Artwork by the legendary Ralph Steadman
a dog that chases its tail will be dizzy
not accomplishing anything
though it feels busy
can’t find its bones buried beneath the backyard tree
next to its goals
wow. that’s shitty.
if Melvil Dewey saw this, he’d be in a tizzy
but he’s dead.
and my shovel has dulled away from overuse
there’s a copious amount of my possessions
strewn about like a poltergeist had gone mad with vigor
i feel like i do when someone calls me a nigger
my emotions as tangible as a phantasm
my thoughts as straight forward as broken sarcasm
my cognition & body are skinny
& i feel as superfolous as Our Lord’s daily bread
some actions are better left undone
words left unsaid
scabs left unscratched
crimson tears better left unbled
oh, if only i had somewhere to rest my head.
I revel in myself
with the simple phrase “I am.”
in this technicolor climate with city lights that blind so massive
an insidious canopy, puppeteering the masses with translucent threads made of impassiveness
I’m just another unorthodox soul sending smokescreen signals throughout the land
telling whomever listens that I’m worth a good goddamn
to flaunt one’s irregular imperfections so boldly is considered by many to be the work of dark magic
isn’t it tragic? for oppression to be so prominent without any mention of pragmatics?
I’ll keep growing into a galactic primadonna
pirouetting through vibrant nebulae
psych’o’delic wisps of cosmic slop swirling around my ankles
constellations forming from the curls of my fro’
dark matter fluff creating intergalactic diamonds in the rough
Yes I’m made of all of this and more, interestingly enough.
The Banished Ones vs The Aristocratics. I wonder, I wonder, who’s actions are truly more dramatic..?
maybe you too but I’m sure you already knew
thats my theory, anyway.
Ever read a book by an author that seemed to express feelings in ways that you never knew were possible to say so (seemingly) easily and made you feel emotions that you didn’t even know were possible? Or heard a piece of music that made you astral project out of your physical form, out into the stratosphere and could feel clouds slip through your fingers as you flew past? Or played a video game so immersive that you can’t possibly comprehend that you’ve actually spent as many hours in it that the screen says you have as you save your progress before taking a piss break?
The creators of those kinds of works…fuck them. Seriously, those assholes can go fuck themselves with a Hepatitis infected tree branch whittled with a carving knife by an ISIS kamikaze bomber in the bathroom of a suburban elementary school. I say that with love, of course.
For if folks didn’t feel this way, art would cease to exist. No one would be inspired and no one would be under the influence.
Everything comes from something. The next Big Idea will inspired by something, the same way cavemen were inspired to create a mini fire source, like the flaming orb they saw in the sky. Or the way a young boy will aspire to grow up and harm millions of people the way his presidential father did. It’s a beautiful cycle that will never end and, hopefully, never will.
Nothing is wholly original. Everything has already been done, even if nobody’s seen it before. But that doesn’t make it any less significant.
There are authors and artists I look up to and will probably surpass some day but it will never be me who comes to that conclusion. Some lone kid will come across something I’ve created and go, “Oh my god, this guy is brilliant. Fucking asshole.” Meanwhile I’ll be ignoring whatever accolades come my way and reading a novel from 30 years before I was born, saying the same thing.
Comparison will kill you, this is true, but having nothing to compare yourself with is death itself.
So fuck everyone who is far more talented than I will ever be. I hate you and I hope you live long and prosper.