Poete Maudit

Because we are beyond brothers

For Andrew Baer

il miglior fabbro.

So there’s no room to run while we can’t face the pen sober

While the past consumes the inner core of our being

And the old folks scream, begging for a slow dance

With an encore of burning bottles and tarred down memories

But we can’t bear to dance with two left feet and a thirsty liver

Trapped in a newspaper world with Memento Mori headlines

And Lennon’s brains crusted over the faded pictures

Like a little kid left alone with a bottle of glue and a magic marker

In the white rooms up stairs with bars for windows,

Piss for carpet and half naked bodies with blank faces on empty benches �"

Longing for something, but what, no one can tell.

 

“What goes on four legs in the morning,

On two legs at noon,

And on three legs in the evening?”

 

I’m reminded of Neruda’s ode to Stalin-

One who loves can admire one who destroys

And a drunk one can admire one who loves who admires one who destroys-

What a twisted riddle until one grows old…

 

And what if we follow the Ten Steps of this synthetic world

(What goes up must come down)

And where will we bury the children when they drop the bomb

And Ezra dies with too little time to write paradise

And this wasteland is even worse?

The prince of poets will still be Poete Maudit

And we will yet fear a handful of dust

From the cruelest months

Pounding back soju coffee or Buddha c**k wine

Expecting the end, craving the end, fearing the end or our elaborate plans

My beautiful friend, the end of laughter and soft lies, the end of nights we tried to die,

The end.

 

But no point in being The Hanged Man

 

A thing of beauty is joy forever

For a clairvoyant who can see past the badlands

Pasted over the beauty that was

Before humanity paved it over

With dollar bills, Viagra and latex

And snigger at those that hover beneath the moon they shattered

Tossing rotten tomatoes at Endymion’s blank face

Like driftwood in rancid reservoir water

And lie down to sleep at night with a glut of thoughts

Pressed into the pillow like a stamp collection

And dream, their dreams being this life we live.

 

And we know better, our old souls

Under preparing for every ominous event

In every psychological hour

Craving escape but not understanding what it even is

Secretly knowing we can’t attain it

With such limits imposed by time, limits we don’t believe in.

So we soak up a wicked pack of cards

And blow our minds out until our temporal escape

Because society won’t let us blow other minds into the bird feed they are,

And I wish death would undo as many like me and you

To kill the lonely eyes staring at their feet

And rip the silken palms from their designer jeans

With eighty grit sandpaper and a cheese grater with bloody knuckles

So they can feel, so they can see…

 

A plastered sunset.

Reviews

[HighBrowCulture]

lets ninja turtle the f**k out of this site ezra