AmmutTheDevourer
Bluelighter
This was originally posted by BluLiter, I just grabbed it out of Archives so people could have another look, for any new comers that never read it before. In all honesty i think its amazing, though writing literature doesn't seem to be his strong point compared to poetry.
A Manifesto for Poets and the Libido of their Work
Spoken in Metaphors, Similes, and Personifications
By
Bryan Peters
Who are poets you ask? They are a luminous prodigy race completely apart from all human beings while never leaving their mortal coil. Their emotions, all their feelings, their reactions are opposed to so called normal people’s. The overman verse architects are vulnerable and deeply sensitive people due to their talents and super imagination- their knowledge of hidden influence of which ordinary human beings are not. They are not easy to live with if you chose to live with them at all. Even more rare, is getting to see the birth of one, it’s like a rose sprouting from concrete. They have to be handled with kid-gloves mentally and physically. Poets are paintings that never dry. So do be careful when touching them, they will smear. All their reactions go to extremes compared to the non-artistic blood, bone, and flesh.
They are victims of rape, of their own self-pity, of war, of suicidal thought, and abuse. They are lively corpses dancing in desert suns blindly in love, and children smiling as a mother, the name for God on the tongues and lips of all children, kisses a scraped knee. Poets are philosophers and idol deities. They are sissies and they are samurai warriors. They are freedom fighters, anarchists, and politicians without a vote. They are walking obelisks smothered in the after birth of miraculous conception. Poets never yawn or say a common place thing, they shock, they titillate, and they are the jumper cables on your cerebral cortex. Haiku and sonnet chiefs cleanse the doors of perception like janitors with Windex who have been taking out your trash and flushing your shit. They take the fear and doubt in ransom notes and cut them up to paper dolls. The ones that write between the lines have learned to snap their synapse and function without A.D.D. medication or bi-polar diagnosis.
These juggernauts, monoliths, and children curled in corners are the people you want to touch to see what’s behind their eyes. They are the beings that little glass people spy on through tiny little keyholes. Those who allow their cells to molt away, cluster on the ground, and fuck in the dirt so they may grow into brightly colored flowers, are poets. With a pen and an alphabet or set of hieroglyphs, they paint scabs to cover wounds, encased in scars. The poet’s thinking cap, whether diabolic or seraph-like, is as blank as a vapid canvas, yet it holds all the artillery any palette would need to participate in the war of art, which could contain the razor blades, cotton swabs, and anything else they feel is necessary after the mighty fountain pen has ejaculated one too many times and becomes impotent and dry for the night. The titans of riddles seek the torment in Heaven and they discover pleasure in Hades. Their soft word trances are seeking insanity in your soft cave heads.
The writers of rhymes, rhythms, and free verse don’t mind being ogled, ridiculed, or made to feel miniscule about their work, for true authors know the source is less than adequate. Only the likes of Annubis, Aphrodite, Loki, Cupid, and Krishna can judge them, not the harlequins that think they are telepathically literate. Their product does not care about an audience of jaded cynics, for “boo’s” are elegant and melodic when harmonized.
The minds of the colossal phonic sentients burn and permeate in ecstasy, euphoria, and other spine displacing states. This group, that has mastered a delusioned grammar, can be arrogant or become opaque due to a fear of failure. Poets are rancid petals flowering forth foul nectar and they are morning glories bloomed dripping with dew. Cannibals of love, fear, excitement, confusion, sadness, and other various emotions are imperious, choleric, irascible, and in excess in every word they utter. These men and women stepping into another beings shoes can be as voyeuristic as the new wave of burlesque pin up girls. They have an ever expanding and dissolute creativity of the likes of which have never been seen. The points they make in one completed work can be felt to the point of mystic fanaticism.
