The Poetry Marathon

The mindless serenity of unsatisfying indulgence
and the haughty want that pretends to be the origin of all art.
Call it a love song, the birds chirping
screaming in the morning wings beating claws scraping
a brief burst of violence called a moment of passion.
And life does what life does and dissipates heat
with intelligence prone to fits of death dumb and blindness
from the searing flash of a rainbow of feathers.
In pure isolation I listen to music and muse
that muses gave their stamp of approval
to this madness, this hunger,
this petulant whining.
And the birds prattle on and the years prattle too
and I sit perfectly still and do my job to promote entropy
and try to prevent memories from intruding on angst.
This will fail too.
I won’t invokes names but I will recall images
and images, thank god, can’t be put into words.
But one can’t help but wonder if this is loneliness or worse.
And one must hope
that their love song
is something more
than a failure to reproduce.

void
BANG
light
all here
all light
now touches you
yet past
a certain point
we can no longer see

I’ve written too many letters
to too many ghosts,
ideas that I’ve lost and I faces I don’t remember.

I’ve said too many sorries
to people I feel have done me wrong
because I can’t stand knowing that I have to do the forgiving.

I’ve sent too many threats
empty, wanton pleads
disguised as boasting about how well I handle pain.

I’ve said too much
and listened too little.

The devil went down to Louisiana
looking for a place to get a meal,
surrounded by beggars as he often is
all imploring him to make a deal.
He rubbed his knee and lamented his fate
“I hate my job but it makes good money,

dressing wounds that will never heal.”

He picked one out, “God’s favorite I guess,
we’re at the crossroad, state your appeal.”
“I’ve searched for money, God, and sex,”
Man said, “something, anything, to make me feel.
But still I stand here, empty, numb,
spinning round and round that dharma wheel.
Give me something to believe in, something true,
something eternal that I know is real. I’m sick of

hiding wounds that will never heal.”

The devil pulled out his contracts, checked his commission,
said “Prick your finger, sign here in blood, your fate is sealed.”
Man stumbled away in pain, leaving a trail of blood he couldn’t conceal
as his pricked finger dripped dripped dripped blood forever.
The devil walked on limping, still hungry, didn’t get a meal.
He makes good money but can never find the time,

too busy making wounds that will never heal.

The world is a screen
the sun is a star
and its light feeds
the life which is filth and blood and flame.
The sensation is the spark,
the thoughts are the wires,
the idea is the design and the hands are the tools
to build order from order from order
in order to bring more beauty to the decay
of all things
and in the end all is even.

and it’s nothing but noise.
Several billion by now
hands typing, tapping
the errant thoughts
the endless opinions
the word invented
six thousand years ago
along trading routes,
in temples,
beneath the tired frenzied eyes
that felt strange being human
and searched for what to say.

And now the word is everywhere,
in brief percussive shouts.
Shouts of subtle wisdom
Shouts of shared untruth
Shouts adored by the masses
Shouts of isolation in the crowd.
Competing endless chatter
invisible hands lift the loud ones to the top
those who shout the loudest
might be elected king someday.

Typing up for money
typing because you’re broke
typing from the experts
typing from the insane
typing from the faithful
and the hopeless seeking fame.
At night I type when I can’t sleep
and when I’m awake I type to push my dreams away.

(There is NO better pop star than Phil Collins. NONE
Even if ELO is the greatest full band for eternity
Man just listen to the song- It’s better than anything I could come up with)

Well now I know
There’s nothing harder to see
than whatever it is that keeps us going
But we’re still here
so it must exist
And if we can’t find it
No matter how hard we look
I guess we have to come to peace
with the knowledge that it’s hiding somewhere
Maybe right in plain sight.

It’s a boring story
Aspirin phenibut and morphine
A few years of pictures
And my first cigarette in weeks

listen until you can’t hear anymore
ignore until you can’t ignore anymore
stay still until you can’t move anymore
feel good until you don’t feel good anymore

Lonely lovesick or amphetamine eyes
Every Single pop song is a lie
Making figures and stories on the bumps on the ceiling,
the cage that protects you from the sky.
Aching burning painful lively desire
and the deathstill freedom of wanting nothing.
The walls turned yellow years ago
and the nights last for days.
Her face is blurry in my memory,
but I still see her long jet-black hair.
When I was a kid sometimes the world looked upside down

And nobody feels as good
as they think they should
And nobody can get to sleep
And nobody wants this to last forever
And nobody wants to die
And even the ghosts are fuckin bored
And everyone wants to go to japan

We churn out our fears onto paper and into music
We believe what we must to stay distracted and self-assured
We all want others to listen
We all want to be heard
We all take a little too much
We all wish we had more to give
We all want to love and be loved
We all wish we knew what love really means
We all wish we weren’t so damn alone
We all want the light to blind us
We all try to keep our darkness hidden away
We are all afraid

It’s not enough
It still doesn’t work
Something is wrong
but no one knows what
We all blame it on someone else
or blame too much on ourselves
We are all still animals
We all are hungry
We all chase what we cannot have
We all want something from you

My dog is often bored
But I hope he’s happy when he rests his head on my lap
When you live entirely in the moment
the fullness of existence is what you are right now

Foods foods- yay
Alone anxious- sads
Happy excited- wow
In pain- in pain forever

Maybe it’s less different than we presume
We feel the same way, we just worry about the future as well.