September 4th, 2004

Cthulhu Joyce


In the words of fire,
I am not in individual
nor can I be what I am
- will be - have been-
Defining what I is defeats it
it is calling into the wind,
summoning a dragon to
burn houses to the ground.
This is not what they are -
what the could become if we
did not call them by katakana
titles. Broken down
they remain linked in essence
being what they are built and broken.
I leave myself in these figures,
watching them drawn in precise strokes.
I can not individualize
until my calligraphy can be dragons.
In becoming another I remove them
from space and fall further
from individual. Speaking rightly -
in them I can finally be me;
perfection is attained in
imbibing others fully. Then
individuating from their bone structure
and am self defeating my own becoming
Cthulhu Joyce


The meridian is posing,
posturing her attentions.
She is laudable,
a laundry list of perfections
that can only be seen without scrutiny.
Would you observe her
and belabor her worship?
It is coy - as her eyes
play down your inseam
to size up your length
and mettle.

We can not handle the meridian
She, bedecked in silks,
is our lace goddess.
She sows her glory, binding beauty
into history books and myth
Do not look at her,
she will turn to stone.
Cthulhu Joyce


A chromatic scale,
diatonic and in broken octaves,
envisions and emboldens
a landscape of silent colors.
He can only see as far
as his pink pants
- acrylic to the touch -
can travel uphill.
Prismatic convolutions of mind
a poignant flavor
as spicy as isosceles triangles
is his presentation to the world.
It always need more angels
when we hear our lights
ascending in a triumphant litany.
His congregation adjudicated
by tangy gavel sounds
plays the jazz of acquisition -
strutting on a syncopated runway.
  • Current Mood
    creative creative
Cthulhu Joyce


This is white space[ ]
This is ants crawling in white space[------------]
Do you get it? You don't fucking get it. It's a device that I didn't create,
poetry was likened to ants on a page - white space (a wasted environment
because it is empty]. I think Basho said it; he is a decrepit, dessicated husk
of a man that could only produce minor syllabic sputum because he could reach beyond 5-7-5
katakana enclosures. He was a loser, with a capitol DEAD. Nothing is wasted in emptiness;
emptiness can't be ruined! If it is empty it holds possibility, it isn't
subjugated by some hack with a pen in his mouth claiming to be King-on-high with the largest
cock in existence. He might as well have "Press" tags in his hat, grey and faded from
all that rain failure to get laid.
Purity is in the empty word. The more you place
in any space that was previous holding potential - potential energy as held
on a hill in some physics class - the worse it becomes
as there is more and more it can't fucking be. Writers ruin space.
They spew their filth, dirge on it.
They impregnate perfection with shit, gizing on the face of beauty and calling it
"Art" or "Love." This is bullshit. "Art" only exists in a lazy mind
that has no work to do. It isn't fucking practical to do art. It's a waste
of good hands that could otherwise produce something where function follows form
not where form is the only damn consideration. Who gives a shit about the form resulting from ejaculatory emptiness. It's a
and white lie that resonates on your eyes,
stings like the cum of poets - an especially feculant string of "writer" - and makes you blind to the world. When a writer, presenting you with a tome that makes Robert Jordan weep, gouges out your eyes with his sediment smack him. Tell him there was fucking perfection before he forced
his ideal like a rapist, vikings fucking european women like grendel's mother fucked Hrothgar,
on your emptiness - your blank mind that was on a factory line
cutting chicken nuggets from chickens birthed without bones
and slipping and cutting your finger to the quick through inferior chainmail gloves. Tell him
I don't need a fucking writer, especially a poet, molding the world in some
vodka-soaked fantasy to become a sex-toy.
Writers are worse than nazi's. At least you knew what you were getting with nazis. Death, filth eaters and death and wooden bunkbeds you share with sixteen other corpses that
rattle with necrosis and moil (that means work). Writers give you
a hazy interpretation of what empty space should become. They play fucking GOD
like children play doctor. The say "You should fuck like this" and "that is wrong" and slap babies as they dream of future impurity. This isn't right.
Obviously only YOU should slap your child, you know best. Writers
have no bearing on children - they shouldn't breed
becoming more prolific and destroying the fabric of zen, ching, whatever the hell oriental
cultures call it and the oxidentals mispronounce because
their tongues are too busy wrapping around fried chicken and forgetting how to read. America,
too busy fighting foreign nothing - a father's sins acted out on the stupidity of his son - proclaims the perfection
of creating empty space. Bombs are not perfect. Nothing is perfect - do you fucking get it yet?
I scream and wail on the emptiness (Sebastian named it "The Nothing" in an excellent German book that claimed null space for ecumenical superiority) of necessity and there are leaders -
men that say "I am that I am" like they are my deity as if I said "OK, rape me until I bleed."
No! Go back to the nothingness that GOD created for YOU - for heaven the perfection of death. If it is so fucking "perfect" why are you still here?
Writers make heaven as if they knew what perfection is. No one knows.
Not even those that say "Space should be mine" and bomb it into oblivion.
They are worse than writers. They think they can create null space - nothingness - emptiness - void? Where do they get off trying to be better than writers?
Bombs don't fucking make perfection? I can't make perfection.
If a writer can't create perfection from a blank page
YOU can't reproduce perfection be obliterating
the words away from the page, Because, when it's gone, there is no empty page
that waits for a man - a human being with experience and imperfections and flaws and understandings - to explore it and know it. He has nothing to become - no way
to imbibe perfection That page is gone
in a destined spear - an archaic device Hitler would ejaculate happiness over [and that man couldn't know happiness trying to build perfection from inferior ingredients).
No. You cannot build perfection
as effectively as I can taint it.
Deal with that, dick head.
I'm a writer and in my imperfections - the multitudinous fallibility -
I'm still better
than a man that
bombs the shit out
of a nation.