I could Never be a Poet

She Who Must not be Named
**************************
Who made the break and crawled into a town full of reprobates
Who marched a secret salmon army upstream and waited patiently for colours of the rainbow to span the bridges and light the way to Mecca
Who's fertility took the last hope of mankind and killed it
Alone
Alone
Alone
Who cries alone
Who lives alone
Who dies alone

Who gave a shit what you thought or what you think right now or what you'll think tomorrow or the next day or the next or the next etcetera, etcetera, etcetera,
Who with conscious voice lied down on a striped mattress and was fucked by the system, and nuclear sounds and holocaust of love in blind alleyways and who enjoyed it asking for more
Who stripped the sin off your shoulders- who spoiled the body- who stole the mind- who broke © the heart
Who left you wandering streets with no poetry no art no noise no sense no feeling
As life rolled by like an orange falling off a box stacked in the corner of Sainsbury's where life promises to always taste better-freedom of the mouth
Who in their youth and wasted wisdom of the young swore it would be forever and carved a name into your arm
A name on a tree
A name on your geography homework- a map of Brazil
A name, long forgotten
Who married, except you, who saw their future, except you, who waited for something wonderful, who, if only you would, accept you, except you

Nobody

Everybody

Who even gives a fuck what you think?

I do I do I do that's who

Who in kaleidoscopic moments of clarity and vision could see the world for all of its beauty and despaired of it's filth and disease, the barrier reef and shoals of blue fish turning, turning, against the tide against the coral, across the sun alive and living, the joy of living! The sanctity of life which cannot be grasped!

Who marked the end of one passage and beginning of another passage with needle-point of the arm of love
Who made the grade
Who never made the smile fade
Who is never afraid- of the face of adversity a curse to me a full bottle in front of me a full frontal lobotomy
Hydrotherapy- shock and awe therapy- absolution of sin therapy- a new life awaits at the seventh circle of nirvana therapy
Who went to Spain to paint cypress trees behind stone walls and drink free margaritas in the failing light, with payment in kind, a kind of payment mothers and fathers gave to bring you all here; Kindness, who lacks kindness for love suffers slings and arrows and love is blindness who painted until the sun set who covered their bodies in scarlet who has indigo running through the veins and veridian in part of the iris that looks out at the world jaded naked on a picnic table under scented pines
Who loves you baby, who will love you inside out baby, who will slide in and out baby, who loves and despairs of love who needs love who breeds love who lays on their back for love who worships at the crack for love who lacks love those who want love those who preach love, says he* - do not have love
Who jumped trains to find it, who would swim rivers and oceans to be beside it, who is so close to it, who cannot see it, who wants to be free of it, who for the thrill of it
........who

For-love-of-God does not have it

Who works a dead job for money, who fucks the dead people for money, who makes dead money who dances a greasy pole for dead money who dances for the dead and decaying God of Money the Casino God the Russian Roulette God the empty soulless voice of the Metatron God the God who threw money from the gambling house onto the stone steps of the Holy Bible God the worship no other idols God Love Charity and Goodwill God the lost God the dead peoples God for dead peoples money, the all dancing all singing shit of the world God of money
I know this cause God knows this (In Tyler we Trust)
Who dreamt of colours of clinics of animals of black dogs of heartbreaking boyfriends of evil violent lovers of no comfort of a bite mark on the back of love a mark of pity a black beauty spot on the face of ugliness who dreamt of being held in dark rooms and bathrooms steam rooms and dream rooms obscene rooms where love has never been wanted and never been touched under filthy windows and bleeding walls who wept in silence for your life to be different for your lover to be different for your mother to have raised you to be different to be indifferent for it not to matter for it not to split and shatter your heart in two a bruise purple and black bruise green and black bruise yellow and brown bruise, fading, fading a bruise is all I have as a reminder of who

Who will stand on a statue bigger than God, arms outstretched to scream who will wait for their freedom who will, face to the clouds wait for birds to land,


who

Who in this fucking world



Who...?



Will ever understand?




© Marjorie razorblade 2004

Comments: A version of "Howl" from the pit of my stomach
something I think Allen Ginsberg would probably kick my arse for but fuck him he's already dead and I'm alive and loving it. Quotations from Jack Kerouac and Charles Bukowski (Mr Bukowski being the only poet to ever get it right in one take. Sir, I salute you.)