I Write in Blood and Spit
A prayer in flesh.
Why is it that so many of my friends -- the ones I most respect, the questers, thinkers, rabid casanovas and milky skinned lovers, the mad ones, silent poets, bare-knuckle brawlers, the card sharks, the good listeners and the rhetoricians with fire in their guts -- the ones not fit for structure and society, out there riding the fringe, the illegalists who curse emptiness and love sex and flame, the pen-artists writing utopias untill the metronome stops, those with lost friends and forgotten loves -- why are those who ask why? and who rally at night, pitchforks and torches hoisted, in that never ending battle against emptiness, why are they so transfixed and poisoned by nothing's gaze.
and we get high
and we bicker
and we fight
and we drink
and we fuck those we despise
and we forget love
and we fail to regain childhood's panorama
and our eyes are empty and we shrug
and though the beacon of meaning is shining in our dreams, through the dusk we cannot find it, so we shrug fucked up and collapse on the ash covered floor
for we are the lost, the
lonely chorus echoing this
lament, again and again.
We all sing; cocksure
but shivering under
the sky's cruel diagram.
Arcadia is a charnel-house
and
Eden is a brothel.
How can you be anything but lost when your skin is a continent yet to be discovered?
The map is a hypercube from which their is no escape...prison walls of cubicles and contracts.
The only way to go is
Why is it that so many of my friends -- the ones I most respect, the questers, thinkers, rabid casanovas and milky skinned lovers, the mad ones, silent poets, bare-knuckle brawlers, the card sharks, the good listeners and the rhetoricians with fire in their guts -- the ones not fit for structure and society, out there riding the fringe, the illegalists who curse emptiness and love sex and flame, the pen-artists writing utopias untill the metronome stops, those with lost friends and forgotten loves -- why are those who ask why? and who rally at night, pitchforks and torches hoisted, in that never ending battle against emptiness, why are they so transfixed and poisoned by nothing's gaze.
and we get high
and we bicker
and we fight
and we drink
and we fuck those we despise
and we forget love
and we fail to regain childhood's panorama
and our eyes are empty and we shrug
and though the beacon of meaning is shining in our dreams, through the dusk we cannot find it, so we shrug fucked up and collapse on the ash covered floor
for we are the lost, the
lonely chorus echoing this
lament, again and again.
We all sing; cocksure
but shivering under
the sky's cruel diagram.
Arcadia is a charnel-house
and
Eden is a brothel.
How can you be anything but lost when your skin is a continent yet to be discovered?
The map is a hypercube from which their is no escape...prison walls of cubicles and contracts.
The only way to go is
posted by David at 12:13 PM
2 Comments:
Man David- you are such a dickwad. how do you do it? Just perfectly capture every thought running through my head and then write it down, all eloquent-like...making it look so easy. One talented dickward i might add.
I'm in one of those moods where collaboration seems like a good idea.
The way it works: suggest a theme. write a paragraph no longer than 5-6 sentences.
Then I write a paragraph. Same requirements.
Rinse, repeat, touch self upon completion of that last beautiful sentence.
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