Jesus, what was that!?

a thing crawled out from
under the park bench he
was sleeping on

it didn't look like a stray dog
when it ran away
didn't look like an animal
at all
the thing ran on two legs
and it ran fast

he stood and checked his
shoes and the shoes were on his feet
then he checked his
pockets for his most important
possession
in this world - his ID

it was there

tomorrow was supposed to be
a big day
He had a job interview
for a position as night guard
at a fishing lake

he would be given a
modest salary and a small
cabin to stay in
and all he'd have to do would
be sound the alarm if someone
comes to fish illegally in the lake

the job of his dreams

He could dedicate the time spent
in the cabin to watching the lake
and dreaming
and writing and maybe... maybe....
dare he think it? Maybe... even
making it into the industry one day

but as he sits back he realizes
the day will most probably not
be tomorrow
the sharp pain in his side
says so
and his hand reaches to it
and returns before the dim
distant lights of the park alley
holding a rusty syringe needle,
it's tip ******

the syringe is under the bench

he sits on the bench and
starts crying

why? Why? WHY?

There were times
when I got
home
threw my backpack in the corner
took off my shoes
my jacket
walked into my room
took off my pants, my shirt
put on sweatpants, another shirt
turned on the PC
ate a bag of salty potato chips
drank whatever I could
wasted time

I was happy in those times

Today I write.

The philosophers are still trying,
still striving to answer to
the age
old
question: What is a poem?

Sure, they figured what's the
meaning of life and other
metaphysical truths but
poetry...

And what is not a poem?

a to-do list is a poem

the obituaries are poems

that curse word followed by
racial slurs scribbled on the
inside of the cabin, probably
with ****, is poetry

blood spilled writes poetry
just as well as does the one
contained

a well landed punch is not weaker
poetry than one missing

to chew sand is to make poetry
and it's not lesser than chewing
bread

to rip a piece of paper and
place it under your fingernail
and hold the finger above
a burning candle is to make
poetry

to fall from a tree and lay down
while being chewed by wild dogs
is to be poetic

to let death win without a fight
or to greet it with open arms
or to bully it into taking you
is to create a poem

and to remain silent when the world is
loud... Ah, not many can create such
poems but those who do make them
exceptional

you're an alright poet if you can tie a
knot and you become a good poet
if you can turn the knot
into a noose and you grow to be
a great poet if you can put the noose
around your throat

luckily the world has some
great poets

but the world also has godlike poets

I wonder what they do

In five years.
I don't know where I'll be in
five years
I promised to myself that
I'll be an official published writer
and never told anyone about it
never told my mother about it
but perhaps in
five years
I'll just come home
drunk and ***** all over the
toilet bowl and sink and my shoes
and shirt and I'll fall face down
on the cold tiles and break
my front teeth
and never smile again
It's no myth, it happened before
but I was living with my
grandmother at that time and it
was perhaps the shock of her life
Yet she forgave me
even when I couldn't forgive myself
All I could do was come up with
promises, like
my very soul was a woman whom
I've wronged so **** bad that
I'll have to sacrifice something
of equal or higher value to make up
for it and even after I'd make up
for it things would just
not be the same as before

So I promised myself that I'll get
seriously serious about writing
and do it consistently and
ignore distractions like friends
and girlfriends and pastimes
and eating and sleeping
I would only go to work in order to
earn enough to survive modestly
and spend the rest of my
existence writing and writing
and writing

I wrote so badly that ******* people
could look down on me with pity
and not much changed
But I wrote a lot
And as long as the goal put
volume over quality the goal would be met

Well, all this writing taught
me something
in the
end.
Taught me that sacrifice is the
key to anything one could wish for
in life.
And the sacrifice gets you what
you wished for precisely
at the time when you no longer want it

