A Few Poems For You

I spent a few early mornings bent over an ancient typewriter, one I purchased for $15 at a thrift shop two years back. I cleaned the thing up and replaced the ribbon. I’ve been good to it.

In turn, it has been good the me — the typewriter, that is.

Heck, I even wrote my first professional story sale on the thing, before typing it into Word Doc. I call my typewriter “the poetry machine” because it’s perfect for writing poetry, especially at 4 AM, when my analytical mind dissolves and the subconscious takes over. The following poems are a result of a few uneasy, restless mornings. Writing them provided me comfort and joy, and I hope they do the same for you.

BEATING THE CLOCK

I am enraged by death;

I was born with a desire

to go on living beyond my years.

I am an absurd man;

A contrarian to this insensitive universe

which does not take my feelings

into account.

I am the universe.

I take my feelings into account.

My feeling is,

I don’t wanna die.

Life is a fading polaroid —

soon there will be no family

or even very distant relatives

to appreciate it.

Why do people

even take pictures?

Because they think

they’ll be remembered —

but nothing is remembered.

We are doomed to amnesia, and then

there is no ‘we’.

I am enraged by death —-

Can’t you drink to that?

Can’t you understand?

Mortality burns

and we are demanded to love it,

or deny it.

I am writing myself

into the grave,

only hoping to beat the clock.

I am pitting against

Grim Reality;

but at least for now,

you are reading this, gentle reader —-

And I have temporarily stolen Death’s scythe.

DRUNK ON POEMS

A good poem

gets you drunk

without even a stiff beverage

to touch your lips.

That is why

the best poems

are written with spirits.

Multitudinous

One moment,

I am a logical skeptic

without patience for your

silly wool-eyed superstitions.

The next,

I am a devoted mystic,

summoning spirits

at the typewriter

and cursing the muse

when she does not sprinkle her dream-dust

upon my weary, aching, grasping mind.

Restless Writers

Restless energy.

I overeat.

Chew fingernails.

Drink ten gallons of black coffee.

Devour myself.

Yet the best method

for dispelling this slow torture

of displaced being

is to write out the pain —

write out the numb agony

the solitude

and the jitters —

write until

my nerves cease to quake

my brain ceases to boil

my legs cease to kick

and a smile of ease breathes

satisfaction upon my face

and my heart whispers to me,

‘thank you’.

Feeding the Monster

There are nights when I feel

that weary ache in mind and flesh

and am only soothed

by feeding another piece of paper

into the typewriter’s bale.

And I get that sick, lovely feeling

I am feeding a monster.

Can you not hear this

feral growl of my soul?

This poem stares back at you

with hungry crimson eyes.

Unbeknown to you,

gentle reader, you have fed

this crazed, lonesome 4AM poet.

This is fine —-

For we all have monsters to feed.

Productivity

The sound

of

productivity:

CLICK CLACK

CLACK CLICK

CLACK CLICK

CLICK CLACK.

Soothing

as the swell

of ocean tides.

Perfect

as a three-part

harmony:

my hands,

my typewriter,

my open, boundless heart.

A Clever State of Mind

Good writing

is just a clever state of mind.

A shame writers are stupid

most of the time.

But they try, damn it.

I try too, however —-

cleverness, for most

is fleeting at best.

I can feel it leaving already.

And for those who will say

‘you never had it’,

I respond in kind —-

to Hell with you!

After I die,

they can weigh my soul

in the pages I wrote.

Bet it’ll weigh a damn ton.

A Confession About Poets

Poets are liars.

I don’t mean to sound

dramatic — it’s just true.

I know because

I used to be a poet.

What you are reading now,

is simply honesty and

an attempt at humanness.

It may or may not be poetry.

Most poets are liars.

They try to tell the truth, maybe,

but they just don’t know how —

and they end up writing stuff

that looks like poetry

but isn’t.

Being honest is being human.

Notice how the best poems are honest.

The best poems are vulnerable.

They read like beautiful blood —

Someone’s soul dancing upon the page.

That is poetry,

and for those daring enough

to share themselves —-

not just a pose of themselves,

is a poet.

Someone bring out

those lush green Laurel leaves,

and be prepared to wait

a long, long time.

This is Ed (Ed is Dead, Yet Productive).

Greetings friends.

I took the photograph displayed below. The gentleman at the 1940’s Royal typewriter is Ed.

