poem
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Confessions of a Poolhall Philosopher I create nothing from the infinite within. I am not an artiste my words are clumsy my tongue thick with this alien vocabulary. I am a vessel I do not claim to control only to resonate. I listen to the voice of my people to see the emperor has no
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Is it impossible to write Is it possible to write while listening to Damien Rice covering Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah and the mood suppressors keep their chemical boots on the back of my neurons neck and now I must learn to cipher again, impermanence again, to see again. What else have I forgotten? I no longer
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Full of Sin for captain zombie The nightmare, the forest, the fullness of sin I wish I knew now what I knew back then A young enchantress’s eyes so wise Drinks me with her cup of knives Eats me with her teeth of glass Eats me with her hungry ass Invites me to hide
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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
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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
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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
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Bathing with Sylvia Before we met we both knew how it ended It’s a well-worn path To the edge of the abyss I know it well As a yo-yo knows the string. We row out to the edge of our oblivion The cyclones dance at the edge of the void. A snatch of the wrist
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Wick for j. d. If you, will be my candle I will be your wick. I will burn myself in effigy To be the flame dancing in your eyes. Whose translucent blood colored tongues morph to taste the sweetness in your salts. as my wick grows thick with your molten essence beneath me your solid
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The Death Of Cool I propose that we initiate the death of cool “The good that men do is oft interred with their bones.” So let it be with cool. Let cool go the way of neat-o, far out, and groovy. Let’s kill cool.
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(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 