Trilogy of Sin
Posted: November 4th, 2005, 11:36 pm
These three are basically the same poem, rewritten years after each other. Choosing self-realization over self-destruction is never easy. You don't just wake up one day and say, "Gee, I haven't been paying attention to all the screaming in pain that I've done on these pages. I think I'll take a multivitamin and get over myself." Feel free to listen to this while you read.
Stoop
Beneath maggots, faggot slime—lowest
of the low what loathes itself-
Junky people. Junky people.
Trash that farts for attention
and the sluts that fondle it,
embryo filth caressing feces.
Beneath covers, what insists it, whining,
can’t get laid is poking pock-marked cocks,
phalluses infested-
green semen crusty self-destruction.
Junky people, junky people.
Even my Lady of the Underworld
won’t fistfuck these passers-by.
She won’t smile, fascist or alluring.
I won’t lick barbed wire clean.
My tongue has run
up the chancred crack of patience
and found these unclean words.
Junky. People.
Beneath contempt, resentment
falls back masturbated
to a cheerless orgasm,
dripping jism from the lips of liars.
Hypocrites. Glamor garbage
licking sores and laughing.
Ha, ha, how grand ballroom-empty,
life in the decrepitude of youth-
forced along through shit-clogged veins.
Pushpins into hemmorhoids,
selfishness, and secrets.
Junky secrets. Secret people.
Junky people.
These piss-filled humors called my eyes
do not disguise the depths to which I
stoop.
To explain these never-friends
to future sense, and to stomach
each indignity or crass reaction-
this is listening as I pretend to nod.
I pretend I don’t know the secrets
that make the best
of junky people ugly; the worst,
unredeemable. Coupon clippers
for slow suicide, I cannot abide.
Junky people remind me I’m alive.
a prisoner of repugnance, dread.
Junky people
pretending to be dead.
Steeped
Beneath passion, hopes decline—slowest
of the slow what betroths itself-
guilty people. Wilting people.
Middle-class kids that queue for extensions
on the debts that nurtured them,
nasty habits nudging glamor.
Beneath smiles, what insists it, dying,
is having the time of its life
is putting fairy dust into its nostrils
on the sly. And the lies-
clitorises cringing—are sore spots
maligned by white lady rapists
and serial partakers in extended suicide.
My Lady of the Undertow, what she knows
could an apartment buy.
And she smiles, fascist and alluring,
to invite me back again.
My mind has run
over the desperate schemes
and found these unclean
words: Junkies. We are…bourgeois.
Beneath repair, despair
falls sharply into the abyss
that missed it most. It wants us back;
inclined to lack, screams its need.
Dripping mucous in the throats of thieves.
We deceive ourselves, embittered,
that wounds are healed, and steal
the simple pleasure of sick humor.
Ha, ha, how tiny-toonish we have become.
The sun sets forever on our youth.
Forced along on snowbound trains, we are
deranged. Slivers of the septum slide
aside, revealing what the mirrors hide:
Wasted time, wasted people.
A people out of time.
In line, waiting for a crime.
This shit-clogged tumor called my mind
does not belie the grade on which I slide.
Steep
is the plain that you and all your friends
saw by some corrupted sense as flat,
and you react. Too late, too late.
This indignity is my induction
to writing as I pretend to think.
I pretend I don’t know the truth
that makes me a brother of the street,
that lets them see how much
I need. The best
of wishes; worst, for suicide. I must abide
by the truths that would decide
a future of commitment, death.
Junky people-
we are so well read.
I chronicle the dread, and join the list
of statistics, shit.
Junky people,
pretending to live.
Stopped
Above magic, faggots climb—highest
of the high, who blows himself-
people junky. People junky.
Flesh that tarts for affection
and the trust that comes with it,
a memory quick-addressing faces.
Above lovers, who insists he, dining,
can’t get fed is pushing pride-primped poles-
symbols invested-
red hemoglobin lusty self-inversion.
People junky, people junky.
Now my Lady of the Underworld
won’t fistfuck my only hole.
She may smile, fascist and alluring,
but I can leave her rewiring untold.
No more puppet gun
pop-banging its impatience
and sound these unscreamed hurts:
People. Junky.
Above resentment, contempt
leaps up fascinated
as if from a peerless orgasm,
gripping prisms in the eyes of seers.
Hypostasy. Deity delight,
kicking smack and shouting,
Ha, ha, how grand, ballroom-beauty
lives in the evanescence of youth-
drawn along down some dirty street.
Place cards onto plainclothesmen,
identify the secrets.
People’s secrets. Secret agents.
Ancient secrets.
These tear-filled cisterns called my eyes
cannot describe the lengths to which I’ve
stopped
trying to explain to my inmost self
my past imperfect and to enhearten
my dignity and first impressions.
This is speaking as I invent the words-
I invent but don’t yet know the meanings-
that make the best
of people junkies lovely; the worst,
almost believable. Ideal doubters
of my suicide, they would not abide.
