Fuck you to Hell, Jeffrey.
jeff, i swear to fucking god, if you ever try to tell me again that we're in ANY WAY equal in writing ability and accomplishment, i will kill you. if you think that's even close to the truth, you are sick and should be put in a hospital for having delusions. i hate you for not knowing yourself. it's the goddamned saddest lie you've ever told.
look at this, that he wrote, and i dare you to tell me i've written anything of EVEN CLOSE to equal merit.
Wasted Space
nihilists! bumsen sie mich!
I. From the Mountain
With God-beard and a gadfly voice he
leaves neither dust nor cracking twigs behind
nor footprints. Where he steps, the wild grows wilder,
wilder til it looks to break apart and blow away.
As he passes, birds forget to sing and
trees to stand
black recedes to gray
worms dry up in light, bewildered
by this light that drinks the shadows dry, in kind.
minds are baked clean, memories boiled down to one word:
he came down from the mountain where
he'd lain as rocks above the clouds
he came with hands full of that
airy stuff: white wound round white.
he came in wisps of hair
and eyes, snowblinded, singed white.
he fell as rock upon the waiting crowds
to chat.
he came from mountaintop to say: there is no mountain, never was, nor ever was there they,
nor he.
Never was, Never is, Never will be.
II. Reasonable Doubt
Let us not mince words,
(consistency is virtue,
we should be reliable, as grass:
a thousand stray thoughts
made uniform)
God is dead
(that is, not living.
He has been unborn,
Degenesized)
and no one shall take His place.
For who, if not no one,
could have all power
(no one has power)
and who, if not no one,
could be all present
(no one is anywhere)
Who, tell me, if not no one,
could be all knowing
(no one can know anything with certainty)
Who other than no one could be eternal
(no one exists, no one has ever existed.)
no one is
(that it is!)
So let us not mince words
(What are words?
Nothing is a word.
corollary: a word is nothing)
we must state things as they are, with firm resolve
(resolved: Descartes was not
thinking)
and be as fire, burning away grass on fuzzy patch of grass
so that our scorched earth can be laid bare
and from that barren womb bear stillborn truth.
III. Fecal Antichrist
spelled in shit on whitewashed walls:
________give up, give up, give up, give up
________for this is my domain
________where no one (he that matters) knows my name
________and no one fears, for Nothing is to fear
________and no one year leads into 'nother year
________without our fear of Nothing driven up
IV. Masturbation
As poet, I afford an interlude,
That you, the reader, might a respite take
From hopelessness, a drastic change in mood:
A sonnet of inspired mind and make.
________Imagined bumblebee?
________About the honeysuckle, through the mass
________Of marigolds beat two translucent wings,
________Two orbs beholding god and greater things
________Reflected in the dew upon the grass.
________And I, with my two humbled eyes, aghast
________At Babylon, which graced your branching veins
________On which I traced its gardens, had at last
________Sucked nectar from Dionysus’ cupped hand
________To taste a field of wildflowers and
________Embrace the child whom ecstacy engrains
________In petal after petal. Impish sprite,
________Whose canvas is the day and nest the night
________I fear it hubris, what I wish to see
________In you, illusion dotted bumblebee
With that, we turn back to the task at hand:
a less than lyric walk through wasted land
V. ”Meow”
The cat is dead and buried,
perhaps burned. Disposed of, either way, so far as one need worry.
the walls are painted shit-stain brown. I have carried
out the furniture and trash, in no great hurry.
No great loss, for we are drawn in less than dust
and dust, no matter what creation myth is traced within,
returns to dust. We struggle for a meaning but we must
at last admit defeat: of truth and beauty, truth will always win.
and this is truth, in our own empty words:
give up. give up. give up. give up. give up.
VI. A is A
There is no argument which can compete
with self-degeneration and -defeat
No proof that can convince the blind to see
Nor teach a nihilist that he can be
a thing above a parasite of time
Nor is there such experience sublime
that broken souls by miracle can mend.