Ed is dead. Has been for some time. Yet death is no reason for ceasing productivity, no sir! Ed and I are currently working on a new book of short stories. We trade places at the typewriter, inventing many first drafts to what will (hopefully) become published stories of horror, suspense, and all out weirdness.

That’s what Ed and I do, every day.

We are writers of the macabre. Someday, I will be dead like Ed.

But that will not stop me, no indeed! I’ll be clicking and clacking those type-keys with passion and reverence in the basement of Purgatory forever.

Dead Ed's Author Photo

PS, if you’d like to purchase my first book, “Daydreams of the Damned: Tales of Horror & Oddity”, you may do so by visiting the Amazon links below. The book is cheap. The stories are wild and imaginative and you are bound to have a good time reading them.

Dead Ed and I assure you of this.

Warm regards,

Tylor.

Paperback for $9.99

Kindle for $4.99

All About Writing

The Writer upon Death’s Door (A Note to Myself)

Just sit down and write. Don’t you know you are going to die? You only have so much time and yet you have so much inside of you that’s been kept a secret. It will go to the grave with you if you do not write it. You will die a man with a convoluted brain, riddled by mental discontent and dissatisfaction far more than any boring old cancer or tumor. You will be a dead man with a song in his heart. Write it out. Write it right now. Sit your ass in that junky office chair and type away at that keyboard until your fingers grow numb. Poor out all those little discontents of your mind. Don’t stop until your soul seems ejected from your body, hanging in the air like a strange, haunting vapor. Time constitutes the entropy of our existence. Don’t you know the juice of life is being bled from your being at this very moment? You’re a writer, for Christ’s sake, and you’ve only so much time. What are you waiting for? To hell even with being a writer. Just be writing!

***

To Be a Writer

A writer with a desire to write feels an aching in his heart, a heavy load on his mind. If he’s trapped by a conventional influence, such as a day-job, a social obligation, bad traffic, the aching will continue and likely grow stronger. He feels as if he were in a prison. When he finally does discover his way to solitude, to the pen and paper, the keyboard and word document, he is bound to pour out his soul in the fashion of a butterfly being let loose from a mason jar. As the writer writes, he flies away in total freedom. The shackles have been undone. The tyranny of the world is dramatically reversed into the tyranny of the writer, whom molds and controls worlds of his own making. The whip of society has been handed down to the creative, whom whips the muse and smiles. This is the joy of creation, to see beauty whipped into form.

To be a writer is not always convenient. In fact, to be a writer is often not only inconvenient, but a disadvantage. A functioning member of society may not be able to write at any given moment, as a writer desires to do. To be among a crowd, among family and friends, among the throng of civilization for too long a time, can build up that aching to a climactic point wherein one may feel he will explode or disappear altogether if he cannot write what has been crawling, breeding, festering around in his loaded mind like a pound of rattling dice.

Make no mistake. It isn’t just important for a writer to write, it is absolutely necessary. If a writer were somehow determined not to write, his mental existence would shrink to the pin-point of obscurity. Expanding this hypothesis, if all would-be writers never wrote a single word, then the world would not have its brilliant minds – no Plato, Aristotle, Shakespeare, Nietzsche, Twain, Whitman. No bibles, manuals, legislation, scientific theses, or even a basic cook book. The world would be empty of ideas, devoid of historical records, our grand stories and traditions. The life of humankind would never have grown past the pre-literate nomadism of ancient times. We would be barbarians of the jungle, the pre-literate remaining pre-literate, the epitome of unfulfilled potential.

A Few Ponderings: The Deathless Death of Man, The Hell-bent Heavens, and the Resurrection of Carl Linneaus.

An Uncharming Paradox

The evangelical Christian is little more than a vastly uncharming paradox, as he is hell-bent on his faith in a future vision of heavenly destruction — the end of times, as described in the book of Revelation, wherein Jeeeesus will return to us, so they believe, once more.

Such delusional dogmatists might accurately be described as being hell-bent for heaven.

***

Man, the Wise

Even the name which our species has greedily awarded itself (homo sapiens, Latin for “man, the wise“) signifies an over-abundance of arrogance and hubris. Why could we not be more humble in our desire for self-taxonomy? Why not instead “man, the curious” or “man, the hopeful“? History has shown our species to be an audacious one, a rather fascinating and violent collection of mammals, but wise? I dare think not!

