But Good God Damn!
Man, what a week. Its so hard to get a job in Philly, but I think this catering thing will cover this months rent, which was, really, my only concern. Ive been keeping up with movies and books, but Ive had no real time to play guitar.
I also just wrote my first poem in a few months, and its barely two pages, but it felt so good. It's a piece of pure frustration, and Im more than happy to have it locked in my laptob then in my head.
I found a bike on the street last night, and Im gonna see if my friend can fix it up for me. Hes the bike maintenance guy at Penn Campus, I met him through Joe.
Just dropping a line and letting you'all know Im still alive.
=)
Incessant pheromones keep time
With the concussive sound of sand
On glass.
Fixed with severed subjects,
Overwhelmed by common sense
One small paladin is dying
In a forsaken being's den
He is flooded by the anguish
That is pouring from the past
When the moments before salvation
Come struggling through at last.
Where that boy-child is sitting at the foot of his master’s bed,
With his heart all full of syrup
And an Angel on his head
Before they took his tiny fingers
And broke them just for fun
Because institutions fuck you
Because they keep you on the run.
Finding fire in with Serpents
And a mix-and-match brigade
Of the sappy and furious
Who are dressed in oil and rags
They wear their smiles on as war paint
And their clothes are done in drag.
What fires they can build!
In the shape of men or beasts!
The succulent morsels of Avalon
Are coming to the feast!
Their is pressure, now then,
Building,
Underneath the ground,
Alive,
Lance the skin,
My Savior,
And take from mud its pride.
Sing to me
While the Earth sleeps,
Pretty bastard,
Carve its woven rhymes
Into your lungs and skin
Wear them like badges of honor
You survived the unknown, savage fury
Of true love.
Pouring my heart out
Onto a holy book
Forgotten by everything
I’ve become
And anything I used to be
Hazard speaks out with voracious appetite
And the sickening moments
Wherein it feasts upon terrible,
Brutal,
Upsetting visions of twilight murder
And the genocide of dreams
The Reich of What-Isn’t-Right is supreme
Festering like infection on the surface
Spreading like cancer just below
Where the angels
Who gave the biggest fuck about absolutely everyone
Now sleep.
Where can these pilgrims rest
Their horribly weary skulls
Tattered scraps of flesh cling to their pale brittle bones
Like children tugging at their mother skirts
In a crowded market square
Not knowing whether or not the safety of staying
Is worth the risk of really living…
Regardless
The sick black beetle beast that
Was Newton’s only son
Eventually takes its toll
And reminds us all
That beauty is only skin deep
Unless its not your skin that’s beautiful.