The writings of Oddpoet

I like shiny things, I'm very superficial.

Sirens sing the song of death
While rental cops lay cones down
Restrict­ing traf­fic



They have come for me.



I am the Poet
The truth
My words are carved in the flesh of inno­cence
Scrawled in cheap uri­nals
Chis­eled in the faded gray paint of shit holes
Of lonely tomor­rows
I dry the tears of the hope­less
Scream with the home­less
I sing truth that hum­bles Gods
I am Prometheus, Sisy­phus



I cut the throat of pompous laugh­ter
And kill its first born
I eat the soul of dread­ful nor­malcy
I walk the edge and con­versed with mad­men
My words rever­ber­ate in trash strewed alleys
My tread echoed in the halls of jails and men­tal insti­tu­tions
Shared secrets with bro­ken soul­less junkies



I am truths
That freeze men’s souls
And the lies they swear by
The burn­ing blade cut­ting teth­ered souls
Illu­mi­nat­ing light­en­ing



I am the Devi­ate fondling sacred sex­u­al­ity
The ser­ial killer cov­ered in Blood
Suck­ing life from vic­tims
With last breath curs­ing God
Whim­per­ing
“Why me?”



I am the throne­less king
The voice­less trou­ba­dour
The song no one will sing
I am the invis­i­ble chill
That fon­dles your spine
I am dis­com­fort
The night­mare
The book no one will read
I am words no want wants to hear
I am …

Ringed
Inside kalei­do­scopic brim­stone
A Hierony­mus Bosch Vegas strip



Sans tourist



Smoth­er­ing vapors of sul­fu­ric mists
Tor­tures gasp­ing breath

Ya wanna scream

“Mommy”

But

Mommy ain’t here



Fish faced generic pedes­tri­ans
whose idea of a good time
Is a home car­pen­try project
Approved by Norm him­self



They sit behind rein­forced
Plex­i­glas
In air con­di­tioned
Save-way stores
Plead­ing
For dis­counts
And
The real deal



The demonic choir
Sing
Johnny Cash
With gui­tars
Made of human skulls
Stringed with the sinews
Of dead heroes



Big D
Enters
The circle

Wit a
Impec­ca­bly coif­fured
Elvis Doo

I guess every­body
Loves
The king



“You stay­ing Poet?”

“Don’t think so D
But thanks for
Asking”

“Ya know Your time is coming”

“Decided?

“Up or down?

“Think I might start
My own after­life D



Big D
Gives me an Elvis
My Way flour­ish
Swirling his black sequined cape

Get­ting into that phony

Elvis karate stance.



“Sounds inter­est­ing Poet
You always did know how to style
If you need a hand
You know where to find me”

“Cool D”

And I rolled.

I’ve been forged in the white hot heat of pas­sion
I’ve been annealed and tem­pered in the fur­nace of Despair
I’ve been honed and sharp­ened by teacher Pain
I’ve spent time amid the home­less
And writ­ten poems with the insane



I am the cylin­der that mis­fired
Pointed at my head
I am the bro­ken rope
Wealed and con­gealed
Upon my throat
Even Death rejects me



I am the scarred man
The imper­fect crea­ture
Fun­nels run down my cheeks
Home for famil­iar tears



While you are edg­ing your lawn this week­end
And putting down the weed and feed
Know we are out there



Watch­ing…
Wait­ing…
Feel­ing
Cry­ing…
Know­ing…
Liv­ing…
Dying…



We are the imper­fect Crea­tures
God’s aban­doned Chil­dren
And we are everywhere

From the begin­ning, we have col­lec­tively asked. Who are we?

More to the point, “Who am I?

Let us start, afore­men­tioned query, with my good friend, Sig­mund Freud.

Sig, if I might be so bold, devel­oped a the­ory of the Human Psy­che, Soul, Heart, define it as you will, the following:

1. Ego, well, one’s opin­ion of him/herself.

2. ID, a mish­mash of rep­til­ian brain desires, wants, and needs. Kind of like me watch­ing the 24 year old across the street with the too short shorts, half her ass hang­ing out and bend­ing over every chance she gets. So my “ID” says. “Poet nail that hot babe.” Which leads us to the:

3. Super­ego, Con­science. Can’t do that shit Poet you be a bad boy!!!!

Freud the­o­rized that that Super­ego starts with the parent’s remon­stra­tions to the ego and id infested dick weeds that are the infant human. Of course that evolves into peer pres­sure, social mores and the frig­gin State’s, dare I say val­ues? Back to the infant, well, “Don’t stick that fork into your brother’s eye Poet that is “bad” Savvy?

That is what infants are, a frig­ging pain in the ass!

Every mam­mal infant is born with a too large head and very large eyes, which evokes in all us the col­lec­tive, “isn’t it “CUTE!” Check it out your­self! Look at a baby Rac­coon or what­ever.. Espe­cially you Babes, you girls are hard­wired for that response; else we would kill them! All the friggs do is cry, “I’m hun­gry”, “wipe my ass”, “My tummy hurts” “WHINE!”

We would cer­tainly kill them if they were not so “cute.”

