COMPENDIUM

A day of many thoughts. Selected Poems of T.S. Eliot and Ginsberg’s Deliberate Prose. I keep trying to find my place in all of this… I’m no romantic nor do I keep the Beat. I learn from the masters: Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Genet. They just won’t get back to me! Maybe I am following a path of my own making; like a kid chewing up on a madeleine, half awake and half asleep, languid, uncovering secret geographies, examining daft political truths, studying vertigos, rendezvous at the Suicide Park, preaching the anattā, boys and girls together; evil unravels, love unwinds, stolen kisses underneath the tunnel, an itch that can’t be scratched; these are my scars.

THERE’S NO MONEY IN POETRY AND NO POETRY IN MONEY.

I only wrote one good poem and its words were all fake, the exhalations were all wrong, the self began to ache. I’d do anything for a lover; chaining wrists and kissing feet, spitting filth upon fine meat, never knowing when to stop. And what could I say having no scene behind me, with the music that can’t be sung spilling its little broken images, hoping to simply slice an eyelid? Hating is a natural thing. I am anonymous and I think of cities, of lilac skies and smokey amber clouds falling sparse across the afternoon, and with every step that I take the gates open up a little bit.