I am Evil and I am Going to Hell... but oh well...

Slavery of the will to lay in
want of some worth beyond
obeyance; and be over-filled
with some unfound devotion

That the heart loathes the
simpler sympathies of the mind,
conjecture is always safe
as it asserts nothing but doubt

Walking along the night-avenue
and passing such subdued creatures,
captured by panache-- that even
they are not sure what they
would want, wish or feel for if they
bore witness to one more star
falling

Sometimes it seems a more noble
cause to suffer all these cravings & addictions
then to be still and passive;
submit to that ennobled lethargy of poets
that sing such sweetened praises
to tree and hill, moon and star;
saccharine odes of memorae...

Remember the first time you fucked?

No-no, not the soft pitter-patter
and sweet pangs of dulled pleasure
of a practiced (special?) orgasm--
but when your heart was hammering
as if it were trying to claw
and tear its way out from your chest;
the body near forgotten beyond
every rich and pure sensation of...

Why does this seem, somehow, more diabolic to you-- dear-heart?

Ah yes, the hookers must be driven out of
heartland, for the body must remain
sacred (nad yet, there still seem to be a few
money-changers at that temple, but oh well-- never mind)

All I am saying is give me something to believe in man...

"Home is heaven and orgies are vile,
but I really don't mind an orgy every once in a while"...
Ah Ogden, thou art a wicked pecker
at those great and illustrious hall of words and sounds
that one should, and should not, say aloud
Most especially in such virgin verse

And oh yes, Mr. Nash, your polemifizing
rant about too much metaphoring going on
in verse? You must recant! Repent! and all that
Say what you mean? Really Mr. Nash,
now how pretty is that?

You have left a stain on the sheets, old Boy
(and had the gall to mention
and draw attention to it, no less)
Say what you really mean?
How... how...

Yeah, I'll catch the next round brother;
for which we can ponder upon yonder
hills from our poets hell
(and not actually tell anyone
we are rambling on about tits;
nudge-nudge, wink-wink)

Oh, that I should ever see
a tree as fucked as Kilmer's (perhaps even down on her knees),
I shall promptly go into my Lizzie Borden act
and give that sucker forty whacks

And when I seen what I have done,
Wordsworth is next...

Yes, I am evil and likely going to poets' hell
(Rimbaud has been there he said,
though I do hope there isn't all that buggery
going about. And just to keep my record
straight, buggery is the polite word for gay
ass sex-- which is not my particular cup
of... skip that over that one too,
as I hate any fricking kind of tea)

But oh well... and fuck you too Tennyson!

Heh-he, yes, I feel better now.

Peace,
Po