Feeling Alive With The Dead
In the heat of the wind I stood on the sidewalk naked in this dark city street
Where the ghosts and the hellions stood and stared at me
judging me in this naked dark light
even when it wasn’t light that I could see,
it was the kind of light they could see.
The kind of light that only if you were a ghost or a hellion or other
evil supernatural creature would be able to judge.
No regular human would be able to see this light.
The light to a dark creature would be considered darkness to a human,
and the vice versa is true for a human or any other creature
of a positive position for that matter.
They all stared at me like I was a creature in the darkness
like I was a ghost or a hellion. Like I was one of them for that matter.
How ridiculous of a thought you might think.
But it’s one of those things that if everybody thinks you’re something,
then they’re probably right.
That’s probably the least poetic sentence I’ve written this second
in this automatic writing that appears before me.
The kind of writing that Jim Morrison or Kurt Cobain would be writing.
Even someone like Billie Joe Armstrong that hypocritical punk asshole.
I don’t really like punk because of it’s anger. That’s the wrong form of it’s.
But that’s ok because I went to school for a very long time
and it doesn’t really matter of the grammatical errors I make in this writing.
That’s ok because the sofa bears don’t know.
That was probably the most aksfljdslkaj thing
that I made in this proverbial stamen that I have written in this thing.
At this point I’m just repeating myself of this breathing that I do in the light.
Many poetic things talk about the darkness that I talk about
but as a poet I want to talk about the light.
Very few artists talk about the light that stands right before them.
I think it was George Harrison that says
that sometimes the light is right in front of us but we can’t see it.
That’ shows how good of a writer you are
when the thoughts just flow from your hands
and you don’t even look at them as they unfold from your fingers
and that’s ok because some people don’t know
how the process of thoughts from your mind unfolds
because of the mystery of how it works.
I think most of you might be thinking that this is Bukowski esque bullshit
that you know.
I do know that he is a huge asshole
that sucks the light out of most things that conseume darkness
the little darkness they may have him sucks it out of them
like a lamp sucks the darkness out of a room.
My penis is long.
That’s vulgar why did I write that shit.
That’s because it came into my mind.
When you write what comes into your mind you’re scaring yourself
like you won’t believe
because words flow from your mind like nothing else can.
That’s the beauty of the language you know.
English is my first language but it doesn’t matter