For thoughts of nothingness can never end
in anything aside from that same stuff
of which they're made. for Nothing is enough
to keep their apathy from needless strife,
free from pursuit of meaning in this life.
why the fuck do i even write. jesus motherfucking christ.
good news of the millenium: i'm not leaving western, after all.
look at this, that he wrote, and i dare you to tell me i've written anything of EVEN CLOSE to equal merit.
Wasted Space
nihilists! bumsen sie mich!
I. From the Mountain
With God-beard and a gadfly voice he
leaves neither dust nor cracking twigs behind
nor footprints. Where he steps, the wild grows wilder,
wilder til it looks to break apart and blow away.
As he passes, birds forget to sing and
trees to stand
black recedes to gray
worms dry up in light, bewildered
by this light that drinks the shadows dry, in kind.
minds are baked clean, memories boiled down to one word:
he came down from the mountain where
he'd lain as rocks above the clouds
he came with hands full of that
airy stuff: white wound round white.
he came in wisps of hair
and eyes, snowblinded, singed white.
he fell as rock upon the waiting crowds
to chat.
he came from mountaintop to say: there is no mountain, never was, nor ever was there they,
nor he.
Never was, Never is, Never will be.
II. Reasonable Doubt
Let us not mince words,
(consistency is virtue,
we should be reliable, as grass:
a thousand stray thoughts
made uniform)
God is dead
(that is, not living.
He has been unborn,
Degenesized)
and no one shall take His place.
For who, if not no one,
could have all power
(no one has power)
and who, if not no one,
could be all present
(no one is anywhere)
Who, tell me, if not no one,
could be all knowing
(no one can know anything with certainty)
Who other than no one could be eternal
(no one exists, no one has ever existed.)
no one is
(that it is!)
So let us not mince words
(What are words?
Nothing is a word.
corollary: a word is nothing)
we must state things as they are, with firm resolve
(resolved: Descartes was not
thinking)
and be as fire, burning away grass on fuzzy patch of grass
so that our scorched earth can be laid bare
and from that barren womb bear stillborn truth.
III. Fecal Antichrist
spelled in shit on whitewashed walls:
________give up, give up, give up, give up
________for this is my domain
________where no one (he that matters) knows my name
________and no one fears, for Nothing is to fear
________and no one year leads into 'nother year
________without our fear of Nothing driven up
IV. Masturbation
As poet, I afford an interlude,
That you, the reader, might a respite take
From hopelessness, a drastic change in mood:
A sonnet of inspired mind and make.
________Imagined bumblebee?
________About the honeysuckle, through the mass
________Of marigolds beat two translucent wings,
________Two orbs beholding god and greater things
________Reflected in the dew upon the grass.
________And I, with my two humbled eyes, aghast
________At Babylon, which graced your branching veins
________On which I traced its gardens, had at last
________Sucked nectar from Dionysus’ cupped hand
________To taste a field of wildflowers and
________Embrace the child whom ecstacy engrains
________In petal after petal. Impish sprite,
________Whose canvas is the day and nest the night
________I fear it hubris, what I wish to see
________In you, illusion dotted bumblebee
With that, we turn back to the task at hand:
a less than lyric walk through wasted land
V. ”Meow”
The cat is dead and buried,
perhaps burned. Disposed of, either way, so far as one need worry.
the walls are painted shit-stain brown. I have carried
out the furniture and trash, in no great hurry.
No great loss, for we are drawn in less than dust
and dust, no matter what creation myth is traced within,
returns to dust. We struggle for a meaning but we must
at last admit defeat: of truth and beauty, truth will always win.
and this is truth, in our own empty words:
give up. give up. give up. give up. give up.
VI. A is A
There is no argument which can compete
with self-degeneration and -defeat
No proof that can convince the blind to see
Nor teach a nihilist that he can be
a thing above a parasite of time
Nor is there such experience sublime
that broken souls by miracle can mend.
For thoughts of nothingness can never end
in anything aside from that same stuff
of which they're made. for Nothing is enough
to keep their apathy from needless strife,
free from pursuit of meaning in this life.
why the fuck do i even write. jesus motherfucking christ.
good news of the millenium: i'm not leaving western, after all.