Can children be pedophiles?
Must they be pedophiles?
Should we kill all adultophiles?
Can there be an
‘Interational Society of Hermits’?
Should ugly people
Share their self-portraits?
There’s no reason a person with cancer,
Can’t treat others with cancer.
Similarly,
There’s no reason a killer,
Can’t help others find peace and generosity.
Oh, sweet revenge!
It’s gotta come out,
Like the cum of the soul.
Nags like an itch,
Until realized.
The only compensation,
For a cruel world.
No turning the other cheek,
My friend…
A thousand eyes for an eye,
Say I!
Afterlives were created,
To assuage people’s blood-thirst needs,
And help them believe,
That what hasn’t been avenged by men,
Will be rewarded in some distant end…
But for those in the know,
Revenge is the only sweet antidote,
To all the anger and pain,
Which cannot,
And shall not,
Ever wane!
The nectar of the gods,
Which don’t yet exist…
The juice to be sucked,
And savored,
From the laughing tongues of anarchy!
The only true deterrent,
For crimes,
Injustices,
And unwanted intrusions!
Take your revenge, say I!
Now or never, say I!
A thousand eyes for an eye,
Say I!
Let’s attack this blank piece of paper.
Like killing a fly.
For the hell of it.
For the slight challenge of it.
For the thrilling spot of blood & gore.
The only trophy for quick reflexes.
Let out a bit of steam.
Drain the clogged pipes of emotion,
And intellect,
And the in-between.
Document a fleeting moment/sensation,
Before it disappears beyond recollection.
Catching the last glimpse of her ass,
Or heel,
Before the door bangs shut.
And then painting a portrait of that glimpse.
For the hell of it.
Masterpieces, mosaics, don’t matter now.
I’m getting old,
Nearing that ripe 30,
Happy just to paint portraits,
And destroy empty space.
Oh, blank paper!
My dear friend…
Perhaps my best friend…
Certainly my most reliable one!
I once wrote of my delight,
In murdering your blankness,
With my genius,
But tonight I’m feeling a lot more tender,
You lying there so submissively,
Your whiteness staring at me so invitingly…
I want to tuck in with you,
Near a warm crackling fire,
Or take you to the woods,
Alone,
And fuck you amidst the trees,
Under the stars,
Near a stream,
Or in a stream,
And let my seed spill out all over you,
So that others may drink it in,
Whenever they choose,
And if they not gag,
Or vomit,
Perhaps feel some of the joy we feel,
When I fuck you…
To an untrained eye,
Every fetus seems crippled.
But to one who knows the process,
The contortions foretell of beauties to come.
So it is with fledgling creators,
Inevitable temporary cripples,
To the masses of untrained eyes.
Lost…
Dazed…
Unsure of whether their difference
Be madness or genius…
And at this early stage,
I’d say they’re synonymous…
Alone,
Though not always wanting to be,
But having to be,
Since they be of the few,
To whom the first traces of new wonders,
Whisper their secret charms,
Thus seducing fledgling masters,
Into suckling them into beauty,
Which all can then readily see.
‘Does it have a name yet?’
‘No.’
‘And do you know if it’s a … or a …?’
‘No. No. No. Let’s just wait and see.’
Once upon a time, a beautiful little baby was born. Moments later, it died, mysteriously…
I’ve experienced perfect balance.
Have you?
Absolute equilibrium.
Absolute satisfaction.
All desires filled.
All dreams promisingly near.
Boredom promisingly distant.
Health in perfect order.
Finances sufficiently present.
Love sufficiently reciprocated.
Libido sufficiently satiated.
For all these elements,
To come into perfect harmony,
Is utterly miraculous.
And this miracle has been coming and going,
Of late…