So, I hereby resurrect the good Carl Linneaus from his grave at Uppsala by the powers of my deranged imagination! Let us have a cold pint, Carl, down at the nearest Swedish tavern, so that we may earnestly discuss our Latin wisdom…

***

Death, Conquered

The day humankind conquers death through the ingeniousness of medical science will, ironically, require the death of us all. Upon the attainment of immortality, that infinite condition of the Gods, we will have snubbed out the human man and replaced him with an immortal being. Man will have downgraded himself to the status of a God — and what a lowly god he will be! Although he will be no more lowly than the God of the bible or Quran, or the gods of Olympus and ancient Egypt. We will undoubtedly continue to pursue our own footsteps of endless folly, just as those ignoble deities of ancient scripture. Every hatred and stupidity will be committed to a re-cyclical progression, a savage history set upon mindless repeat. Like a single wave breaking upon the land, always to be followed by the ocean.

Upon the “achievement” of permanence and immortality, humankind will have, in a sense, come around full circle. Man started out believing that he was made in God’s image, when it is rather more likely that man created God in his image. Taking it another logical step further, upon acquiring status of deity, man will have finally created himself in the image of God.

His golden staff will be a sort of complex, technical crutch. His blinding light will be an artificial luminescence. His tissue will be sown to a bodily permanence by a freakish series of subatomic stitches beyond even Mary Shelley’s grotesque imagination. And finally His attained immortality will be an ever-strange zombification of His former humanity.

Man Bless! 

 

Musings: Cosmic Humility, Intelligent Loneliness & A Red Blotch on the Cosmos’ Sunday Tie.

Cosmic Humility

Cosmic Humility is the acceptance of ourselves and the whole of humankind existing utterly without cosmic significance or purpose. To become humble in the cosmic sense, is to relieve one’s self from the duty of searching for something that is not there. I advise all of my fellow readers and subversives to retire, to put their feet up, to not worry, to gaze upon the great abyss of an infinite cosmos with reverent wonder, and despite all injuries to the petty, Earthbound ego, to remain cosmically humble.

***

Intelligent Loneliness in a Nation of Group-Think

Freedom is not free”, or so this common bumper sticker slogan so adamantly informs me. Immediately, images of terrible bloodshed and death in foreign jungle lands are supposed to come to one’s mind. Americans often place this mindless patriotic sticker next to “Home of the Brave” and “Jesus is God”, along with skewed images of a mundane crucifix plastered along the bumper somewhere. We are a strange, militant and superstitious people indeed! Within this nationalistic environment, this narrow-minded air, the intelligent man or woman must inevitably suffer a unique form of loneliness.

***

A Point of Pride

Ever make a turd so big, you wished it had an accompanying bathroom audience so that it could be applauded? It is a shame when something we’ve created (perhaps through great constipation — Err, I mean, consternation) goes so thoroughly unseen and unappreciated except by our lonely selves. It seems a shame to flush the baby immediately upon birth. It has only just begun to live! Secretly, we want to share our great shits with the world and receive some deserved recognition for it — especially when we’ve Ker-plunked a really good one. A point of pride, you see. A point of pride.

***

A Red Blotch on the Cosmic Sunday Tie

The most persistent delusion which humankind perpetuates is the idea that humankind shall endure forever and has nearly always endured, in practical terms. The masses of Earth come and go in one chaotic, undulating ocean of short-lived years and consistently tend to retain this delusion that we are the complete beginning and end of all history — that history, all 14 billion cosmic years of it, somehow belongs within the confines of our mortal possessions. History to our (mostly) unthinking species is like a nice 1960’s muscle car, or a really big mansion. History is a material thing which can be replenished, reupholstered, and/or otherwise preserved for all time. When in reality, humanity is but a tiny red blotch, a minute and practically imperceptible stain upon the Infinite Cosmos’ Sunday Tie. Meanwhile, the Milky Way and Andromeda galaxies slowly but surely drift toward each other like inevitable glaciers…Eternity yawns and consumes the eyeblink existence of the human Ego with perfect and effortless ease.

 

Musings on Anatomical Furniture, Essential Truths & Cosmic Acting!

Chew on these cheese curds you decrepit Wisconsinite!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some Delightfully Strange Aphorisms:

Death is always just a sneeze away. ACHOO! Gesundheit and goodnight.

A man should be as high as the top of his head.

Pretty blue skies are….boring.

Strive to be nothing, reject the notion of being anything, and in the result be everything.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do. When in America, eat deep fried candy bars.

