the poet’s word albatrossed
to the secret villain,
hanging on like stink
from decadent fish.
this is our RSVP, their
invitation to KILL POETS.
not with censorship,
with bullets.
- Hoc Scripsi
I have a minor obsession with being assassinated, I think I've mentioned this before but sometimes we all repeat ourselves don't we. Maybe in a past life, somewhere in Argentina or El Salvador I was disappeared permanently. The victim of some nations dictator extreme rendition.
Or maybe I was a cuddly bunny rabbit in hunting season. If so I hope that my name was Theodore and the family that ate me enjoyed the meal.
whatever I was, now I am a poet and consider it a poets duty to be a threat to both the vox popoli and the powers that be.
this is how I get after storing things in the attic, small confined space and all.
Showing posts with label assassination. Show all posts
Showing posts with label assassination. Show all posts
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Thursday
untitled (I sit down to write)
1.
I sit down to write.
and the longing that comes out is immensely
distressing.
disparate writing and thought,
the thoughts are why I am driven here.
it’s either this or murder, rape and drugs.
good drugs;
illicit drugs, but
less the psychiatric form.
paper awash with malaise and frankness
but I get tired of it and just sit for awhile,
watching TV and creation.
but I won’t do anything with it.
may cut myself up more and wonder why;
ultimately it doesn’t matter.
2.
I waste more ink on this then anything.
I could be writing about birds or sick
children.
I could be writing about pavement and
street car fantasy races with a blonde
cheerleader type waving handkerchiefs.
I should be writing about the mundane,
that is what life has delivered me to.
books, children, sex, good food, conversations.
it isn’t all bad. I don’t miss the street living
or sleeping in the back of my car.
I don’t miss the nights without memory at bars
I don’t miss the anonymous sex and waking to
find there are no eggs for breakfast.
I don’t miss anything about school except the schedule of it.
I don’t miss the hard drugs and hard dealers,
or the late night lab experiments resulting
in a high and extreme weight loss.
I don’t miss not having food and not knowing
when the next days meal will come from.
I don’t miss the sexual abuse or neglect.
I don’t miss playing in bands or writing badly in
strip clubs hanging around even worse writers.
all of us thinking that we were going to be the next
HD or Buk or Lorca
no one really wants to be the next Lorca;
or maybe that is what I really strive for;
to be shot.
1.
I sit down to write.
and the longing that comes out is immensely
distressing.
disparate writing and thought,
the thoughts are why I am driven here.
it’s either this or murder, rape and drugs.
good drugs;
illicit drugs, but
less the psychiatric form.
paper awash with malaise and frankness
but I get tired of it and just sit for awhile,
watching TV and creation.
but I won’t do anything with it.
may cut myself up more and wonder why;
ultimately it doesn’t matter.
2.
I waste more ink on this then anything.
I could be writing about birds or sick
children.
I could be writing about pavement and
street car fantasy races with a blonde
cheerleader type waving handkerchiefs.
I should be writing about the mundane,
that is what life has delivered me to.
books, children, sex, good food, conversations.
it isn’t all bad. I don’t miss the street living
or sleeping in the back of my car.
I don’t miss the nights without memory at bars
I don’t miss the anonymous sex and waking to
find there are no eggs for breakfast.
I don’t miss anything about school except the schedule of it.
I don’t miss the hard drugs and hard dealers,
or the late night lab experiments resulting
in a high and extreme weight loss.
I don’t miss not having food and not knowing
when the next days meal will come from.
I don’t miss the sexual abuse or neglect.
I don’t miss playing in bands or writing badly in
strip clubs hanging around even worse writers.
all of us thinking that we were going to be the next
HD or Buk or Lorca
no one really wants to be the next Lorca;
or maybe that is what I really strive for;
to be shot.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
meeting today
I've a noon-ish meeting today that will accomplish everything it needs to accomplish. I still don't feel like attending. It is raining outside and it started right after I awoke, had it began a few minutes earlier I would still be asleep but this is not the stars alignment this morning. As it is I've been awake for nearly two hours and have done little more than stare at the bedroom ceiling and the blank composition screen on the iMac.
plans for today had included mowing the lawn and the whacking of weeds with a freshly repaired week whacker, (I enjoy large engine repair but loathe small engine repair, I was tempted to replace it with a better machine.) this is now postponed until tomorrow when the sun will be shining and the air will be thick with new mosquitoes.
