December 15, 2001
I wrote some poems this week. I haven't been in the journal writing
mood. The Russian is driving me mad. I'm trying to squeeze the art out of the
madness. Poetry has become my new escape.
I was thinking of this scene in The Wall this week. Figured it would
work in this journal entry.....
Pink Floyd The Wall -
Teacher: What have we here, laddie? Mysterious scribblings? A secret
code? No! Poems, no less! Poems, everybody!
[class laughs]
Teacher: The laddie reckons himself a poet!
[reads poem]
Teacher: "Money get back / I'm all right, Jack / Keep your hands
off my stack / New car / Caviar / Four star daydream / Think I'll buy me a
football team." Absolute rubbish, laddie.
[whacks him with a ruler, growls at Pink]
Teacher: Get on with your work.
carbonated memory loss
wake up
just to check
your sexual
glycerine
index.
go back to sleep
and dream about
greek cheese cakes
and
lost tax receipts.
ive got a lot of issues
and im not talking
sports illustrated
or
national geographic.
volumes of problems
turned up to 10
repeat
do it all over again.
I'm a fan of the fan
and i eat more spinach
than Popeye the sailor man.
dump some olive oil in your ear.
inject carbonated
memory loss
with an
ink dropper
and
a
harpoon spear.
fastened
i am fastened
there is no other word.
i miss it
sitting naked
with our clothes on
almost to scared to look.
i was on the cliff again
you know the one
the one that allows you to look over the edge,
across the galaxy
and eventually,
end up watching the back of your
head.
eternal super glue
half of the time is spent looking for the pen,
and the rest is for searching for the paper.
words?
well they just write themselves.
isn’t there a shirt in this world that fits.
they all seem to itch
and have some weird static cling.
searching for my self in movies and history books
i think i ran in to him yesterday,
or was that me?
tuna and cat fish have devoured my apartment
what is this beast,
and when will it truly be released.
its more confused every day
and that’s why
i build my web
a mish mash of perversities, and organic space trash
a note floating down from zardac 2
a planet made up of
granite, and soiled mattresses.
awake in this rape, to face the day
broken fingers,
held together by eternal super glue.
decafatated
the letter sense of amusement
this is it.
the real thing.
the wild west.
show me your sundays best.
the cactus fights
spaghetti
sex girls in the windy city.
lego pock marked marks
tuck you stomach in sir
the reminder
the pocket comb-over
double -over
we call
rover
over
the late afternoons
the fall
playing after school football
with a teacher with one arm
he has a beard
his breathe smells like an old ashtray
oranges, and eggs.
he still has both of his legs
the school bell
it is the never ending pillow fight
from hell.
alone on a stone
lowered lower
than the lowest low
on a lawn mowing mowers
setting
i go.
a fragment of dirt
hitchhiking across time.
garbage bags of memories
surround me
reminding me of my enemy.
a searchlight is nice
when used looking for lice.
an echo plays echo
with a young boy
with freckles…
me?
well lets just say
i spend most of the day
cleaning
and
getting dirty
in the evening.
small things arouse the mind
most of the time.
kramming and krunking
its constantly dumping.
strange ditties in the cities.
alone on a stone
counting beans in my jeans.
touch it with a stick
try and make yourself sick.
perhaps you should go to the market
and buy a new carpet.
this one is getting old
and smells like toad mould.
wasted sundays
and even filthier mondays.
depressed
tongue depressers
pills and pain
for the brain.
alone on a stone
just me
and
this soul
that i
stole.
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