I've over thought, think, meglomaniac
Deviations psychiatric prison clink
Another Orwellian
Double Think pulling
Pushing me against the brink
J I N X
Trying to reorganize this unhealthy
Thought process which sabotaged
My life from early abscess to catastrophic
Deicide inside, need new
Glasses need new classes
I have to learn a new to live
I haven't had a need to respect from you
Even though I thought I thought
I already did D E A D
My measured care compassion confused
From the primal sex, the twitchy inner head
Are you or I the one abused?
I cannot love, but can't us two be or
What may result is something with
Irreversibility, finality
The Death, the Death inside of
Me...Double Think
I bleed just to fucking be...
- Johnny Raven
Copyright 2012
I am the fool with the Cheshire smile
plastered upon a simpleton's face
of play-doh, pockmarked by the sordid edges
of an embittered past.
I am the weakling with the withered
limbs of an ancient olive tree
and
the soul of an inconsolable child.
Or rather, this is what they think.
This is what they whisper amongst
themselves with their
sharpened words waiting to
take the plunge.
One thrust... followed by another.
And then another. Bleeding me dry...
Each holding their words behind
their backs as they await their turn.
Blood washing away the veneer
of the humanity I surrounded
myself with.
Turning my heart cold
and my skin thick.
Or rather, that is what they think.
That is what they plan to do.
However they are wrong.
They have me figured as the fool.
But guess what...
They haven't figured me out.
They cannot see what is there
for the taking...
My Cheshire smile's warmth
is that of a compassionate sun,
and playful as the full moon
as she dances upon the lake's face.
It is a real smile...
One that burns into the heart.
They know not what they see.
They know not what they think.
That simpleton's face you see
is the mask that covers the face
of the old man who has
witnessed the essence of life
and knows the wisdom of silence.
That smile upon that face
towers above the clouds,
held up for the heavens to see
by Atlas-ian shoulders
that have borne the weight
of skeletons and ghosts aplenty.
They are not aware of this
nor have they given me
any chance to show them my wonders.
Already they have smothered
their senses with the 'poster boy'
image of their perceptions.
They have not seen the ramparts
of this castled body.
Not a body ready for a rump
on Olympian mosaics, mind you.
But a good body, none the less.
Where there should be muscles rippling
like water in a torrent, or bronzed like
the Wall-Street bull with its
-ahem-
noticeable problem...
Instead there lies the rolling hills
and knolls under
replete and lush earth toned skin.
It has served me well, this body.
Though it has its aches and pains,
it has not deserted me.
Loyal to the very end.
Do they see the loyalty
of their own?
Or do they see the faults
as the waning of their own past
readying itself to bombard
their 'faultless' and 'sturdy'
arches?
I may not have the supposed
savoir-faire of my peers
who have lost touch with their
inner noble kings of yore.
No... I have the gait of
the itinerant monk
whose measured footsteps reveal
his search for his nirvāna.
They have not seen my footprints
upon the glacial sands of this
universe's beach.
Nor have they felt the waves
that come roaring along the star trails
of that universe's reach.
But I do not hold anything
against them.
Nor do I pity them.
That would be the sorrowful
cry of ignorant arrogance.
Instead I smile that blinding
smile and laugh a hearty
laugh from my cavernous hollows.
I love them for their blindness
and for their stubbornness.
Because it is an endless cycle.
It is my life.
I am a warrior of sort
Art in ceramic, paint, clay,even tape
Whatever I can shape, words
I try to recreate a world
That stigmatizes creativity
And I laugh because they will need me
We live in a place full of hate
Corporate hands that are heavy
And a mother that is sick
From the evils we invent
Earth evolving, at an alarming rate
To soon emanate the overshoot
Of our population, that has overtaken her health
And wealth is still only measured by paper
Intelligence by our ability to be intellectual
I create, and soon enough they will see
They need me.
And I will be part of a powerful force
That has been overlooked
A warrior, single soldiers
Marching along with all the other creators
And problem solvers of the world
Now stand there and stigmatize
Hide behind a degree
Tell me my dreams mean nothing
I am an artist, why is that so funny?
Will it still be when we are all running?
From the re-precautions of out today
Will what I do still seem like play
Or will we see it a different way
Creations and good ideas embraced
And when creators try to save the world
When they are finally heard
Will things stay the same?
Art be the bottom
Of the shoes successful people walk on
The socks of corporate stature
Will they still overlook the power of creation?
Power
Don’t forget about the people
We do more than math
We can heal, just like we have harmed
Time to be alarmed, time to listen
New generation, faced with this new condition
Said the artist
As no one listened
Let’s say that time and grief are jealous lovers
who secretly long for one other
so they dig their claws fighting each other within our very souls
twisting the body, all sense of self.
