I’m in love with a prostitute.
Couldn’t feel more destitute.
I don’t need a saintly virgin,
But why the hole they all converge in?
Every cock and rejected slime,
Need only pay a buck each time,
They fuck my love and rape my glory.
Need I, my friend, live out this story?
That a mediocre whore,
Pretty, but nothing more,
Can conquer a piece of my mind,
With a slight jiggle of her behind,
And she not even aware of it,
And I be in despair of it,
And forced to think of her,
And dream of her,
When I’d rather dream of my lovelier lover,
Is one of the greatest glitches of nature,
And my proof against free will,
— For those who believe in it still —
Since if we can’t control our attractions,
How can we choose our actions?
For we only act in pursuit of our dreams!
And even when it seems,
As though we’re sacrificing our wills to higher goals,
It’s always our very wills that choose those very goals!
Your will –
It’s always gonna be greedy!
Perhaps unrealistically greedy!
But don’t be cruel to it!
Don’t torture it!
Don’t try to kill it!
Why would you want to get involved in murder?
Learn how to discipline it…
Perhaps seduce it…
Into occasional submission…
Yet always remain prepared,
For its roaring return…
Even the Richest,
Luckiest,
Most Powerful,
And Beautiful,
Must eventually confront
Our never-satiated wills…
Those freaky little monkeys,
At the helms of our selves,
Often ruining blissful moods,
And perfectly peaceful nights…
But also pushing us forward,
And providing some useful courage,
And inspiration,
Every now and again…
Is man truly so damned,
That to be adored,
One must first be banned?
Can’t anything of quality hit its mark?
Why is failure so exalted?
Cannot a real hero succeed?
Cannot true beauty live to enjoy its own reflection?
Must that truly be the exception?
I want to sing!
I want to dance!
I want to fuck!
Is it really all a question of luck?
Is it truly a lottery,
To escape poverty,
If one prefers love,
Over robbery?
Can’t we evolve beyond this tragedy?
Can’t this absurdity
Become a since-cured malady?
If some blame labor pains on the gods,
Can’t we atheists hope to beat the odds?
I dare,
To do my share,
To defy this absurd tradition!
I ask no permission,
I form no commission,
I simply walk alone,
Treacherously unknown,
And hope for,
But do not rely on,
A better condition…
I was recently asked
By a fledgling young artist,
‘Is art worth it, Sir Po?
The struggle in creating it, that is…’
This made me think back,
Upon my life to this point,
And analyze
Its various
Ups and downs…
The frenzied highs of inspiration…
The thrill of discovering,
Future history…
The hellish moments of rejection,
And doubt…
The fear of poverty,
And retaliation…
The loneliness of the
Lone-traveler,
And meditator…
The boredom involved
In perfecting epics…
The accessibility of a
Clean-groupie’s pussy…
The wrath which iconoclasts
Are shown by the clasted…
Zarathustra’s hobby of
‘Imprinting your hand on millenia
As on wax’…
Oh! What a sweet analogy,
Maestro Nietzsche!
Since just as with wax,
Millenia react,
Solely to heated attacks…
At moments of passion,
And fired inspiration,
My imprint feels certain,
(If only on the hearts and minds,
Of several very future individuals)…
But at moments of cool regularity,
I can feel defeated,
By contemporary banality…
So in answering my fledgling,
I could only quote Rilke,
From his letter to his fledgling,
(And I paraphrase here as I normally do)
‘You will become a poet,
Only if you must become one.’
I remember a footnote,
With a beautiful Arnaut quote,
In the Companion Guide,
To Pound’s Cantos ride.
It compared a Poet’s tribulations,
To Fire’s Purifications,
But now I wonder,
‘Are there no limits?’
If only I could believe,
That every loss I bereave,
Will one day become a treasure,
Of beauty, fun and pleasure,
– If not for myself to enjoy,
Then at least a communal poetic toy –
Then I would celebrate the fact
That there are, indeed, no limits!
I prefer to eat shit and create gold,
Than eat gold and create shit.
Titties,
Fitties,
Infinities,
Rarities,
Atrocities,
Sympathies,
Trinities,
Delicacies,
Beauties,
Formalities,
Commodities,
Dependancies,
Fatalities,
Festivities,
Celebrities,
Plasticities,
Brutalities,
Felicities,
Intricacies,
Generalities,
Absurdities,
Universalities,
Trivialties,
Universities,
And Cities,
Upon Cities
All of them full of,
All of the above!!!
When the joys of an ecstatic crowd you accumulate,
It resembles what I feel when I urinate.
But when I begin to ruminate,
Equate,
Or especially create,
I experience joys to which they can never relate.
As dogs cannot know,
What the crowds know.
Oh, how I wish I had a rival!
Just someone to compete against,
To be jealous of,
Every now and again…