Two More Cuntingly Crafted Poems Crammed Assfuckingly Between Two Pages of A Notebook Between 7 a.m. and 7:20 a.m. on August 20th, 2023
NARCISSUS FOUND A LOVER, PT. 2
The pain and purported purposelessness of pain provoked me to cram another can of kratom, in jest, to test its ingested effect or affect, except that its an addict who accepts that its better to see the first sun with glee as he begins to peak his head over the trees, than for misery to sew what the miser reaps in sobriety at seven a.m. over me, for it’s him who sees his reflection in the pond every day, not me, yet it’s me who falls in love and it’s me who falls in, and I doubt the sun even knows how to swim, alas, again and again, the past falls short of my whim, and the present rises also again, as the blathering blew me along with the wind, an analysis of beauty falls short of blooming, precisely on time, dead on the vine, a truth only known in rhythm and rhyme, a riddle a riddler could never confine, to see grace in flight, and attempt to own her, a ring to a finger, a cage to a bird, this is the riddler forcing beauty into words, for no matter his wisdom, no match for his wit, no matter how he mangles the words, beauty won’t fit, for it can’t be confined, it can’t be contained, it can’t analyze grace, so the pain dissipates with the mist on the pond, and the sun sees himself in everything as soon as it’s gone, so my eye sees only what I already Am, and if I Am That I Am, I must also be that resurrection, and I’ve fallen in love with much more than my reflection, I Am the lesson learned, and I Am the lesson, I’m the sun and the pond and the past evanescing, I’m the rise and the fall and the wax and the wane, I’m the good and the bad and the pleasure and pain, so when I fall in love with beauty, I’ve fallen in love with I Am, and even the pain is I Am, I Am, That I Am is beauty, again and again, That I Am is beauty at seven a.m.
SECOND PAGE TYPED FOR YOUR FLUFFY LITTLE FACE HOLES
To feel as though this body actually belongs to me, however temporarily, to rid the dread and loathing of the old anhedonia, the phony holy sewing seeds of Sardonia, artificial kiss I’m holding up on stilts of sticks I picked up amongst this amiss bliss with clenched fists, fits of restlessness, shivers and shits, the every-other-day addict arises against the midst, the mean and mode of man-made malaised mist evaporating alone, a drop of the ocean, a flash in the pan, a thought ever in motion which seeks only to be still in a world of dogs eating dogs, kill or be killed, can’t understand, can’t fathom man, wheels of time, cogs, delirious dogs, none of whom are Sirius, and gods to whom I used to honor like this, with words and sounds provoked into being with the artificial kiss of this amiss bliss, a leaf (kratom) or a flower (opium) or a fermented fruit (alcohol), a fungi I found on cow shit (psilocybin), all of which I presumed were God’s gifts, though I’ve learned through the years that each kiss is a curse and a gift which can only be discerned by the tongue after it hit or missed the sense, and the only real value is in the awareness it gets, and the thought is useless if it never sits, stays, never rolls over, these are dog-eat-dog tricks, shake or break a leg, if it’s not still, it’s still amiss, and if it’s amiss, it’s not truly bliss, so the dog goes for another walk around the wheel of time with a sense of relief, however benign, however unholy, unworthy of the ache of life, and the dog honors God with the gift of riddling rhyme, out of synch, off kilter, still in time, disappointed in his inability to find the rhythm of the divine, begging for bread and wine beneath the dinner table, yearning for praise, guidance, or some piece of God’s mind.
Please send your strongly worded letters to this address:
Richard Milhous Nixon
c/o Accompanying Devil/Demon
3538 Gunston Rd
Alexandria, VA 22302