A Legacy of WisdomYou have scribed your words,wealthy wreaths of wisdom,on paper never torn or worn.You have etched your passionson my brow.You have left this wallowed worldvictorious; eyes resplendentwith the wisdom you wrote and wrought.Your passions shall echo in my earsunto eternity.And should I stray into somesullen storm, or get caught inthe torrents of the monsoon, Ill knowthat Lears been there before, andIll not swoon.And if Hades doors open upbefore my stranded soul, and scorchit with the heat of hell, Ill recall thatI am not the first Dantes been downthere as well.And if on my death-bed I mournthe life I wasted on wine and stalechocolate bars, Ill recall Wildes words andhope that, though long in the gutter, I didglimpse the stars.
AnarchyScream the anthem of the anarchist!What is it? Exactly.I won't tell you; make it up.Go away. Blow it up.Burn it down. Deface the town.But don't give in,Never -- no.That's the song we all love so.Freedom past extremity.Far away, in my backyardI own the world; I am a bard.I wear a beard and shave my head;All the normals want me dead.I won't give up; I ramble rave.You'll never make me behave.My brother, loser, freak, meek geekYou know-- the beatnick, hippy, punk--The rock bands my parents debunk--We treasure what we cannot have:No allegiance to any flag.
NonexistenceI pray to a God I have never seen,who lives in a world that has never been,to save my heart that has never felt,from eternity's failures, eternity's guilt.My feet step on grounds no men stepped before,my lips taste the poison, bitter and sore,yet it does not kill me,does that mean,that I am immortal,or that I've never been?I pray to a God that may not exist,while the iron shackle tears up my wrist,to tell me the difference of being and not,to show me the memories that I forgot.My mind flies to places nobody has reached,to learn that the stars are nothing but bleached,spots on the dark, they're not even light,I think that's 'cause real light brings nothing but fright:It's bound to discoverall crimes, neatly covered.I pray to a God because maybe he is,unlike me and the world,in them I missreality,specialty,something to reach.
out of Gardenwhat seahow it is welling your eyes a wet messwhat tidewhere urchins of the ocean will spill to howl their elegywhere mermaids will turn widowsonce brine has swallowed whole their sailor babesstewarding the land insteadis why i never set sail with youbut to lay in gardens, oh
a bed sheet rotten by the ultravioletand our laps full of starswhat black soil will pervert your knees therewhere moonlight will mirror out from your teethto run fanatic toward cosmic spaceafter bathing in the space among uswhere walking air pushes every dustone of sun-dried butterfliesone of beaten rug with broomone of honey bees minus harvestone from sands of human crustwhen traced is an orb monster, Jupiteraround your left breast, so that nipple
a blood storm just under the skinand asking where you sowed the marigoldsis only to hear you choke the words time and waterin the same sentenceto hear you say there will be no rain for a weekwhile an ocean is
the plasticized quantum theoryalabaster immortalityune voleur honteuxslip of the tonguein each saturated porespectrum rehearses its symphonycrooked whispers of a flutea glimpse of blue infinitudequiets the confines of los alamos¿quién es él? eso piensaen kaleidoscopesparalysis in the peristalsisjewel in the vitreous humorphosphorescent anti-matteruntil it watercolorsthe poison of psychepapillae the plaguesoxidizing ash and embera quivering effigysplinters the mooninstinctuallythe mirrored hand exhalesswept the epileptic ceilingdissolving tendrils of mahoganydetached from the retinaunblemishedtranquil, the deceptionimmutable twilightthe film frame fadescaptured in the mercury
existentialist pick ups...where have I been all my life?
Perspectives of a Hallucino...Comfort. The softness of the basement couch. Misery loves company.Trickling through my fingers. Whispering across my face, her disappearinglips trace across my cheeks. The smell is sweet, but she is rough againstmy throat. Her smell isn't so much intoxicating as it is suffocating, yetthe smoke paralyses my senses and touches my soul. Her street name isundeserving of her effect on me. Forever, she shall be known to me asMary-Jane. I will never know her beauty.
Wolf's RainSnowflakes fall, blood is in the air,Covering white figure of pride,Lying forceless on the ground,Having no strength to fight with the snow,Nor even with reality,Which drifts down from the empty sky,Where the moon cannot be seen,Where birds cannot be heard,At which wolves can only howl.
DyingEach day,I lose alittle moreof myself.By the timedeath comes,Ill alreadybe gone.