I found this poem in a publication from ten years ago, I had forgotten that I published anything then. I was sure that I was still wearing sunglasses indoors and angst painted on my boots, but apparently while searching my old pen name I came across about 40 published works - most of them are terrible and this one had a little revision but it very well may be kept. I've had this experience so often and it remains true to many stages of my life.
hospital room
Hospital room
3 a.m.
can't tell if I'm awake
or asleep.
Two clicks to on and
I watch the talking head
No sound,
blurry and can't
Seem to locate my glasses.
So it goes 'click'
and off.
I press the call button
3 or 4 times
and the R.N. opens the door
I tell him that I just wanted
Someone to chat with until
I got sleepy but said nothing
And never got sleepy.
- Hoc Scripsi
I've been writing poetry most of my life and all of my adult life but I failed to see it more than a small thing for many many years. It took not writing anything other than haiku poems for awhile and a life altering event to awaken the urgency of poetry to me. Now I regard this as my calling, I am a poet and there is nothing more important to a society as that. I long to be assassinated for fear of my influence - to me, assassination spells success even though they are 3 syllables different in length.
plans for today had included mowing the lawn and the whacking of weeds with a freshly repaired week whacker, (I enjoy large engine repair but loathe small engine repair, I was tempted to replace it with a better machine.) this is now postponed until tomorrow when the sun will be shining and the air will be thick with new mosquitoes.
I found this poem in a publication from ten years ago, I had forgotten that I published anything then. I was sure that I was still wearing sunglasses indoors and angst painted on my boots, but apparently while searching my old pen name I came across about 40 published works - most of them are terrible and this one had a little revision but it very well may be kept. I've had this experience so often and it remains true to many stages of my life.
hospital room
Hospital room
3 a.m.
can't tell if I'm awake
or asleep.
Two clicks to on and
I watch the talking head
No sound,
blurry and can't
Seem to locate my glasses.
So it goes 'click'
and off.
I press the call button
3 or 4 times
and the R.N. opens the door
I tell him that I just wanted
Someone to chat with until
I got sleepy but said nothing
And never got sleepy.
- Hoc Scripsi
I've been writing poetry most of my life and all of my adult life but I failed to see it more than a small thing for many many years. It took not writing anything other than haiku poems for awhile and a life altering event to awaken the urgency of poetry to me. Now I regard this as my calling, I am a poet and there is nothing more important to a society as that. I long to be assassinated for fear of my influence - to me, assassination spells success even though they are 3 syllables different in length.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Federico Garcia Lorca, happy birthday.
06/05/2010 Federico Garcia Lorca,
happy birthday
They disappeared you
on the 16th of Aug
and assassinated you on
a moonless night one or two days later.
in 1936
you had died for all time.
fifty years later a memorial was erected
on the spot where you were killed.
in recognition of your talent
in apology of your end.
and while you weep for Ignacio, our
flood of tears are for you.
- Hoc Scripsi
happy birthday
They disappeared you
on the 16th of Aug
and assassinated you on
a moonless night one or two days later.
in 1936
you had died for all time.
fifty years later a memorial was erected
on the spot where you were killed.
in recognition of your talent
in apology of your end.
and while you weep for Ignacio, our
flood of tears are for you.
- Hoc Scripsi
Friday, April 30, 2010
why don't they shoot more poets?
I have normal aspirations mostly. Maybe.
Normal: not wanting to be rich just successful in my own view, as a poet/writer mostly poet though.
maybe not so normal: the extreme of that success is being assassinated for being a poet, for aligning words in such a way that we are found to be dangerous. My example would be Lorca. I admire his poetry and plays, spent a summer translating a few of the poems. I envy his death tho it is not envious.
