I wrote this poem while stoned.It semed very deep, see what you think,
To An Ordinary God of Ordinary Things
1.
The club door left ajar, Enter the dance O my God, Rock with me, all you Goths, All you dirty Punks, You disco dykes, All you Indie boys in tight Levi jeans, All you retards and freaks, Pray, tap you’re feet on the floor, To the anarchist beat, to the hot stormy drum, The electro-lights our lanterns, The guitars our solemn psalms,
O groove and spill your heart out lip-stick girls Until your limbs excite his smile, His devoted love, That Hobo man Jesus, In a raincoat and sandals,
To the tank-top boys, Stop popping the pills my brothers And follow me to forever, For it shall be the summer of love, It shall be the season of myself, Of angels laughing, Of many fiery stars assailing, Stoned, haunted and screwed, by the ghost of joy, An exorcism of my sorrow,
It is summer, In the sun we boys together bathe, Friends, arm in arm, Kissing, eating, drinking, tasting, We let everything go, The rush, the road Of search and seeking, Of hankering after sight,
God is in mine right hand, And the left, he with me now, He rests in me as air.
2.
I want vision, Fucked and being ****ed, Like a five-penny Shaman, For I am the unwed brother, My loins awake in starlight, My tongue slackens, My semen mingles with the sea, My hot blood with the stones
Affirm the body beneath the polar star, Fucked and being ****ed, Now I am myself uniquely, Cock fondling grace, Buttocks shrouded in river time soak, You put asunder, All things assured, You push aside, All water, no wall to a strong heart Wet sexy blue eyes, Swimming and wanted by the waves,
He felt so that I could feel, Each nerve, each muscle, Each cell, Shivering with pleasure, Fucked thing, body born alive with love, I dig you’re voce, it calls me, It kisses me, knowing each passing moment, Knowing, tracing the whole of myself, Singing a song of my own,
Let us be brothers and lovers, Body and soul the same, Fucked and being ****ed, In fields, we role, Grass marks despoil, Trees, leaves, The Rugby shirt, Bulky, no bones, Flesh, your flesh,
3.
Poet, prophet, pervert, No where to go but here and now, Outsider, but inside, More than this, Familiar where impressions lie like sand, Baby-milk and starry pinpricks, Once it was thus,
My past, Man and boy mingle in self-serenity, The past, the fast droplets on a windowpane, The sunny adolescent days of innocence, Things done, all those things yet to come,
What open road is yet here? O that door which is the body of youth reveals, The painless sighs of sex and senses, The heights of pleasures awaiting, roaming, And all the eyes of lovers are but one gaze, And all the hands, that grapple and caress are the same, It is not yet done, as with the breath is not expired, Nor candles devoutly lit, they are undiminished,
O God, walk with me, your queer baby-child, Walk like blades so fearless, so amazing and proud, Let me hear the heartland of heaven singing, Far from the drunkards of the earth And through it all the words, “ever I love you”.
We wander now, as we did, To those steps, that citadel of arisen angelic moments, Body forever, physical and beyond the thorny grave, It is not yet done, as with the breath is not expired,
JesusBitch, I'm quite impressed by your poem! I can't believe you wrote it when you were stoned. It proves, though, that even when you're not in total control of your senses, your brain still makes connections and can create poetry with a logical flow. (Well, you only have to look at opium-addict Coleridge.)
One of my favourite passages:
God is in mine right hand, And the left, he with me now, He rests in me as air.
Love the third line.
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'I've discovered the secret of life. A lot of hard work, a lot of sense of humor, a lot of joy and a whole lot of tra la la.' Kay Thompson
quote: Originally posted by: AlbyFC "I can't believe you wrote it when you were stoned. It proves, though, that even when you're not in total control of your senses, your brain still makes connections and can create poetry with a logical flow."
when have i ever been anything less than eloquent when stoned off my little titties?
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burn down our home, RAPE OUR DEAD MOUTHS. Just as long as I don't have to hear anymore of your disgusting babble
It scares the hell out of me, This place, a wasteland of people, A paradise for poets and piss-artists, The sprawl of a million lives unaware of the ant-hill, Of roadways, streets, the relentless trace of the high-rise,
In love with each human ant, Kissing the lips of each James Dean, Each Jack Kerouac I meet,
No regrets, not now I’m here, Now I finally don’t give a ****, Now I can make the stones under my feet sing,
I just want an elixir of life, And a pair of tight jeans, A leather-jacket looking flash, Plenty of vodka and notes, I don’t want to settle down at twenty-five, I don’t want to settle down at all,
I write beat-love beats, With a new soul, Poems in the half-light of fake candles and hot cigarettes, And a little rosary my boy made for me one spring evening, Memory and fading love my driving force, Let me die in some ex-lover’s pad, A flower in my hand, A cloud in my mind, A memory of bad days and nights With a personal hurricane in my head, Praying to a post-modern Jesus,
The pillars, Remnants of empire, The smell of lit matches, Like gun-powder, The pavement filled with a thousand footsteps, Freedom; freedom, don’t stop now! Ride on through, The rough and tumble of bouncers and bar-tenders, Shouting out into the night, “Open your heart”.
In love with an urban jungle, The march, the drive against the pasture: That’s it, how can I come home, When they don’t recognise me?
For God’s sake stay free, Because you were made for this, Not to be a slave, Not to be a machine or a thing full of wires, You don’t need anything but self and certainty,
I’m in love like a teenager, With a blind fate, in a state of wild love, Not with you, the quiet life, The country leaves in summer, Don’t stop me! It’s my life, my business,
I tell myself, Don’t stop, Dance your way to the city, To the streets, Make your own patch of the world, You’re pad
What did you expect of me? To stay at home and grieve for the familiar? To hunger for the same day-in day out, Like the fish in a tank, the bird in the cage?
I can’t live like that, I’d stagnate; I’d rot if I lived like I wasn’t young, As if life had passed me by,
Just my luck, I’d write poetry half to death if only I could write without chains, I’d **** who I want to **** if only I knew how to be guiltless, I’d write odes every sunrise if only I knew how to catch the best experiences, If only,
But now I’ve got the chance, To be, to dwell, to do as I please, No more censorship, Fucked up the ass, On fire with boys and men who adore me, Tongues, interlocking, life stories interrelating, This city, this life, it’s not for wasting.
