I just don’t think it would be that hard to figure out who Banksy is.
February 12, 2011
Monday Monday…
but it’s Saturday.
Two Am.
Shoulders tense, fingers missing a number of keys and the birds are not singing.
I cannot sing this early or late, normally I’d be singing or gesturing gutturally, but it is as stated, two Am.
It’s is difficult for me to watch the small calico cat shivering outside. Capturing her is a fate not intertwined with my family, there have been efforts, she likes the food we buy but not the warmth and carpeting.
I’ve somewhere to be eight hours, roughly, and I’ve no desire to back out.
At least the accustomed mood has lifted while the noise reasons.
I’ve yet to determine if I should post daily or as daily as I feel moved to. Either is accomplished with ease.
The Calico (Momma Kitty) perched on the railing, cleaning herself while the surfeit of raccoons have fits and theorize and chatter.
There are fucking raccoons – big ones – on my three season porch. it’s too late to fire a gun. Lucky fuckers.
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This has been brought to you by…
“no cure for insomnia inc.”
where people rock back and forth all night,
muttering balderdash and realities.
January 30, 2011
bathe every open wound
five am –
nothing like not being able to sleep due to the feeling of the skin crawling off the muscle and the emptiness invading broken bones.
A cigarette now and then back into bed –
my skin feels oily, my chest is going to explode.
insomnia – the supposed friend of writers everywhere.
try being a cripple with a cripple walk and then try wearing slippers. Mine have the image of Freud but even that bit of funniness doesn’t make them stay on any better when i cripple walk up a single step into the kitchen from the garage where one will fall right after I have outed the lights, followed quickly by the other in a scramble to replace the foot. crawling works better.
there is a child staring at me from the crack I’ve left in the door. It’s not mine.
This is probably disturbing as hell to my wife who is going to read this when she wakes up and realizes that I did not get to sleep at all or at least until six am.
she’s just learned that I’ve been cutting all my meds for weeks now.
this might be disturbing as hell to anyone reading this – or just mildly interesting.
I am not altogether invested in your reaction, although it is nice to read.
I didn’t post yesterday because a friend lost someone and I didn’t have words to comfort them.
I will probably delete this when I come to my senses later on.
until then – here’s a pome…
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bathe every open wound
bathe every open wound
murder me a rose
forgive the violations
adolescent pornographic magazine libido
a dirty young man
who has
old bones
who has
atrophied musculatures
who
doesn’t wear helmets
who
awakes in a plain mood
who
scribbles indecipherably
ill lighted back corner lots
who
limps triumphantly
dances incessantly
who
tears wildly at television commercials
who has
piles of unpublishable odes and laments
who
walks around with guns in pockets
who
gives to the rich
gives to the poor
gives lavishly to self
who
send out letters, mid-twentieth century formatting
who
masturbates feverishly under covers before trying to sleep
who
smokes privately, drinks publicly
who
once, in youth, stole a copy of John Lennon’s “imagine”
who
answers what, who, why and when
with why, what, who and now
who
walks lonely at night for no reason
who
cuts himself to cut out the childhood monster still haunting in dreams
who
quietly ignores the family dynamic of drama
who
sits up hours on end listening to poets in their own voices
who
uncompromisingly refuses to get up until all stiffness is diminished
who
rides motorcycles at 75-80 mph in route to therapy sessions
who has
forgiven people their existence but holds self at higher standard
I’ve given up
offer me that flower/rose from you garden
the one you promised me.
November 27, 2010
It’s about four in the morning or so
well fuck it, I’m staying awake tonight to see if I can pull this insomnia at night thing into the more normal ‘trouble falling asleep but doing so eventually anyway’ and away from the ‘I watch the sunrise and then get sleepy’ category.
I am currently digesting Paradise Lost by Milton and am going to go through the epics before I return to normal reading. As I am not a Christian or Catholic I get to read this from a pure poetical standpoint and dig deep into his word and line – which are beyond measure beautiful and striking. Interesting is how words have changed meaning over the years, i.e. reeking – now it refers to something with foul and unappealing odor and when he wrote it it meant more of vaporizing or disintegrating.
While not as cool as Beethoven being deaf or Monet being nearly blind – Milton was totally blind when he wrote all 12 books of Paradise Lost. being unable to see what needs to be worked and writing in iambic pentameter is astounding to me not to mention being able to keep the complicated narrative of Paradise Lost in mind while doing the aforementioned composition. oh, and he was also hated at that point in history by the powers that be so he did this in hiding and was jailed at some point around then as well, not for being a bad guy but for saying the wrong things about the powerful.
This is not to be taken for better perusal of his history and selected from my memory of a blurb I read somewhere – probably the preface to the tome I am reading.
I feel ashamed for waiting this long to read it and can only admit that I have skimmed the other epics (Odyssey, Iliad, Aeneid, Metamorphosis, Beowulf) some fairly heavy skimming but still. I am correcting this oversight presently.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 