Written Upon the Eve of the Assassins

This was written after I finished Henry Miller's Time of the Assassins...it is a tribute to Rimbaud and God, and Art and Self Awareness...a call to arms for liberated thought and acceptance of the dre

What manner of man is this?..

Pompously dissecting himself from the instrument of the supreme God that is Art..If there is to be the Creation, then there must be the utensils in which to conduct the symphony of birth no?..If the hands of the man serve no higher purpose..how is it considered he serves the purpose of self..in the sense of attaining that idea without the stirring of God's Art?..for the artist is a vessel and finds purpose within all things and the completion of his work..nes paus?

upon writing this I have been distracted by the question..

"Are you prepared for the final expense of your life?..An immense percentage in proportion to those with comfortable home and life insurance between the ages of 50 and 25 who are secure and well fit in their plan for their mortality and its expenditure..are not..do you want more information on how you can become part of the majority solution to after-life care?"

...

The EndTrial of a soul's significance and coda for the Gallery that reads above is met with either the courage to continue forward unhindered by the weights of societal bliss, or stifle and restrain the Endeavor ahead..

in the Artist Supremus Mind, there is no atonement for delusion, and there is no greater delusion sometimes than the Art of the Mind...One must stand beside their Creation, be it monster or faun..one must offer Its blood on high, strapped so as a shepherd's son to stone, and make either a sacrificial cut in thanks..or wait for a voice of reprieve from the Father Force..the Blue Mother Madonna..

No sooner had Socrates given his all, his limbs and vision of life equal and questioning, to the winds of politics and martyrs..than his mantle was carried through the streets screaming, ("Banter! Banter! all ye' Greeks who would know a man of light and mind!")

 his son  Plato in prosaic arms, whimpering at the loss of the Art and the birth of His idea within...

No sooner does the sun become e sponged by a white-wash sky and the gulls trade space with crows, that the dames of the streetlight show their true colors..Pregnant teens with Rebel themes beneath their seams...real poky American dreams in the seams of these themes that float atop the surface like Banaca or Tangerines..These teens with their bags and their shopping mall dreams...Throw an animal amongst their mixed up notions of the Art in seduction..a cocaine-infested cockroach, all hair, red pubescent skin..a heavy gray trench coat and loose brim ten-gallon hat...make him snarl beneath the blonde wig and tear their ribbon fed misconceptions on Sex to torn Christmas paper..a gift that was given in haste and much too early...and ultimately discarded and abused..the Art of Seduction, holed and impregnated by the Cockroach of Impetuousness...

You can't wash it off..there's a taint about you now...

I am deciding that an alternate route should be inserted here and I am a steamroller..another locomotive railing inserted obliquely, here and now..for the tracks around the eyes..those of theRoach's arm..those stalking footprints where I am left behind to the caricature of He..where the defective and liberated wonder carelessly with the forgotten; it is this route that He gives unto the 'world', by taking in the experience of..a World..at its truest form..for The 'world' is built upon the whims of Him..and He is separate from That.. separated to find the birth of the Word 'world'..and understanding of Its complications.

How 'It' reflects those back onto Him, and he being an image..spitting his course into the cycle of Age and Degradation..He must be engrossed in the foul breath of His design..How the 'world' is budded, prodded, penetrated by the long rubber apparatus..how It pretends to be a man, changing Its mind, its position to gain proper entry inside..and he is the hand that grips It tightly as the World around him is sullied with His afterthoughts...

and my how the World has turned to the Word..and we children of Him, lay dry and dying with our RedLegs high and kicking..on the dress of some ultimate Brute and His Big Blue Concubine..

We are on a new path, Him and I..Him and We..

We ride the Martin Luther Kings of this World..unbiased to the decay on our very corners..We, the corners of Her wrinkled heart..and it's revealed that She has a long rubber apparatus and has pretended to be another man..claiming that freedom is here..around the corner and that He has a Dream..

Ah the Art of Dreaming..

While we find our own Child..our Catastrophe'..is the new synonym for a Dream..our clothes hang from our feeble Spirits..and We, teeth of the Founder's mouth in prayer and feast.. We are abscessed..with the idea that We are Forgotten..

I have a Dream, yes..of not waking to a New tomorrow..and It's Recurring.

Reviews

[Glenn Davis]

My word Frankie! I honestly do not know how you do it. It is one thing to make an observation and relay it, but you make an observation and mold it into something beautiful. The last four stanzas I guess you would call them are a poem all of their own. The ending is amazing, sad, but amazing.

[angelheart]

Carelessly forgotten are all the strays; all the children pushed aside and unwanted.
They are mere spoils of a society who is crumbling in the wake of debachery; the cocaine afterthought children whose mothers didnt have a chance themselves. Dreaming wont save the young men; who have no idea what it means to become a man in a world that fathers walk away and beget string after string of children.
More to say... this is fantastic writing love.