Normal: to write about what I experience and see others experiencing.
hummmm: to have large portions of my memory erased so I can be in a pure place with my madness and write from there. It's the view of the world a poet has that drives him/her to write, the more that view is abstracted from the society the better the work to a point and I don't know where that point is and given enough time all artists cross it.
these are my examples for today, all questions will be fielded after the poem.
on 04/30/1945 the world was rid of a monster, exactly six years earlier another monster made it's debut and has ingratiated itself into the normal consciousness.
the former being the suicide of Adolf Hitler and the latter being CBS television made it's first broadcast at the worlds fair. I don't mean to pick on CBS alone as they are all a conglomeration of pushers with their junk easily spread into the veins of children and adults. I almost never watch television programs or television itself anymore. I had my fill over a three year period where I could not do much more than lay on a couch and observe the box. I mean to pick on Hitler though and acknowledge that his mosterousness is incomparable to any contemporary person.
This is how I view ECT:
poetry doesn't have to make sense to be good
poetry doesn't have to cure social ills
poetry doesn't have to __________________
electricity is always running through us - we just
don't care for increasing the amperage.
what man does to man
man does not do to one self less he
be considered insane
poetry doesn't have to comment
poetry doesn't have to describe
poetry doesn't have to be well written
Electric chairs can be wired badly and still
kill with efficiency.
- Hoc Scripsi (right now, so forgive if it is poorly written or not ________)
I had intended for this to be a different poem. Something from my back stock about poets be assassinated for their good looks but it is now going to be the above write.
yesterday I cleaned my .38 and 30 aught 6, today I get the scope mounted and dialed in.
I load my thirty-aught-six to board the downtown train...
but that's another poem...
Normal: not wanting to be rich just successful in my own view, as a poet/writer mostly poet though.
maybe not so normal: the extreme of that success is being assassinated for being a poet, for aligning words in such a way that we are found to be dangerous. My example would be Lorca. I admire his poetry and plays, spent a summer translating a few of the poems. I envy his death tho it is not envious.
Normal: to write about what I experience and see others experiencing.
hummmm: to have large portions of my memory erased so I can be in a pure place with my madness and write from there. It's the view of the world a poet has that drives him/her to write, the more that view is abstracted from the society the better the work to a point and I don't know where that point is and given enough time all artists cross it.
these are my examples for today, all questions will be fielded after the poem.
on 04/30/1945 the world was rid of a monster, exactly six years earlier another monster made it's debut and has ingratiated itself into the normal consciousness.
the former being the suicide of Adolf Hitler and the latter being CBS television made it's first broadcast at the worlds fair. I don't mean to pick on CBS alone as they are all a conglomeration of pushers with their junk easily spread into the veins of children and adults. I almost never watch television programs or television itself anymore. I had my fill over a three year period where I could not do much more than lay on a couch and observe the box. I mean to pick on Hitler though and acknowledge that his mosterousness is incomparable to any contemporary person.
This is how I view ECT:
poetry doesn't have to make sense to be good
poetry doesn't have to cure social ills
poetry doesn't have to __________________
electricity is always running through us - we justdon't care for increasing the amperage.
what man does to man
man does not do to one self less he
be considered insane
poetry doesn't have to comment
poetry doesn't have to describe
poetry doesn't have to be well written
Electric chairs can be wired badly and still
kill with efficiency.
- Hoc Scripsi (right now, so forgive if it is poorly written or not ________)
I had intended for this to be a different poem. Something from my back stock about poets be assassinated for their good looks but it is now going to be the above write.
yesterday I cleaned my .38 and 30 aught 6, today I get the scope mounted and dialed in.
I load my thirty-aught-six to board the downtown train...
but that's another poem...
Friday, April 23, 2010
selling porn over the internet
I listen to sketches of Spain and think of Federico Garcia Lorca and remember how I was obsessed with both when K and I decided to get married. The album causes me to lightly weep and I am hearing it now though I am unsure that it is playing at all.
Often there is this drive to know what Lorca was thinking when he was killed. Looking out at the sky on a moonless night, under a flood of car headlights or no light at all save the muzzle flash of the weapon that bored a hole into him and ended him. in that moment there would have been no fear as we do not fear what is actual and present, there would be no pleading or bargaining as Lorca would have realized the pointlessness of it. What were his last words? They cannot be known.