The cigarette is our most murderous of best friends. All the while enjoying its red glow comforts and companionship, it remains our most constant and truest enemy.

Recipe for a happy life: May the void take easy delight in its birth and taking of you, and may you take ease and delight in being birthed and taken.

Time is like a mosquito bite. The more one scratches, the worse the itch.

***

Anatomical Furniture

It is one frigid bitch on this side of planet Earth this morning. The occasional breeze cuts through the skin, raises goosebumps. Colder than a witch’s tit, truly. I walk the city streets nonetheless and contemplate anything and everything that crosses my neural pathways. Thoughts fleet and flow like feathers in an eddying wind. The joy I feel in this spontaneity brings a little warmth that otherwise would not be there. I have a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee in my right hand and it is the brightest thing about my morning. Brighter than the sun even. I am wearing two thick hats upon my cranium today. I figure that the brain is a vital piece of anatomical furniture, and if you fuck up your brain temp., your entire house will soon be freezing.

***

Soul Garden

I want my soul garden to bloom full, dig? I allow the seasons of my mind to tend and cultivate full and without the obstructions of my ego. Part of me is always dying. I let those parts crumble and fall through willingly, effortlessly. Out of that intense decay, new flowers sprout in their due Springtime. I smile triumphantly, knowing that the past is good manure for the soul.

***

Teenage Lament

Teenagers are often found to lament quite publicly, “Nobody understands me!” Yet if they have a semblance of intelligence or subtle vision, they will eventually come to quietly realize that this is a good thing. To not be understood is a benefit, an advantage. You have something no one can take away from you, a quality void of external comprehension and thus incapable of being seized or stolen. Your soul has a trusty barricade. To not be understood provides us with a further license to kill.

***

The Replacement to Thinking

I can only barely comprehend the consolidations of immense power and influence which social media and cell phones have over the minds of our dear modernity. Mass distractions of a trivial, fleeting and hedonistic nature continuously draw people way from earnest study, from open questioning, from reading books, utilizing a vastly impersonal “social” means drawing them away from even being truly social. We have replaced thinking and reflection with gadgets and techno-obsessions. We have hypnotized the world with possessions which pre-possess. We are erased as humans before even opting for an erasure. The drawing away from thinking includes as well the drawing away from basic physical and mental vision, of not gazing up long enough from the comforts of the portable screen to see the fate train — check your messages, check your Facebook, check, check, look, look, drool drool! — running us down face first.

***

A Few Things We Must First Understand 

This is all quite simple: Put no stakes on immortality. Live for this present moment, for this brief, sunspot existence. Look forward to the Nothing. Live for the Everything, now. When we die, we go to Nothing, which does not exist. We rot and don’t go anywhere. In this life, the only thing you are entitled to is to reach the end of it. Your birth is ultimately a happy (or otherwise, depending on you subjective inclinations) accident. You are fortunate to be among the conscious living, to be a bipedal creature with a brain and spinal column. All is impermanent. There are no true rulers. Authority is arbitrary and subjective. There is no one to guide you but your Self. Your rights are illusions and superstitions. Life is a meaningless and blank canvas and you are the existential artist — so you better get to painting. Create your colors and forms, and act accordingly. Oh, and you’re on camera. Smile!

***

Cosmic Acting 

As I have mentioned previously, a man is a role to be played. Personality is a mental construction, an illusion attached to the Self, the I. All of this reality is a tragic comedy, a cosmic drama for the Gods of eternity to feast upon with wondrous eyes like children in a darkened, enclosed cinema. Our funny flesh and terror is their salty popcorn. The Gods laugh and weep from eon to eon, from reel to reel. There is a reason why a person is often referred to as a character. At heart I am an actor, just as we are all actors in this absurd, grand freak show of performance-living.

The insane thing is, the Gods are just a nice and playful idea. There is truly no Grand Director, and nature is our only producer (and ender). No Sir, Spielberg is not the director of this evolutionary motion picture! If there was, He would be more like Ed Wood. In truth, we are a play of, by and for ourselves, running off of a random and spontaneous script.

Blessings of Nothing & The Curse of Immortality

Our existence is structured, framed and given ambition and purpose through the perceived presence of the Nothing. Without death dispensing the flesh from our bones and the consciousness from our brains, without the due process of time and the phenomena of entropy and age, in what dastardly hell would we find ourselves? In other words, if we were not mortal, what possible freedom and purpose could there be invented for our means of existing?