Maybe you’d go insane
if you measured the duration of time
with your scars if the body feels like the shadow of someone else’s memory
So they wait to forgive each other, expecting each other to speak to another and once they do
it’s all in riddles because a simple answer
doesn’t exist and will never be found.
In their kisses they stole lives
They stole hearts from the sky.
"Oh, but I can never breath
without your unknowing," they say
returning to each others arms.
Feeling death in the silence
that's their only knife's repair,
And all they can say is, "your the last of my dreams. You're my fading melody."
She asks, "then what does the moonlight
sound like? Is it your love?"
He replies, "It's your pain, my love. Always, forever.
I'll never leave you.
I'm not that kind of lover.
So Don't be afraid.
You'll never be alone.
You're the reason I live.
You're the reason I die."
Rays of sunlight hit the thick lens of your glasses and illuminate the golden frames
Every single ray is completely absorbed into your perfect skin through the sunrise.
Resonating within the inner workings of your mind, igniting an inferno in your soul
I wish to become those sun rays, surrounding your body, penetrating your eyes
Warmth flowing throughout your tender body, surging through your inner being
You radiate joy, the after effects of a splendid moment marked by an influx of pleasure.
Laying on the damp, dew-stained grass parallel to your your delicate boyish frame
Like a sort of unseen force, the happiness we've shared here is unable to be measured
You open your mouth, and suddenly ideas of the future trickle out and run down your lips
Destroying the perfect, serene silence of the moment with your unachievable fantasies and plans
About the mansion you will build her, about the children you will have with her, about your bed
You turn your head towards me, your eyes are fixed on my face, you tell me you won't be my man.
I stare back up at the sky, expansive, free, a light, playful shade of blue, not too dark
I realize that I'd much rather prefer to be the sky above your head, free and independent
Seeing the world, but not affected by the pressure of mankind, not affected by pain or lust
So when you look upon me, you covet me, you realize that without you, I'm still transcendent.
I used to be a mover.
I ran, and danced, and climbed trees.
If I saw somethng I wanted, I reached for it, worked for it, or asked an adult to get it for me.
I would fidget and squirm at the dinner table and in Mass.
I did not question, I just did.
I used to say things.
I sang, rhymed and questioned with impunity.
I behaved as though everyone was hanging on my every word.
People were constantly telling me to be quiet. I made them listen.
My voice connected me to the world, it proved I was real.
I used to laugh more.
Giggled, chortled and chuckled with glee.
It was my first reaction to anything new and novel.
It bubbled out of me, tickling my throat as it filled the room.
I measured the worth of a day by how much I had laughed.
I used to get lost in things.
In the fields, in untying knots, in books, especially in books.
I deliberately took wrong turnings just to see what was there,
and hid under my bed with a book and a torch and spoke to no one.
I felt so disheartened when I found my way again.
I used to create.
I crafted, sketched and wrote for hours at a time.
It just poured from my fingertips. It was only completed when the smile came.
A bright, beaming smile, bursting out of me. I would burn with furious pride over 8 lines of mispelled rhymes about a purple monster.
I believed the only things you own, are the things you make.
Now I am uncertain.
Tentative, unsure, and above all; Silent.
Now I only move with a destination in mind.
I am economical and perfunctory with my movements.
I don't know how to use words anymore, the language has changed.
The pen feels uncomfortable in my hand, while I agonise over the exact right words.
Being lost frightens me, and seems like a waste of time.
Creating things (non-edible things) are just extra pieces of baggage you must carry around. Pointless and deflating, they chew their way into every part of your brain to fester and breed.
And people know when you've got poems gnawing your thoughts, and they will instantly distrust you.
But now.
Right now, as I near the end of this train of thought.
The Mover awakens within me. I smile and crave company.
I have a sudden yearning to once again take a wrong turn.
I will not sleep tonight.
colors swirl and twist and
twirl.
' Now step through the looking glass
and into a parallel world.'
A man lies in wait
with a pipe and measured gait,
in a suit made from despair;
milky skin and
sightless seeing eyes
and a plait of ebony hair.
His eyes have seen the fall
of everyone and every all.
He beckons you in with a finger
and blows rings of smoke in your face.
' I really shouldn't linger',
but alas, it is already too late.
You follow him in,
and he walks with great care.
Oh God forbid he give you a scare.
You find yourself at a table
and he on the opposite side.
' Sit down, sit down,' he says,
' with me you can confide,'
' Sit down, sit down,' he says,
' There's really no reason to hide.'
And yes, you think;
there is no reason to hide.
Yes, true, you think;
in he you can confide.
' There is no rush,
please take your time.'
he says with pleading eyes.
Yes, true, you think;
he must know best,
he's very old and wise.
' What is it you need?' you ask
' For I, most certainly,
am up for the task.'
' Please pick a card,
here from my hand.'
his smile wide and grand.
You slip one out
and there comes the doubt.