People junkies tell me why I’m alive.
Parolee of remembrance, bled.
People junky,
doing my best to get read.
Stoop
Beneath maggots, faggot slime—lowest
of the low what loathes itself-
Junky people. Junky people.
Trash that farts for attention
and the sluts that fondle it,
embryo filth caressing feces.
Beneath covers, what insists it, whining,
can’t get laid is poking pock-marked cocks,
phalluses infested-
green semen crusty self-destruction.
Junky people, junky people.
Even my Lady of the Underworld
won’t fistfuck these passers-by.
She won’t smile, fascist or alluring.
I won’t lick barbed wire clean.
My tongue has run
up the chancred crack of patience
and found these unclean words.
Junky. People.
Beneath contempt, resentment
falls back masturbated
to a cheerless orgasm,
dripping jism from the lips of liars.
Hypocrites. Glamor garbage
licking sores and laughing.
Ha, ha, how grand ballroom-empty,
life in the decrepitude of youth-
forced along through shit-clogged veins.
Pushpins into hemmorhoids,
selfishness, and secrets.
Junky secrets. Secret people.
Junky people.
These piss-filled humors called my eyes
do not disguise the depths to which I
stoop.
To explain these never-friends
to future sense, and to stomach
each indignity or crass reaction-
this is listening as I pretend to nod.
I pretend I don’t know the secrets
that make the best
of junky people ugly; the worst,
unredeemable. Coupon clippers
for slow suicide, I cannot abide.
Junky people remind me I’m alive.
a prisoner of repugnance, dread.
Junky people
pretending to be dead.
Steeped
Beneath passion, hopes decline—slowest
of the slow what betroths itself-
guilty people. Wilting people.
Middle-class kids that queue for extensions
on the debts that nurtured them,
nasty habits nudging glamor.
Beneath smiles, what insists it, dying,
is having the time of its life
is putting fairy dust into its nostrils
on the sly. And the lies-
clitorises cringing—are sore spots
maligned by white lady rapists
and serial partakers in extended suicide.
My Lady of the Undertow, what she knows
could an apartment buy.
And she smiles, fascist and alluring,
to invite me back again.
My mind has run
over the desperate schemes
and found these unclean
words: Junkies. We are…bourgeois.
Beneath repair, despair
falls sharply into the abyss
that missed it most. It wants us back;
inclined to lack, screams its need.
Dripping mucous in the throats of thieves.
We deceive ourselves, embittered,
that wounds are healed, and steal
the simple pleasure of sick humor.
Ha, ha, how tiny-toonish we have become.
The sun sets forever on our youth.
Forced along on snowbound trains, we are
deranged. Slivers of the septum slide
aside, revealing what the mirrors hide:
Wasted time, wasted people.
A people out of time.
In line, waiting for a crime.
This shit-clogged tumor called my mind
does not belie the grade on which I slide.
Steep
is the plain that you and all your friends
saw by some corrupted sense as flat,
and you react. Too late, too late.
This indignity is my induction
to writing as I pretend to think.
I pretend I don’t know the truth
that makes me a brother of the street,
that lets them see how much
I need. The best
of wishes; worst, for suicide. I must abide
by the truths that would decide
a future of commitment, death.
Junky people-
we are so well read.
I chronicle the dread, and join the list
of statistics, shit.
Junky people,
pretending to live.
Stopped
Above magic, faggots climb—highest
of the high, who blows himself-
people junky. People junky.
Flesh that tarts for affection
and the trust that comes with it,
a memory quick-addressing faces.
Above lovers, who insists he, dining,
can’t get fed is pushing pride-primped poles-
symbols invested-
red hemoglobin lusty self-inversion.
People junky, people junky.
Now my Lady of the Underworld
won’t fistfuck my only hole.
She may smile, fascist and alluring,
but I can leave her rewiring untold.
No more puppet gun
pop-banging its impatience
and sound these unscreamed hurts:
People. Junky.
Above resentment, contempt
leaps up fascinated
as if from a peerless orgasm,
gripping prisms in the eyes of seers.
Hypostasy. Deity delight,
kicking smack and shouting,
Ha, ha, how grand, ballroom-beauty
lives in the evanescence of youth-
drawn along down some dirty street.
Place cards onto plainclothesmen,
identify the secrets.
People’s secrets. Secret agents.
Ancient secrets.
These tear-filled cisterns called my eyes
cannot describe the lengths to which I’ve
stopped
trying to explain to my inmost self
my past imperfect and to enhearten
my dignity and first impressions.
This is speaking as I invent the words-
I invent but don’t yet know the meanings-
that make the best
of people junkies lovely; the worst,
almost believable. Ideal doubters
of my suicide, they would not abide.
People junkies tell me why I’m alive.
Parolee of remembrance, bled.
People junky,
doing my best to get read.
