This Is Not A Poem

1.

This is not a poem!
This defies the notion of poetry.  
It is contra the soulless abyss: 
the quasi-intellectual, amoral high-ground, 
conquered by pawns who became queens, 
cruising the dull corridors of academia, 
sucking the wrinkled cocks of aged dons, 
filling their hungry bellies 
with second hand, regurgitated words.

In the beginning, they say, was the word... 
but was that word good?  

Was HE who created this hierarchal world well-pleased?  
Did he pat himself on the back
as his creation became diseased,
turned cancerous, divided
and ate itself?
 
There was NO word at the beginning.  
The world was created with the beating of a drum, 
with the beating of two hearts racing to the thrust of coitus, raising life 
like a sunflower bursting from the ground 
in an explosion of screaming yellow colour...
only after that came THE WORD
and that word was “thou shalt not”
and with the word, the world was ruined

This is not a poem, but a love song.
I sing my love
thru’ the Jesus-Buddha-Krishna in me
who would have us all dancing
rather than trudging thru’ life.

This is not a poem,
not a tired, cynical, witty play on words,  
not an expiated gasp of intellectual masturbation.
It’s a howl,
a lament,
a cry of dissent.
It’s a fox nipping at your heals,
a torturer-saviour ripping off your eyelids
so you can see the clear light of day.

Oh sweet Jesus, sweet Buddha, sweet Krishna, 
sweet Kali Ma, sweet unaligned deity,
sweet spirit that sweeps the streets of these lonely cities...
pray fill me with your clarity, 
that I may tear away the veils of unreality
and soak these words
with LOVE.
Take me beyond the word, 
beyond the shallow restrictions of
thou shalt not
to the warm depths
of I can, you can, we all can.

Let us all swim in the pure energy of positivity.  
Let us dance to the primal rhythm, the vortex of fucking
that came before the word.

Let us dance on the ashes
of all its metallic, violent letters.

Let us expand the word so it is the world.
Let us dive through the cosmic yoni 
and be reborn
screaming
"O”
for every orgasm,
for every death,
for every letting go,
for every absolution.
The O that is in poem
The O that is in poet
The O that is in hole
The O that is in yoni
The O that is in word... 

Now take a deep breath
breathe in the golden light
and - letting go of all anger, all sorrow, all pain -
breathe out.
		
Exhale the poisons into the cleansing air,
the poisons that wreck our souls.  

If only we could cast out our demons,
command them:
be gone dull spirit, be gone dull care!
	
This is not a poem, but a demolition.
This is not a howl, but a scream.

Can you hear this scream?
Can you hear the ground underneath your feet trembling?

The Earth is cracking open
and blazing yellow flowers
are bursting through the asphalt.
					
This poem
which is not a poem
was born when I broke through the amniotic O of the word,
the O of the forbidden fruit which contained
the bad seed, which opened my eyes,
bore Lilith upon the wind
and cast Adam and Eve,
wailing and gnashing their teeth,
out of the kingdom of Eden

thru’ the scalding cunt
of Sheila-na-gig

into the aborted colonies of Maya

the dark cloud
that shrouds
Gaia.


 
2.

Are you lonesome tonight?  
Are you feeling lowdown, dirty and blue 
as you soak up that cathode-ray anaesthetic,  
that collage of meaningless promises?

Are you so lonesome that 
no fizzy drink, no snack, no alcoholic beverage,
no exotic holiday, no fast car, no three piece suite,
no government-sanctioned drug, no cigarette,
no item of clothing, 
no shoe, handbag or matching accessory,
no pension plan, insurance policy or loan,
no stereo, walkman or gameboy,
no magazine, journal or newspaper
can take the ache of loneliness away?
		
Is there a hole the size of the universe inside you?
			
I’m breathing with you.  I’ve been there
my brother, my sister, 
thru’ the internet-void of confusion,
thru’ the matrix of delusion.
I have smothered myself night after night
in the shallow dreams of illusion.  