These trapped souls blink only with their ear canal and their eyes have been dehydrated and sunburned, or freezer burned for that matter, only for their visions to intensify like they’re eyelids have cracked and tattered away so their retinas can receive contrasts of moral and emotional light and dark eternally. Anything they look at becomes an aggressive-fashion-rape-sympathy cuddled up to a teddy bear. The shaman, wearing alter-ego disguises, are theatrical, but not in your theaters of Disney Movies and action flicks. Pencil pioneers notice how everyone else’s mind has expired way passed the purchase date and still attempt to relate to them. They are brilliant sluts of thought. They can kneel in front of crucifixes while singing a gospel or they could dance in fire worship immersed in a voodoo chant.
Their waves can be calm, as words flow on crests and meanings suck you under in a subliminal undertow. They are watching sunsets over cascading waterfalls as they are sculpting the language of choice in serene scenes. Or they can be typhoons with tidal waves, violent as punks in the prime of their era. Watch as salt water, sand, and grit slam dance in angst, loathing, alienation, havoc, misanthropy, and in the Theory of Chaos. Pay attention closely, as you would at a Vaudeville show, and see where these bodies of water break off into streams. Watch them flow and ripple quietly off to bizarre, perverse, and absurd arenas of contemplation. Poets know nothing of the shores and barriers of good taste, even if they state they do, for it is the enemy of creativity. And most certainly you will not find them trapped in the likes of ponds. They must be drenched in the Nile and baptized in the Amazon, swept away by these natural forces so they’re pens can float off into a new Olympus or Atlantis. Whether this new plateau will bring them humor, eroticism, danger, or a mutation of any “normal” emotion is beyond their knowledge. Metaphor messiahs are just concerned about the journey. These overseers of quills and Bic pens take the road not taken, even if it leaves them just another insect on a windshield smeared and scarred. They hope, by doing this, they will find a trail that will make all the difference.
Blue pills are swallowed as they step into the matrix with their phalanx of dualities participating in a Fight Club. They go skipping down yellow brick roads, veering off to the third star on the right for a Neverland rest stop, just to continue on through detours of Alice’s Wonderland, on their way to the Emerald City. Only to find that the wizard they’ve been looking for is a Raven, flown in from the Dark Side of the Moon, rapping at a chamber door of a Victorian asylum. When the journey has reached its destination, they will finally reach the brink of imagination, then look back in hindsight at the ones left behind and wonder if those amoeba can become the undefined and well designed hydras and Cyclops in the jungle of imagination. But, they will feel pity knowing the normal barbaric human could never break the paradigms they have through introspection.
His or her attempts to show other people what they mean will end in the realization that the tyranny of squares can’t comprehend a doodle. Though all men are illustrated, many are erasers, few are pencils, and fewer are pens. The Pens, that are spoken of, are your poets. The supreme linguistic machines do not repent for words that roll from their tongue to ink wells, for it is the only safe haven and sanctuary for them. By the time their work is done, they have violated their mind, ravished images as they formed in their electric and pregnant womb of a brain, exposed secrets and prophecies like broken bones in their spiritual rape and conquest, they seize reality, and they go straight in a waltz, fox trot, or Nazi march with it when life forks in order to change the path the paragraph infiltrates your brain. Poets overload databanks with an explosive, revolutionary science. These creatures of speech are revered as the pinnacle of striking up adjective and verb-fests in which they shake up the world as if it were the second coming of Christ, for their souls have violated that status quo parole and are thrice divine.
But what is this non-sense jargon they write that serves no purpose in this MTV, Pentium, sex appeal, violent society that so proudly stands fagged out on the corner of every street chemically abducted and hallowed out like the ‘O’ in our neo-Christian God? It is the soundtrack and narration for this pitiful and pathetic existence each of you live, that creates this world, destroys it, and creates it again. The stanza can create like a Big Bang, as the hiatus between words can destroy like Revelations. It is the personification and imagery of dreams and drunkenness, showing you in a macro-faceted dimension of the tragedy formed by the friction of Dionysians and Apollinians. Their writings are a game of deception and lies to help you realize a truth. In these confused and contorted lines, that may not be in a line at all, they use syllables to make symbols breed. It is hypocrisy, it is a contradiction, it is the chicken and the egg, and a mathematical fractal either so simple or so complex that no sacred geometry would ever determine its exponential value. It is a Red Cross aid to court a muse and it is a Jihad crusade that makes the news. It is a fist full of fesces for clones and drones of flies to feast when the writer feels the need to awaken the deceased. It is hip-hop spreading rhymes like rashes. It is Leaves of Grass, rock lyrics, and Homer epics that enter into every ring prepared to swing. Poems, like all art, intend to enter your essence with the stealth of HIV. It is real and surreal all at once blended better than bar drinks to make a volatile combination.