' Ah, yes,' he says
'the thirteenth trump,
the end of life,
and cease of your strife.'
Doubt starts to bloom
with every inhaled plume;
surely it simply
could not be the fumes?
' Oh no, I cannot stay;
I must be on my way!'
But your plea goes to eyes that implore,
' You must go now, you say?
But, oh, whatever for?'
His mouth forms an 'O'
and he breathes a ring of smoke,
then suddenly you start to choke.
The room is spinning,
there is no door.
But where is the ceiling
and where is the floor?
And then
there is only black anymore.
His voice invades a starless night,
his eager face the only light.
' Oh, hurry now,
'n please make haste.
Your time has come,
with none to waste.'
America, the beautiful
Home of the brave
Or so it used to be
Before it became
Home of the selfish and lazy
From sea to shining sea
Once a cape of good hope
Until the tidal patterns shifted
And eroded the shores
Of her dignity
Born American, patriot by choice
Is how the saying goes
But what's a patriot really
If patriotism is measured
By the size of one's collection of faded bumper stickers
(As if bumper stickers would revive us)
Land of the pilgrim's pride
But on this trajectory
We'll soon be
Land of the pilgrim's regret
From every mountainside, let ignorance ring
I cringe to think of what we're reduced to
A hollow shell
Made of fashion and fake money
Nothing keeping us truly alive
Each generation weaker than the one before
Please, no more.
Someone speak for all that's good
Do what our leaders never could
My country, 'tis of thee
I plead, awaken, open your eyes, and see.
Day three of my A Poem A Day project.
Adamant, nocturnal dalliance
Egregious, insidious, velvet ambiance
An unyielding, dark but brief love affair
The flagrant, seductive and comely au pair
The Eclectic, unmatched, Androgynous Circus
Red devils, black sheep and felines in service
Contortionists, gypsies, and malevolent magicians
All twisting to a dance played by faceless musicians
A night in Tunisia or a place above the Siene
Where else but all in the shadows of dreams?
Enchanted, redolent wonder of festive illumination
Her eyes absorbed, glimmering in the lush captivation
Enveloping, engulfing silk around our bodies
Days, nights measured by tragic commodities
Arpeggios, rippling across glistening string inventions
Bowing cellos; cellists bowing with audience permission
Masks, costumes, carnivals and the golden mirror
Cerulean dripping limbs that slither while near her
The alabaster piano played by a three-armed puppet
The statues turn and welcome us for a crumpet
Maria Callus sings Ave Maria backwards then stops
The statues and demons laugh while playing with props
“This requiem for the living, begins with a kiss”
The statues said in a tone of voice I could not resist.
“Our overture shall be a murder, a nail in the coffin; a death.
All while you swallow the nectar on your lover’s last breath.”
Needles protruded my head
And I watched as my love was torn
Limb from limb
While the jackals and ballroom guests
Fornicated on the spilled blood and guts
I cried and they cheered as the lights dimmed
For All I could see was the sight of them leave
Into the darkness.
But the noises were as loud as ever as hands
And digits groped my body.
Moaning voices and rhythmic thrusting
And tongues in my ear
And teeth gnawing on my neck
Pain felt, endured, experienced
Then
I was released into the middle of the scarlet draped room
When the phlegm of bodily fluids whipped into a dried crust
A sharp edge stabbed me in the back of the neck
Running along my back, through my spine, down my skin and ending in my rectum.
Mechanical hands ripped apart my skin
I slid out of my flesh like a serpentine cretin.
I stood there
shaking from the excruciating, unfathomable pain
the grid and design of my muscular system bare and seen.
From the pieces of my departed lover,
the master with the many mechanical hands
slathered the slips
and sleeves of her skin onto my own.
Needles and thread went to work.
The puppet master sewed.
The healing plasma
the drying blood
the encapsulating tears lubricated my whole
Once he was finished, I was dunked into a pool of clear gelatin.
For hours I soaked and became whole again.
Then I rose and I was dressed
the finest garments, from across the globe.
I sat once again at the table where the statues invited me.
The musicians, the magicians, the demons, gypsies, masks and serpents
Watched and gleamed
while I sipped my tea
I out spread my fingers.
Layers of skin and stitches
No more hair.
No more nails.
Not just a regular face
but one all shall remember.
I was born as one
Then made from many
In the imminence of zealous devils in my wake
Of the attrition I have forsake
Now as the curtain rose and the spider-silk strings hoisted me up on stage
The master showcased my story to all whoever wished to engage
“Adamant, nocturnal dalliance
Egregious, insidious, velvet ambiance
An unyielding, dark but brief love affair
The flagrant, seductive and comely au pair
The Eclectic, unmatched, Androgynous Circus
Red devils, black sheep and felines in service
I am Vincent Andromeda
Your Strangelove phenomena.”
With measured grace
the dusk burns through blue atmosphere
to cool as lucent ash