The world was more interesting before the porn was available on the internet. When you had to go to stores and into booths to replicate the kind of experience available now for free while in your captains chair. I am of course talking about variety now as home films and VHS have been around for awhile.
These things are unrelated.
In a moment or two there will be a poem but for right now there is breathing and thinking and drinking coffee.
My son waits for me to be done so I can sit for breakfast with him.
photographs
you know how I admire
photographs taken in sunlight.
sitting outside back lit
against a screened in porch.
You have become art against
my love now and I am
thinking of daisies that once
adorned you hair,
softened by your face.
how I will always love you
tho I never loved you.
not even in photographs.
- Hoc Scripsi
This is only a sketch in itself, all thought is sketched of loose imagery tied together by patterns of language or images. this we call perception and eraser waste and graphite dust soil the windows.
Often there is this drive to know what Lorca was thinking when he was killed. Looking out at the sky on a moonless night, under a flood of car headlights or no light at all save the muzzle flash of the weapon that bored a hole into him and ended him. in that moment there would have been no fear as we do not fear what is actual and present, there would be no pleading or bargaining as Lorca would have realized the pointlessness of it. What were his last words? They cannot be known.
The world was more interesting before the porn was available on the internet. When you had to go to stores and into booths to replicate the kind of experience available now for free while in your captains chair. I am of course talking about variety now as home films and VHS have been around for awhile.
These things are unrelated.
In a moment or two there will be a poem but for right now there is breathing and thinking and drinking coffee.
My son waits for me to be done so I can sit for breakfast with him.
photographs
you know how I admire
photographs taken in sunlight.
sitting outside back lit
against a screened in porch.
You have become art against
my love now and I am
thinking of daisies that once
adorned you hair,
softened by your face.
how I will always love you
tho I never loved you.
not even in photographs.
- Hoc Scripsi
This is only a sketch in itself, all thought is sketched of loose imagery tied together by patterns of language or images. this we call perception and eraser waste and graphite dust soil the windows.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
John Wilkes Booth goes from famous to infamous.
On 04/14/1941 Julie Christie came into being and sustained fame in her own right or by virtue of her body in addition to her acting skills, she did not kill a president and thus we are unaware of her middle name.
Made coffee this morning while badly limping and in incredible pain. Longing for the narcotics that I've given up I sit down to compose this.
I'm still on so many medications that I am not sure my brain works properly.
Today is another day I will not write much if anything at all as I am taken out to the garage to focus on other things that are temporarily important but currently necessary.
there was something I was going to write here but then someone started talking and I lost the thought.
6.9 earthquake hits Western China (400 dead for starters) and once again Mother Nature makes it painfully clear that she is not too happy, but, we humans are only bound by our self importance so the significance is lost on the majority of us. A cyclone gets 85 people in India.
Listening to Nick Cave and Warren Ellis soundtracks - best modern classical style music. Warren has a great Beard and plays a violin so beautifully it forces the sociopath to cry aloud where ever they are standing.
I am afraid to stand and keep writing in fear of the pain overtaking my self and leading to the darkest of places at nine O'clock in the morning.
My body still smokes – I don’t
Have I mentioned how much I hate pain?
Have I mentioned, yet, how much I fucking hate pain?
maybe it’s that I hate fucking pain;
but regardless, my leg wants to walk away without me.
my head wants to have a temporary separation from my hip
and my ass bleeds and says “fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”
- Hoc Scripsi
if you have not yet, be sure to stop by Theather Underground to check out the poem Blank Pages.
If you haven't been by the Roadkill Zen Journal either - go there to read togethercoloured.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
typos
The amount of typos contained in the last post bothers me - really highlights the need to hire someone else to do this kind of thing.
Thankfully my agent finally read this and decided to inform me in case the errors were not poetic license. They were not and have now been corrected. I will accept my thirty lashes tied to the main sail now.
I would rather be censored
than
accepted.
I would rather be shot
than
mediocre.
Thankfully my agent finally read this and decided to inform me in case the errors were not poetic license. They were not and have now been corrected. I will accept my thirty lashes tied to the main sail now.
I would rather be censored
than
accepted.
I would rather be shot
than
mediocre.
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