The things poets put on paper, spray on buildings, carve into desks, and mark on their skin is the ultimate anarchy of thought and emotion unified for a purpose that can be mainstream, underground, raw, or refined. This 120-car-pile-up-nose-breaking-ritual-cattle-mutilation-emergency-room-costume-party-collision-of-words they spew forth requires not one rule or set vocabulary, in which you can be assured the Dada and beatniks would agree.
They are not your plethora of standard hum-drum mental midgets that society gives birth to every time she decides to spread her legs. These visionary nirvana seekers do not produce the same old crap in a dead fad pumped out by factory machines. Their artistry is not meant to lay on coffee tables and decorate apartments. It is not for the bourgeois to frame and hang so they may cover a hole in the wall or a hole in their lives, nor to make holes in their wallets or their hearts. This would only imprison their prisms of isms and personality. Their work is a tactic of war and conflict, internal and external, and should be grouped with the likes of medieval torture devices and nuclear bombs. Their work only thrives in contrast, comparison, and adversity. Their end result displays an intelligence that crushes the censorship of parental advisory stickers and rating systems. Though his/her actions may be callus in day-to-day life and seem to have the same void as shards of glass and bloodstained asphalt at an intersection, they are filled with more passion than you will ever be aware of. So gather your flocks and alarm your neighbors, guard your houses and triple the watch, tell them all the shepherds have come and have to keys to unlock every emotion, the opinion preached at every podium, and every occurrence mankind is capable of. They are everything and they are nothing, but most of all- what squiggles away at their finger tips is infinite…..
A Manifesto for Poets and the Libido of their Work
Spoken in Metaphors, Similes, and Personifications
By
Bryan Peters
Who are poets you ask? They are a luminous prodigy race completely apart from all human beings while never leaving their mortal coil. Their emotions, all their feelings, their reactions are opposed to so called normal people’s. The overman verse architects are vulnerable and deeply sensitive people due to their talents and super imagination- their knowledge of hidden influence of which ordinary human beings are not. They are not easy to live with if you chose to live with them at all. Even more rare, is getting to see the birth of one, it’s like a rose sprouting from concrete. They have to be handled with kid-gloves mentally and physically. Poets are paintings that never dry. So do be careful when touching them, they will smear. All their reactions go to extremes compared to the non-artistic blood, bone, and flesh.
They are victims of rape, of their own self-pity, of war, of suicidal thought, and abuse. They are lively corpses dancing in desert suns blindly in love, and children smiling as a mother, the name for God on the tongues and lips of all children, kisses a scraped knee. Poets are philosophers and idol deities. They are sissies and they are samurai warriors. They are freedom fighters, anarchists, and politicians without a vote. They are walking obelisks smothered in the after birth of miraculous conception. Poets never yawn or say a common place thing, they shock, they titillate, and they are the jumper cables on your cerebral cortex. Haiku and sonnet chiefs cleanse the doors of perception like janitors with Windex who have been taking out your trash and flushing your shit. They take the fear and doubt in ransom notes and cut them up to paper dolls. The ones that write between the lines have learned to snap their synapse and function without A.D.D. medication or bi-polar diagnosis.