Death provides human beings with much needed liberation from the chains of living — it is only sad or unfortunate that at times this liberation can take place unsuspectingly. Death comes whether we are ready, or not. If we are to accept these things with Stoic temperance, we might say, “such is life”.

Humanity has a difficult enough time providing purpose and meaning to their lives as it is. Imagine the hollow and empty hell of an immortality! Some human beings are ready and eager for non-existence by the time they are seventy-five or eighty. They are like ripe fruit, fit to be picked, ready to fall. Imagine being five hundred and eighty years old! (Perhaps at this point we would dispense with the obvious euphemism “years young” and openly accept our own antiquity). I imagine Immorality would be fun for a few minutes. Then reality would set in and the repetition of life would drown us with insurmountable sorrow. Immortality is meant for unconscious things, such as subatomic particles, energy and the like. But we conscious humans are not fit for it. Morality is copacetic only with mortality, and nothing beyond.

I think now of the common goals and ambitions of the race. I think of goals and ambitions of the common individual. “I want to obtain my PHD by the time I’m twenty-six.” or “I want to live a life of travel. I want to see France and Spain and the Netherlands!” Well, cursed with an immortality — what need would there be to strive for that PHD? You’ve got all the time in the universe. As for world travel, you might circle the globe a million times or more. What left is there to see after the first few hundred years? Futility and boredom breeds sorrow in the Immortal Man. Perhaps we should pity the Gods, should they exist. Can we truly blame them for creating such a faulted and entertaining species such as ourselves? Humankind is the ultimate comedic tragedy and we would undoubtedly make for some fantastic, cosmic theater for any outside observers. We would be a wonderful distraction.

Getting back to the Void, the Nothing….just as the purpose of a bowl is to hold things, it cannot do so without the emptiness which shapes the rest of it. The Buddhists call this emptiness, this nothingness and void, sunyata. Just as without the nothingness which gives purpose to the bowl to hold things, without the nothingness which circumvents our lifespan and all of humanly existence, mankind would be without pleasure or purpose to live. So, I say, let us be thankful and grateful for nothing!

Nothing, the thing which is no thing, by virtue of its definition does not exist. Yet its non-being is immediate and felt everywhere, like a phantom embrace. It is herein that humankind subscribes to these non-values of nothing and are remarkably all the better for it.

Good day to my beloved readers, and sunyata!

Musings on Time, Death, Nationalism, and Great President Dukkha!

The Great President Dukkha

When someone tells me something I find to be inherently wrong, facetious, or dishonest, I tend to reply to them — “What a unpleasing load of Dukkha!”

Dukkha is the ancient Pali word for ‘suffering’, often used in the context of Buddhist philosophy and teachings. Meanwhile, the free people of the United Corporations of Amnesia have elected the Great, President Dukkha with his flop of yellow hair and blemished face stained by permanent disgrace, selfish pride and ego. President Dukkha wants to make the nation great again through a grand unification of His Dukkha-ness!

Indeed, we are a nation bound and united by our Dukkha.

***

How to Pass the Time

Let’s say you’re at an obligatory social function — a day job, for example — and are very eager for the day to pass so that you may be spending time on the things or people you most enjoy. All you need to remember is that time does not need your attention to pass! Whether you want the clock to move faster or slower, all those minutes and hours will pass irregardless — that is to say, irrespective of your individual wishes and desires.

One cannot control the due motion of the planets, the revolutions of the galaxy, nor the progression of life. Time is among the many things we cannot control. Let it be as such. One should remain unconcerned and detached from these things as far as possible. Let the clock hands move round those twelve numerals completely unmolested by your eagerness. This is to say — we should adopt a Stoic attitude about the passing of time. This perspective is useful not only for just our obligatory social functions, but perhaps for our varying prison and solitary confinement sentences as well…

***

Old Friend Death

The best we can do in this absurd existence is to laugh with joyful, knowing smiles and raise our middle-finger salute to the Gods that are not there; and upon Death’s door, knock as if to greet an old, kind friend. Death will let you in gracefully, with a tender smile on your face and a rebel’s good charm.

***

This Is A Moment

Moments are bits of life that are well known for passing us by very quickly. This is a moment. And now it is read and gone. All of your life is but a moment. Be aware of this preciousness before it is used up and gone.

The cosmic eye blinks and all of humanity rises and falls as if belonging to one unsteady breath. First the cosmos, then chaos and dissipation, then the Nothing.

