING OUT 4 U? While Morpheus Greek steps out of the dream within speaking a muted language through closed captions on the flat screen tv over the stilled raving of steel drums. There is no dream, only a digitized illusion. a conjured spirit of electrons and closed casket circuitry arrives to answer pixelated
-
I The Science of Poetry Einstein’s incendiary ideas words arranged in an idea of order mathematical sequencing it is the intellectual alchemy of the dead watchmaker thoughts boiled in time reduced in a nanosecond of synaptic flash to the ashen essence of humanity. The pure black symmetry of silhouette in shadow, tarot cards tossed into
-
(For my most mortal master, Robert Cochran, And my most immortal master, Allen Ginsberg) “and where is the great sorrow , that has carried me this far?” -Robert Cochran Allen Ginsberg signed the papers Authorizing the thought police To break into his mother’s mad mind One day Robert Cochran may have to sign the papers
Joey Cloudy online 