Manifesto of the Damned
There is a method to my ---
Find this one if you can
and then leave it. With a plain
wooden
bucket, and a
longing
mirrored in
shadows.
This monologic frag
ment.
Piece of a dream
speculates on nothing
commentates on no thing.
We aspire to do this
low art
because the
high art is beyond us.
Come to a
poem with expectations,
and leave with
unfufilled longings.
Poiema or
poietes? Which then,
if I asked you
is more important?
--And if these
reflections confuse
they are, after all, reflections--
So, in the attempt to become
scholarly and look intelligent to
our Good Friends and Closest
Collegues,
we begin to write--
such
drivel, and fill pages and pages
(boxes in boxes (words within words)
reflections (
mirrors in the
funhouse))
with
parenthetical notations which
eat themselves in an endless
recursion of
Ego Masturbation.
They are not
reflections they are
fragments
and they eat up the world
It is those moments when an
honest
person writes to a loved one and
we would look at it and probably say,
"Oh this is truly
horrible."
(And it would certainly validate our claims,
to
art, to
inspiration, to
fame)
Yes, it is those moments that are
more magnificent than any of our technical
craft.
How
clever we feel,
cleaving these
shallow little graves
with
tiny little rhymes.
It is not that we want to
it is that we have to and,
if you asked any one of us
it would come out the same:
This horror stems not from outside
but from within.
That
sleeping space which few see
and there the
demons bark,
ever wanting more and never heeding
desperate pleas, and
If you throw a bone I'll eat it gladly
and sleep on your porch
dreaming
of
rabbits, and the days when
you were a
stranger
and I was a
poet
or
maybe just a fool.
--
DJSmurf