Somehow it's always the
people that
are most alone who
know the most about
people

here's one undeniable fact:
all of them, everybody, everyone
loves and seeks constantly
to get high

the loners
will drink and pretend
to meditate and
the social ones
will party and **** and the dull minded
will explain how smart they are
and the truly intelligent will turn
sadistic
and the ugly ones will be
more outgoing and the pretty ones will
get knocked up more

the rich will buy the children of the
poor as *** slaves and the
poor will fill plastic bags
and balloons with feces and would
leave them in the sun and will inhale
the vapors
The middle class will seek more
friends, acquaintances, relationships,
dealers, promotions, real estate,
festivals, explosions. They will always
love explosions of any kind, the bigger and
louder the better

and the young boys will think
of old girls and bully other
young boys to assert dominance and
both those things will get them hard
and high on hormones

politicians will aim to imitate the rich
and poets will aim to imitate the poor

rich singers will sing of how
poor they are
and poor singers will sing of how
they came from rags to riches
and those with a small ***** will buy a huge car
and short people will be more aggressive
and the losers will shout "It's not
a contest, you guys..."
and the women of high pride will
adopt one more cat. Forty-two should
be enough, right?
The most outrageous ideologists will
buy megaphones, collect them

weak men will brag about owning
weapons and the right
to use them

the youth will talk to each other
before seeing each other
and the girls will want to know
how tall the boy is and the boy will ask
how much the girl weights and then
he'll be hated so much, so passionately
And the smart girls will use dating
to get free drinks and meals
And the people who play games will
turn to suicide when the artists who
design characters won't do
something exclusively for them, "I want
this character to act like she loves me back!"

the women who love to travel will be
accused of loving to travel because
they secretly wish they got *****

the most valuable of people will become
those who get famous precisely
for having no talent
and everyone will want to
invest in them
so the masses will see them
and feel a bit better about
themselves
No one wants to support the
superior but all laugh
when the inferior acts royal

and "how do you *******?"
the journalists will ask the
interviewed hermit

Why are there no hermit women?
Are there no women hermits?

Look, those big companies are
fighting over the right to lie to the
population

fake
fake
Fake

Knowledge is not power anymore
The ability to escape the loop is
and they who are not even caught
in the loop in the first place are
gods

If this world has something
in abundance that'll be
people who offer solutions to
problems that don't exist

And to offer a solution to
a problem that doesn't exist
means to create the problem
yourself

Thus,
computer viruses are created
by companies that develop
antivirus software
and
diseases are created by doctors
and
crime is created by police
and
ignorance is created by teachers
and
hate is created by spouses
and
famine is created by chefs
and
the milk man creates a lack of
calcium in the bones and dentists
create tooth decay and owners of
beauty parlors give birth to ugly children
and I'm not even gonna talk about 'em
priests, man.

Only the bums and the orphans and
the stray dogs and cats and the
rats in the sewers and the pigeons
that **** on cars and statues
are truly without sin

as long as the world has them
the world is going to be just fine

so it's true
there is a world out there
in which the rich are
inferior to the poor

and there's a woman, more
beautiful than any, desired,
waited upon, a woman to
die for, a woman who only
comes to the dead and sometimes
to the poor and the miserable
and rarely, almost never to the rich,
to the well-being, to those with
full bellies and pockets and
no worry of the morrow

strange tastes she has

above all
she loves madness
the mad never have to search for
her. It is her who hunts them
and unless they grow sober
and sane she never leaves

she goes by many names
and no name at all
and a name this second and
another the next
But names don't matter
she only cares about making love
and you'd better not wash yourself
before getting in bed with her,
don't chase the stingy smell
of hot spirits from your breath
don't clean your teeth or the
***** stains from your shirt
or the sweat
If your stomach keeps turning
around empty, void and
if your guts could make a little
music while you're at it, it's
even better. She loves this type of music
And if you still wanna take a step further
have your body covered in wounds
and rashes and some broken
bones where possible, a swollen
eye, a bent nose, a chewed off ear,
enough scars, missing teeth, and
oh, boy, she's yours

"Name me, lover boy!"

I call her simply The Muse

What about you?