The Columbia School of Poetry
Fly me to the moon
As I fall down a flight of stairs
Wrapping angels round my wounds
Because they leave such pretty scars
While my soul clings to paper girls
In all their lovely, tartish glee
Crowned with luscious silky words
Of impotent fidelity
…or something like that…
Interesting flavor. But I prefer “Tattooed Nudes” or I Am an Antiquarian.” Those are so beautifully bizarre. Besides, these feel lifted from a dead man’s hands.
They have the style of some famous deceased dude no one’s read but everyone’s heard of. You know, F.B.L.
Forensic buddy list. Influence from beyond the grave. An inevitable intellectual invasion of privacy. It just gets in the gray matter.
It is what it is and it says what it should.
I suppose that is everything. More or less. To an extent.
Or maybe I’m too tired to define how I feel and any drifting thought is so in my sweet spot it’s sugar…even if it’s salt.
So you record everything and hope some of it is a bit more than nothing? You still peruse the newbies dripping with angst and hope to tame the beast?
Eh…not all emotive writing is horrible, although some of it reminds me of the drunken fallout the day after a long night of cheap wine and burritos. You know, hugging the throne until it moves you…so to speak. Listen to me…the hypnotist dancing us all to oblivion. Maybe I’m just trying to define…something.
Well…before something has a name it could be anything…so you grasp whatever’s available to fill the vacuum…any superstition, folklore…any – partial print from the Hand of God – fragments, anything. But sometimes the answer isn’t forthcoming and the questions remain after the lips are…still. Life really isn’t simple or complex, it just is. Or so I’ve heard…
So genius and madness must be Siamese twins…at least for all one of you. That does explain a few things.
We thank you. Ever have a dark thought?
A dark thought?
A dark thought. Simple enough question. An evil synaptic twitch of pleasure?
Of course. I’m a patron of writers.
Yeah…but you never elaborate, or write. Well…my dark thought involves taking everyone who expresses dark thoughts, you know – cooking kids or torturing the blind – locking them in a room and feeding them a steady diet of bran flakes laced with arsenic and Ex-Lax. Talk about ‘clean-up on aisle twelve.’ That would definitely purge a world of wannabes of their wannabe-ism.
There are only two words that might adequately describe that state of mind. The last is ‘sane’ but the first is ‘in.’
Maybe you should pray. Or at least one of your personalities should. You know, you could always talk to my uncle.
The one who anoints children with bourbon or the one who laughs like an old woman spitting up lunch?
It’s Sunday. Even God deserves a day off from all this madness.