Moments of wisdom,

moments of knowing.

All fleeting and flowing

just as sure as the wind is blowing. 

***

Not for the Feint of Heart

It takes a certain amount of courage and activated virtue in the attempt to see things as they are and not as how we would wish them to be. This is true for the micro, personal dramas of our lives as well as for the nation state of political objectivity, and the macro, universal scientific and philosophic realities of our existence. To see with clarity, using the scientific method, is the noble pursuit. To see with utmost faith in our wishes, is often poetic — yet cowardly.

It is far too easy and weak minded for us to adopt delusions to suit our preferred realities. Anyone with a care or regard for the truth ought to strip themselves of these comforting delusions as best they can. I once read a disclaimer on the back of a horror film which read, “Not for the feint of heart!” The same, I think, can often be said for the Truth.

***

Nationalism

Nationalism, state-worship, is little more than a form of big egotism pushed to its limits. It is a grand-scale absurdity supported by the mindless masses oppressed by advertising and propaganda machines dedicated to maintaining the power and agenda of the elite.

Unquestioning faith and pride in the state, the myth of singular exceptionalism, the mindless parade of flags and semi-conscious slogans, and other forms of patriotic, national self-worship serve as the mere degradation to individual uniqueness and citizenry ability to critically think on their own terms. Nationalism (Big Egotism) surrenders the positive, creative and intellectual ego of the common man and substitutes it for the negative ego that perpetuates stupidity and pride.

And pride, as we well know, comes before the fall.

***

Nationalism II

Perhaps a nation based on innovation and creativity, on a truly educated and self-realized populace, and on humanism as opposed to merciless self-worship and cruel military imperialism would be a manifestation of a truly positive identity of the citizenry. I can imagine the flag of states being re-organized into a flag of humanity. Every star is a human with infinite potential, and all the thirteen stripes are a different color representative of our human nature with its wide spectrum of good and bad, yin and yang, virtue and sin, etc. I envision a flag that is humble and honest, representative of love, acceptance, and the virtue and strength in the development of human potential…

Meanwhile the oligarchic, plutocratic powers that be are scowling down upon my scrawl; and with their fists clenched tightly ’round their billions of lobbying money and their senator’s and Supreme Court Justice’s necks, they shake their fattened heads and exclaim (not without spittle downed upon their blubbering lips), “Dream on, peace boy, dream on!”

Musings on Old Age, The Ego, Art & Sex

Old Age

Being the young man that I am, it would be foolish and arrogant of me to pretend that I truly know anything about old age. What I can observe, however, is that reaching an old age and inheriting all that comes with it is a bizarre and absurd phenomenon, which is why it fits in well with the rest of reality. In our senior years, we return to a likeness of infancy. We reduce in size, are often required to lean on things to walk or to stand (such as it is with toddlers), and sometimes we even have to resume the wearing of diapers, which are euphemistically called, “incontinence pants”. You will notice that in many circumstances the elderly are often talked down to as if they were children by their care providers. It is not unusual to see.

An old man is akin to an infant with 10,000 wrinkles; a pruned up baby, albeit a far wiser one. The forces of time and entropy work upon all things most naturally, and not to exclusion of our species, either. We humans like to refer to this as, “our mortality”.

The Ego

The ego is a monster of many tentacles. They are multifarious, these tentacles, and are eternally hungry to attach themselves to all passing sensory things, desiring to draw them in, to keep them. Consume them.

From time to time, for the sake of the virtues of temperance, justice, and reason, we must sever our dear monster’s tentacles. It may be a painful endeavor. Upon regeneration, we must persevere and sever them again. And again. We must tame the beast which is ourselves.

Sex & Art (An Analogy)

Herein I will attempt to make a nice analogy between sex and art, both of which, in my view, are highly related three letter words. They are in fact rather in the same bed with each other if we consider the following:

Creativity is a fertile phenomenon. When we are feeling ‘creative’, we are turned on and stimulated. The initial idea or conception for an artistic endeavor is the sperm, the seed for the planting, or the ovum eager for reception. The physical act of creating a painting, sculpture, poem, etc. is akin to the act of fucking, making, creating. Our paint brush, pencil, slab of clay or typewriter is the effective genitalia of our (re)productions. We are planting our seed with each stroke of the brush. Finally, the resulting artwork is the orgasmic completion. We are satisfied. So we set down our brushes or our pens and have ourselves a relaxing cigarette.