These juggernauts, monoliths, and children curled in corners are the people you want to touch to see what’s behind their eyes. They are the beings that little glass people spy on through tiny little keyholes. Those who allow their cells to molt away, cluster on the ground, and fuck in the dirt so they may grow into brightly colored flowers, are poets. With a pen and an alphabet or set of hieroglyphs, they paint scabs to cover wounds, encased in scars. The poet’s thinking cap, whether diabolic or seraph-like, is as blank as a vapid canvas, yet it holds all the artillery any palette would need to participate in the war of art, which could contain the razor blades, cotton swabs, and anything else they feel is necessary after the mighty fountain pen has ejaculated one too many times and becomes impotent and dry for the night. The titans of riddles seek the torment in Heaven and they discover pleasure in Hades. Their soft word trances are seeking insanity in your soft cave heads.
The writers of rhymes, rhythms, and free verse don’t mind being ogled, ridiculed, or made to feel miniscule about their work, for true authors know the source is less than adequate. Only the likes of Annubis, Aphrodite, Loki, Cupid, and Krishna can judge them, not the harlequins that think they are telepathically literate. Their product does not care about an audience of jaded cynics, for “boo’s” are elegant and melodic when harmonized.
The minds of the colossal phonic sentients burn and permeate in ecstasy, euphoria, and other spine displacing states. This group, that has mastered a delusioned grammar, can be arrogant or become opaque due to a fear of failure. Poets are rancid petals flowering forth foul nectar and they are morning glories bloomed dripping with dew. Cannibals of love, fear, excitement, confusion, sadness, and other various emotions are imperious, choleric, irascible, and in excess in every word they utter. These men and women stepping into another beings shoes can be as voyeuristic as the new wave of burlesque pin up girls. They have an ever expanding and dissolute creativity of the likes of which have never been seen. The points they make in one completed work can be felt to the point of mystic fanaticism.
These trapped souls blink only with their ear canal and their eyes have been dehydrated and sunburned, or freezer burned for that matter, only for their visions to intensify like they’re eyelids have cracked and tattered away so their retinas can receive contrasts of moral and emotional light and dark eternally. Anything they look at becomes an aggressive-fashion-rape-sympathy cuddled up to a teddy bear. The shaman, wearing alter-ego disguises, are theatrical, but not in your theaters of Disney Movies and action flicks. Pencil pioneers notice how everyone else’s mind has expired way passed the purchase date and still attempt to relate to them. They are brilliant sluts of thought. They can kneel in front of crucifixes while singing a gospel or they could dance in fire worship immersed in a voodoo chant.
Their waves can be calm, as words flow on crests and meanings suck you under in a subliminal undertow. They are watching sunsets over cascading waterfalls as they are sculpting the language of choice in serene scenes. Or they can be typhoons with tidal waves, violent as punks in the prime of their era. Watch as salt water, sand, and grit slam dance in angst, loathing, alienation, havoc, misanthropy, and in the Theory of Chaos. Pay attention closely, as you would at a Vaudeville show, and see where these bodies of water break off into streams. Watch them flow and ripple quietly off to bizarre, perverse, and absurd arenas of contemplation. Poets know nothing of the shores and barriers of good taste, even if they state they do, for it is the enemy of creativity. And most certainly you will not find them trapped in the likes of ponds. They must be drenched in the Nile and baptized in the Amazon, swept away by these natural forces so they’re pens can float off into a new Olympus or Atlantis. Whether this new plateau will bring them humor, eroticism, danger, or a mutation of any “normal” emotion is beyond their knowledge. Metaphor messiahs are just concerned about the journey. These overseers of quills and Bic pens take the road not taken, even if it leaves them just another insect on a windshield smeared and scarred. They hope, by doing this, they will find a trail that will make all the difference.
Blue pills are swallowed as they step into the matrix with their phalanx of dualities participating in a Fight Club. They go skipping down yellow brick roads, veering off to the third star on the right for a Neverland rest stop, just to continue on through detours of Alice’s Wonderland, on their way to the Emerald City. Only to find that the wizard they’ve been looking for is a Raven, flown in from the Dark Side of the Moon, rapping at a chamber door of a Victorian asylum. When the journey has reached its destination, they will finally reach the brink of imagination, then look back in hindsight at the ones left behind and wonder if those amoeba can become the undefined and well designed hydras and Cyclops in the jungle of imagination. But, they will feel pity knowing the normal barbaric human could never break the paradigms they have through introspection.