I burned up
in the comet tail,
in the cathartic fire
of madness,
isolating myself
from the drift of animal warmth
the gregarious blindness
of the word.

I gobbled up the bad seed:
I ate and ate
until I vomited up a trail
of hyperventilating hallucinations
and fell through the birthing hole
into the icy waters
of my beginning...

and in that beginning
there was no word,
just an empty, repetitive beat
of frightened breathing.
	
It was like being fucked
by some entity
you couldn’t perceive
except
inside
there was no place to hide...
there was just me
and my emptiness
fucking me,
fucking me into a brighter, clearer
sharper, more painful,
place-less place...
		
so bright, so clear, so sharp, so painful
sometimes I wish I could just slip
backwards:
								
make marshmallow love to the television,
sink into the soft folds of the sofa,
not thinking,
just drinking in
the soporific valium
of endless mindless nothing.
 

3.

Here...
here is the cunt
the window
the hole

you are pushed and/or
you push yourself
thru’
a shattering

wriggling
cutting
crucifying
this hole is

the other side
cunt

stigmata
errata

not erotic
not sexual

this crawling cutting tearing ripping smearing bloody hole is

empty
godless eternity.
 

4.

This world is a frozen waste.  Climb thru’ the O and there are no glossy airbrushed models preening, 
no loud rude boys giving you that attitude thang, no greedy speculators masturbating their calculators, 
no calculated photographs of starving wide-eyed children, no metal monsters raking their claws thru 
the thin crust of the earth into magma netherworlds of brimstone and fire, no trembling ministers, 
no pornographers, no violent violators, no vibrators, no CD-roms, no nine to five monotony, no critics, 
no judges, no police, no deviant politicians, no autocrats, no technocrats, no bureaucrats, no bureaus, 
no lonely tomorrows, no unending sorrows, no unrequited loves, no god above.
	
All that ever is
and all that ever will be
is the small speck
of being...
self-centred
imperfect
and
imprecise.

This is not a poem:
I gave up poetry
when I went thru’
the O
that is inside
poetry...

the red vaginal walls constricting me, 
cutting off the air 
from my respiratory system.  

I thought I was dying.  
I didn’t know I was being born,
shorn,
honed down
to the raw bone.

I was born again
I was bone again

white powder
bone
stone

alone.
 

5.

I am alone, we are all alone: 
there is no jesus-saviour-shepherd 
to round us up with rescuing arms/ bloody knife.
	
This is 21st century reality.  
The churches are all yuppie flats, carpet warehouses, vacant lots.  
There is no panacea for your 21st century ills.  

What ails you is your vacuity:  
the malaise of a century 
freed from the rigors and constrictions 
of convention and coercion.  
We are FREE.  

Free to languish in vapid ennui.

This is not a poem:
it’s a cry in the wilderness,
faraway
from the various schools
of back-slapping
back-stabbing
fools
who are ever-so-clever
but not at all wise.

This is not a poem,
but a messianic overturning of tables
outside the gilded temple.

This is not a poem,
but a prayer for crucifixion.
	
Somebody, somebody,
please hear me!
Take me thru’ the cracked cosmic cunt 
into that other reality, 
away from this metropolitan, studied boredom.  
Take me thru’ the O that is in poem 
and strip me down to the raw, clean bone.
 

6.

This is the century of dissolution.
This is Kali Yuga.

The flesh is corrupt, begging for destruction:
the apocalypse is imminent,

but not upon a white horse...
there will be no angels, no trumpets, no plagues,
no triumphalist god,
no patient, gentle jesus with open arms 
receiving the sleeping souls of the sinless, no...
it will be more like a slow-burning, soggy entropy.  

The Hopi say 
the world will end when the hollow ones come.

I wait for the end of the world,
I anticipate it
with a certain dismal relish.

In the end there will be the word
and that word will be with God,
but that word will not be good.