Let us remember that if either art or sex is to be of any good worth, there must be attention paid to sensitivity, intuitive judgement, and artistic temperance. Both sex and art are sensual affairs which involve precision use of our senses and emotions. Of course, we may even transcend analogy and say that sex is an art — and for those whom have mastered the practice or are in the steady progress of doing so, they are sure to agree with you!

 

A Few Aphorisms

  1. Realistically, nothing is an unreal thing.
  2. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. When in America, eat deep-fried candy bars while hypnotized by the mass distraction of portable social media devices.
  3. The Ego is a monster of many tentacles. From time to time must sever our dear monster’s tentacles and tame the wild beast, which is ourselves.
  4. Whether fortunate or unfortunate, it is nonetheless fortune.

My Creativity Is My Tombstone (A Tribute to Cannibalism and Miles Davis)

It’s a good night to be a writer. The moon is waxing and the stars are shining and Miles Davis is playing from beyond the grave just for me. Kind of Blue. Oh baby, what a great record this is. I compose my sentences tonight in accordance to his soul and mine. And how do you like that? I like it just fine. OK.

As a writer of poetry and general lively observation, I have a nasty habit of writing with an awareness of my own mortality. This might be seen as bleakly pretentious by some. Yet I cannot help but think as I write — what if these words that I’m now penning down were my very last? It is a question of ego and self-importance. Wise men and women of my fellow species understand that being remembered isn’t so important in the grand scheme of things. Yet my self-importance persists, like some ragged corner of a sunken gravestone sticking up from ground for others to stub their toes on. Whoops!

I always write my stories and poetry with an understanding that perhaps they will be read only after I am “good and dead”. I won’t say after I’m “passed on”. Passed on is such a silly minded euphemism. Meant for the weak minded whom don’t care to discuss the natural phenomenon of death with the use of practical, direct language. You know it.

Kings, presidents, CEOs and an otherwise various panorama of rich assholes current and throughout all time have spent a lot of time and a lot of money, and a lot of resources and lives on being remembered. They hire wage slave labor for the building of monuments and statues, of well funded foundations and extravagant markers for the sake of preserving their ego for the rest of posterity. You and I know these men were merely crazed fools greedy for self-importance and post-necro security. These men weren’t humble or kind men, and they probably weren’t that important of men either. Not if they had to pay the citizenry money to secure their memories in some organized, fine tribute. I personally refer to this as an Existentially Pathetic Display of Ego Preservation. Dig it.

But let’s get back to me, the writer, your number one guy at this very moment. Anyone who knows me knows I’m certainly no CEO, president, king or otherwise rich asshole. In fact, I’m rather the polar opposite. I’m a working class asshole, meager and rather close to the poverty line, in fact. But to some extent, I am admittedly still self-important. I picture myself as a contemporary peasant, without name or honor, and hungry for base immortality…but I won’t ever pay people to build monuments or institutions in my name. I wouldn’t do that even if I did have the spare cash. No. I just write down my words, man. I write, paint and sing my own songs. And I love the special human beings I’m blessed with every day.

I figure the human brain is the most impressive construct to be created via process of evolution in this currently known version of the universe, so I’d better attempt to utilize it to its greatest extent — and that greatest extent, to me, is creativity. And when I am “good and dead” as they say, what will be left is the material of my most personal thoughts and ideas. I will tell my beautiful girlfriend, my family and friends, don’t buy me an elaborate stone or a marker. Don’t put me in one expensive as hell “cremation receptacle”. Those things are for the death dealers of our race making their millions of dollars. I won’t be a sucker for them, not even in death. So you can just throw my body in a meat grinder and package me up neatly and ship me to some hungry cannibals as soon as you’re able. Cannibals are people too you know — and they deserve fresh meat for their dinners. They can eat my packaged up meat and make unique furniture from my bones. They can take my skull and bleach it clean and put a light bulb inside for a quality lamp. In short, I want to give to the less fortunate, even in death. No boring, plain Jane organ donation for me! And oh me, oh my. I can tell by your expression that you believe I’ve gone loony. Well, I digress. Here’s where all this is leading to. Here’s all I’ve really wanted to say this entire time. The rest has been accessory, an add on, an elaborate explanation.

My creativity IS my tombstone.

There you are and so be it. I’m Kind of Blue, baby. Mahalo! 

Tombstone for Creativity