THE MANIFESTO OF THE SAINT OF SORROW
or
FROM THE DISORDERED MINDS OF MODERN MEN
1.
When I met him I was just a child...young and bleeding in deserts of Gardenias'...and needles poking into trouble I proposed to bring him in to the Hells of my affliction...bring him along for the ride. He rode thunder birds into my words and brought alcoholic wisdom and cocaine philosophy with him in packaged dream poems under his arm...he was a cynic with a mad love for satire and cruel humor.
I stumbled upon a dream and there he sat on a stool in the bar downtown...drinking scotch and scribbling poetry on napkins and loose paper dolls. I was drunk and followed him in crazy worlds of magic. My brother in all my so far lives....I squeek and snarl under his crimson river of barfly tears...reformed junkies now in the quiet winter of our short lives...the pain has ceased and we can rest now.
2.
I am the saint of sorrow...the guardian of madmen and the keeper of lonely souls. Tarnished inside the sickness of feverish breath. Sorry when Thompson fucked it all and blew it all out the end of a .357. I am the weird painter and son of a bitch and ancient word version of Jack the Ripper. I'm not a wise man and I have no answers...only solitude to give in birthday cakes to inmates in elder cell-blocks. No punishment anymore as I have felt the wave of redemption shit on me with more than I deserved...why was I so easy to cast aside--by god and man. Forgotten I know, but the angel told me the line--"we haven't forgotten you!"
Terror in incinerator night of quick boredom. The tones of wickedness residing in towers on the hill in my heart--just to watch over the land like bodyguards. Whisper away the secrets of the dead...I am DEATH and can never die. So don't worry about me--but thank you anyway...you angel, you sister, you dearest friend whom I do anything for--don't worry about me because Hell is just home...and I no longer need saving. For there is nothing left to save...at least anything human.
Sometimes I wander what it was that caused Van Goh to loose his mind...was it the absinthe or did he just go mad with only one ear? Or did he see the future alas in acres patched like chess board of fire and waves of love. The arm of the laws of God moisten and spoil...fester in the comforting grips of death...the lure of which makes the practice of medicine upon myself seem all the more worth the while it will take to see the ending.
3.
The Ending...ah yes we gotta have an ending. But the booze in my breath is enough to kill a horse. Baudelaire said it to me in forgotten ages...beyond this world in realms of spirit men...I smoke because that's what writers do...stress and a longing for what lies beyond the pages of dying. I feel like dying...not a fit of sadness cause those are what make life interesting. I feel like dying because that's what I can never do...like immortals of sunset beaches...Heaven fell on the Earth. Pounding out the breath and vision of Eden and paradise is forever lost...And that's where Dante came in with his Comedy so Divine that told me scripture of Hell Purgatory Heaven...the point being to ascend and to learn what it means to live. And Dante walked aside the greatest men but why were they the ones in Hell? The artist--those who died before we invented God and all follies. His dandies and hateful hand...the parent figure with too much time...the ghost king of all existence...such a spiteful love! Such tough love with no weakness in sight...just the slowed collapse of my heart inside so many failures.
Whats wrong with me? Surely there must be something! The whole world will stand aloof and mock my falling from the chair. I am too apart to be loved and too kind to be hated. But I am extreme in the blackness of night (absence of color) and the bright birds of day (abundance of color)...I am on the boundaries and hover over the edge like flowers on window-sills....in heart scrappers entering thru the veins--injecting a little of the loss of God back into everyone...the loss of Anne all over again. And I can't cry anymore because I'm all out of tears! Poe is the only one who could understand. Fuck the rest of you in your smug poems of the city and you're everyday nonsense you spout from stages of glory memorizing your words. I write puzzles for you and you can put the pieces together yourself.
And with that I give my adieu...I'm off to surf in the mountains and meditate on the backs of extinct birds.
1-29-2008
___________________________________
Grateful for your opinions and responses
Thanks for reading
or
FROM THE DISORDERED MINDS OF MODERN MEN
1.
When I met him I was just a child...young and bleeding in deserts of Gardenias'...and needles poking into trouble I proposed to bring him in to the Hells of my affliction...bring him along for the ride. He rode thunder birds into my words and brought alcoholic wisdom and cocaine philosophy with him in packaged dream poems under his arm...he was a cynic with a mad love for satire and cruel humor.
I stumbled upon a dream and there he sat on a stool in the bar downtown...drinking scotch and scribbling poetry on napkins and loose paper dolls. I was drunk and followed him in crazy worlds of magic. My brother in all my so far lives....I squeek and snarl under his crimson river of barfly tears...reformed junkies now in the quiet winter of our short lives...the pain has ceased and we can rest now.
2.
I am the saint of sorrow...the guardian of madmen and the keeper of lonely souls. Tarnished inside the sickness of feverish breath. Sorry when Thompson fucked it all and blew it all out the end of a .357. I am the weird painter and son of a bitch and ancient word version of Jack the Ripper. I'm not a wise man and I have no answers...only solitude to give in birthday cakes to inmates in elder cell-blocks. No punishment anymore as I have felt the wave of redemption shit on me with more than I deserved...why was I so easy to cast aside--by god and man. Forgotten I know, but the angel told me the line--"we haven't forgotten you!"
Terror in incinerator night of quick boredom. The tones of wickedness residing in towers on the hill in my heart--just to watch over the land like bodyguards. Whisper away the secrets of the dead...I am DEATH and can never die. So don't worry about me--but thank you anyway...you angel, you sister, you dearest friend whom I do anything for--don't worry about me because Hell is just home...and I no longer need saving. For there is nothing left to save...at least anything human.
Sometimes I wander what it was that caused Van Goh to loose his mind...was it the absinthe or did he just go mad with only one ear? Or did he see the future alas in acres patched like chess board of fire and waves of love. The arm of the laws of God moisten and spoil...fester in the comforting grips of death...the lure of which makes the practice of medicine upon myself seem all the more worth the while it will take to see the ending.
3.
The Ending...ah yes we gotta have an ending. But the booze in my breath is enough to kill a horse. Baudelaire said it to me in forgotten ages...beyond this world in realms of spirit men...I smoke because that's what writers do...stress and a longing for what lies beyond the pages of dying. I feel like dying...not a fit of sadness cause those are what make life interesting. I feel like dying because that's what I can never do...like immortals of sunset beaches...Heaven fell on the Earth. Pounding out the breath and vision of Eden and paradise is forever lost...And that's where Dante came in with his Comedy so Divine that told me scripture of Hell Purgatory Heaven...the point being to ascend and to learn what it means to live. And Dante walked aside the greatest men but why were they the ones in Hell? The artist--those who died before we invented God and all follies. His dandies and hateful hand...the parent figure with too much time...the ghost king of all existence...such a spiteful love! Such tough love with no weakness in sight...just the slowed collapse of my heart inside so many failures.
Whats wrong with me? Surely there must be something! The whole world will stand aloof and mock my falling from the chair. I am too apart to be loved and too kind to be hated. But I am extreme in the blackness of night (absence of color) and the bright birds of day (abundance of color)...I am on the boundaries and hover over the edge like flowers on window-sills....in heart scrappers entering thru the veins--injecting a little of the loss of God back into everyone...the loss of Anne all over again. And I can't cry anymore because I'm all out of tears! Poe is the only one who could understand. Fuck the rest of you in your smug poems of the city and you're everyday nonsense you spout from stages of glory memorizing your words. I write puzzles for you and you can put the pieces together yourself.
And with that I give my adieu...I'm off to surf in the mountains and meditate on the backs of extinct birds.
1-29-2008
___________________________________
Grateful for your opinions and responses
Thanks for reading