His or her attempts to show other people what they mean will end in the realization that the tyranny of squares can’t comprehend a doodle. Though all men are illustrated, many are erasers, few are pencils, and fewer are pens. The Pens, that are spoken of, are your poets. The supreme linguistic machines do not repent for words that roll from their tongue to ink wells, for it is the only safe haven and sanctuary for them. By the time their work is done, they have violated their mind, ravished images as they formed in their electric and pregnant womb of a brain, exposed secrets and prophecies like broken bones in their spiritual rape and conquest, they seize reality, and they go straight in a waltz, fox trot, or Nazi march with it when life forks in order to change the path the paragraph infiltrates your brain. Poets overload databanks with an explosive, revolutionary science. These creatures of speech are revered as the pinnacle of striking up adjective and verb-fests in which they shake up the world as if it were the second coming of Christ, for their souls have violated that status quo parole and are thrice divine.
But what is this non-sense jargon they write that serves no purpose in this MTV, Pentium, sex appeal, violent society that so proudly stands fagged out on the corner of every street chemically abducted and hallowed out like the ‘O’ in our neo-Christian God? It is the soundtrack and narration for this pitiful and pathetic existence each of you live, that creates this world, destroys it, and creates it again. The stanza can create like a Big Bang, as the hiatus between words can destroy like Revelations. It is the personification and imagery of dreams and drunkenness, showing you in a macro-faceted dimension of the tragedy formed by the friction of Dionysians and Apollinians. Their writings are a game of deception and lies to help you realize a truth. In these confused and contorted lines, that may not be in a line at all, they use syllables to make symbols breed. It is hypocrisy, it is a contradiction, it is the chicken and the egg, and a mathematical fractal either so simple or so complex that no sacred geometry would ever determine its exponential value. It is a Red Cross aid to court a muse and it is a Jihad crusade that makes the news. It is a fist full of fesces for clones and drones of flies to feast when the writer feels the need to awaken the deceased. It is hip-hop spreading rhymes like rashes. It is Leaves of Grass, rock lyrics, and Homer epics that enter into every ring prepared to swing. Poems, like all art, intend to enter your essence with the stealth of HIV. It is real and surreal all at once blended better than bar drinks to make a volatile combination.
The things poets put on paper, spray on buildings, carve into desks, and mark on their skin is the ultimate anarchy of thought and emotion unified for a purpose that can be mainstream, underground, raw, or refined. This 120-car-pile-up-nose-breaking-ritual-cattle-mutilation-emergency-room-costume-party-collision-of-words they spew forth requires not one rule or set vocabulary, in which you can be assured the Dada and beatniks would agree.
They are not your plethora of standard hum-drum mental midgets that society gives birth to every time she decides to spread her legs. These visionary nirvana seekers do not produce the same old crap in a dead fad pumped out by factory machines. Their artistry is not meant to lay on coffee tables and decorate apartments. It is not for the bourgeois to frame and hang so they may cover a hole in the wall or a hole in their lives, nor to make holes in their wallets or their hearts. This would only imprison their prisms of isms and personality. Their work is a tactic of war and conflict, internal and external, and should be grouped with the likes of medieval torture devices and nuclear bombs. Their work only thrives in contrast, comparison, and adversity. Their end result displays an intelligence that crushes the censorship of parental advisory stickers and rating systems. Though his/her actions may be callus in day-to-day life and seem to have the same void as shards of glass and bloodstained asphalt at an intersection, they are filled with more passion than you will ever be aware of. So gather your flocks and alarm your neighbors, guard your houses and triple the watch, tell them all the shepherds have come and have to keys to unlock every emotion, the opinion preached at every podium, and every occurrence mankind is capable of. They are everything and they are nothing, but most of all- what squiggles away at their finger tips is infinite…..
![:\](https://bluelight.org/xf/BL_Images/Orig_Emoji/wrygrin.gif "wry grin :\")