As an aside, I toss to you Freud’s book “Future of an Illu­sion” where he den­i­grates Reli­gion as an “Illu­sion” Not sure if it was he or Marx who called Reli­gion the “Opi­ate of the peo­ple” Of course Sig was snort­ing mas­sive lines of unstepped on pure frig­gin coke. And as he was winc­ing over the “drip” he con­tin­ues…… “The Illu­sion which is Religion”….sniff…sniff…snort….snort….”  Yea, let­ting a coke head tell us who we are is not always a good idea.

Nice try Sig! Sorry, close! But you have not “nailed” it!

Mov­ing on.

The Behav­ior­ist.

Well, these Dudes and Dudetts believe that behav­ior (us) can be reduced to stim­u­lus and response. Given the proper stim­uli a pred­i­ca­ble response will occur. They are in the ball­park at least. B.F. Skin­ner noted “Behav­ior­ist” invented the “Skin­ner Box” of course he really didn’t because a lot of peo­ple before him did the work but he gets the glory. Kind of like Pom­pey being feted and hav­ing his Tri­umph through the streets of Rome while the poor frig who actu­ally won the war winds up being dead. Such price glory.

They do inter­est­ing thing in Skin­ner Boxes’ like: put a lab rat in one, with 2 levers, one which when depressed, deliv­ers food, the other, “poor unstepped on Freudian coke.” Hmmm…. I won­der… Well the rat presses the coke lever every frig­gin time and will starve to death. That is the nature of addic­tion; you con­stantly chase that ini­tial instance of eupho­ria. The brain does that nat­u­rally with Dopamine, a neu­ro­trans­mit­ter; How­ever, Dopamine and asso­ci­ated neu­ron synap­tic fir­ing required to pro­duce eupho­ria are destroyed in the process and you are left with your “Drug of Choice” chas­ing “that”, which you can never again have. Well Death and over dose fol­low. I have heard the ‘song” too many times. Close friends…………………..

Mov­ing on… (Almost done, hang in there. I will tie it up com­plete, rib­bon freely given, in a nice lit­tle pack­age! Have I ever let you down?)

Finally to the “I won­der what would hap­pen if…” Sci­en­tist, who decides to see what hap­pens if we stick elec­trodes into a rat’s brain….Hmmmm….

Well neces­sity dic­tates I get a bit gross here. In the begin­ning they prob­a­bly just jammed an over­sized elec­trode into the Rat’s unanes­thetized brain; which had the liv­ing entity writhing in extreme pain. “Can’t do any­thing with this sucker Bill”… flush….Next!

So they even­tu­ally dis­cover you had to anes­thetize it, peel the Rat’s skull open, expose the entity’s brain and gen­tly place the elec­trode into the brain and find truth! Of course you can not ini­tially go to a med­ical sup­ply store and ask for a “rat skull puller offer” and get an “aisle 6, half way down, right side” response. No, you have to make that shit up as you go. Of course they fried a few brains before they got the proper charge right. Even­tu­ally they go: “Look Fred if I stim­u­late this sec­tion his right foot moves, this sec­tion “Look the frig­ger will not stop eat­ing” They have a good time with that and they all take turns push­ing ‘the” but­ton till the rat dies of overeat­ing. Its’ sati­ety response of course muted by the friggs! Is that not the nature of empir­i­cal sci­en­tific inquiry? They have done this on Humans. Do not doubt me! Inmates, mil­i­tary peo­ple and indi­gents. Had a friend who was in the mil­i­tary who was exper­i­mented on. He hung him­self and is no longer with us. Another sad song I can sing.

There is even one sec­tion of the rat’s brain that, when stim­u­lated, will pro­duce a Lib­er­ace, meets Fred Astair with John Tra­volta on steroids Salsa dance. I mean the frig­ger is on his hind legs and danc­ing the night away. Well, I am flu­ent in sev­eral ani­mal lan­guages and they tell me this.

What does this mean? Well the Sci­en­tist seeks to define the inde­fin­able! They seek truth and find only knowl­edge. It is the Heisen­berg Uncer­tainty Prin­ci­ple. They know one fact but, by know­ing, they can not know any­thing ELSE!!!!!!! As much as they try to quan­tify, alpha­beti­cize and cat­e­go­rize us, they can not!

You see we are neb­u­lae, enshrouded in mys­tery, con­tain therein, is an ember, faint, yet glow­ing, in the dark­ness of our night. It is the spark of the Divine!!! YES!!!!!! We are a thread in the weave of the uni­ver­sal cloth. Call it the “Soul” if you so desire. We are indeed Divine and we do live on when our hearts stop pump­ing, when we “shed off this mor­tal coil”. It is you! The Poet, the Musi­cian, the Painter, the Sto­ry­teller that sing our Truth, our Divin­ity. And it only you, who can teach us and tell us “who we are.”

So wield thy Quill Poet! Sing your song Musi­cian! Paint your mas­ter­piece and tell your story. Then and only then will we truly know Truth!

Artist!… Is that not what you do?

I take my leave with Yeats haunt­ing words, “Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.” Ahhh! Is that not Beauty?…Truth?…..

I remain, ever constant,

The Odd­est of Poets