They go to church to practice sin
And learn how to sin from other sinners
Their god is a statue that just says “you’re forgiven”
And they all find a great repose
In getting together in their best clothes
To kneel and stand kneel and stand
Shake hands and clap and sing
But what they really want is to smoke and drink
And not do anything
“I don’t even believe in god” they say to themselves
But “god is perfection” they say to everyone else
“I am not a beginner”
They say
And identify as a veteran sinner
“I could rob a bank” they think “or even kill another human”
But they shrug their shoulders
And keep with insiduos little sins that hurt people
But get away with them
Because they are legal
And why do one wrong
When you can do ten
“No good going to church without guilt” they say “one would not need god”
And “god doesn’t even exist if I don’t sin”
Tag: Poetry
The Superconcept
Concepts upon concepts
Build the superconcept
The one and all
The always and forever
The thing-in-itself
That I “must” believe in
Or I am a brain in a vat
Or some other way to be without having a “place”
Concepts upon concepts
Build the superconcept
What?
Am I not allowed?
I see you scoff and squint at me ready to disbelieve
I don’t see you search for purpose and knock you off your knees
Hmmmm
Who is “you”?
And if “you” is my readers than why do I presuppose their beliefs for them?
Concepts
And more concepts
No superconcept
No
Just stupidity
Trying to call real people stupid
Out of resentment
Concepts that eat other concepts
And a final concept
That eats it’s own self
The Propaganda Of The Soul
Fifty poems
With hundreds of rhymes
Words too much
Crammed in between the lines
Standing like a soldier with locked knees
Trying to fill the poem
With the entire philosophy of Socrates
Fifty bodies in a pile of answers
For the death grip of a kind of poet killing cancer
Dreamed after
Dreamed before
A lifeless hunk of meat dropped off at the door
And dense poems
So dense when you read them
You need to be alone
Fifty thousand lies to be attributed to wisdom
The propaganda of the soul
Come to eat my badly prepared meals
Swallow each poem whole
And watch
As the marble rolls
Around and around in the bowl
For a life
A coffin
And a hole
You Shouldn’t Have
This one
In your feed
Introducing the ohellino in me
Jaeger to friends
And to enemies?
Life ends
Life was here before me, mankind, how to treat him?
As the sun grows dim
And
You go through photos of my sin
“You shouldn’t have written that” you say
“You shouldn’t have sung that” you say
“You shouldn’t have drawn that” you say
But I am like
Why not?
I fucking die anyway Bob
Am I supposed to be used all up in a job
And go in the trash
Like a corn on the cob?
Mental Anguish
Mental anguish
And fuck – include me in your prayers
I am a multitude of personalities
I have to be careful not to scare
Sixteen sides to my face
And six different ways inside my heart
And a bludgeoning of truth
Until it bleeds art
Mental anguish
Ripping brain tissue apart
It will grow back
It will make me hard
And deep
The spiral of kaleidoscope tears
Managing
Your stupid fears
The truth?
You are no where near
But I am not a doctor
I won’t judge
Or prescribe
Or even give advice
I’m a bit of an odd fellow with strange experiences
Despite being nice
Not so strange as a thought confusion
I guess
And what I will do
Is expand your delusion
And suggest
That you express
Before it’s all over
And you rest
Forever in death
Reincarnate
Humble I am
An ego in recess
And I owe that to humble beginnings
Not Jesus
I wanted to die
But was unable
So I got high
And ended up mentally disabled
There was others who like me
Who wanted to produce art
Saying “yeah I’ll try her”
Showing themselves as fakes
And liars
To start this
That creating is not being
No more than a wheel is a tractor
I wanted to be an artist
Not an actor
And I wanted
To be a dancer
Not a computer chair
I wanted to be a friend
Not a patronizer
I wanted to be a painter
Not an advertiser
I wanted to be free
To use my own volition
I wanted to be a poet
Not a politician
I wanted to be honest
Not talk hard
I wanted to be a musician
Not a rock star
And I wanted to die
To do
What I do anyway and have no choice in
Reincarnate
And begin all over again
Instead Of Us
Instead of us
Why not them
Instead of you
What about
What I am
Instead of truth
What about sarcasm
What about a scam
What about ten
What about cashing in
I talk
You sort of listen
But don’t understand
And I’d much rather show you the back of my hand
Instead of us
What about doing this
Separate
What about you go your way
I go mine
Good?
Fine
As good as dead
And I’d still rather slap you upside the head
Instead of us
What about those
Hanging in the garden
A bunch of peoples clothes
Did you think I’d say “ghost”
Or duck duck goose
Just playing with you
You know you are just like me
On prozac
Under the sign of the moose
In the Canadian zodiac
She Is A Tree
She is a breeze
That floats just above the ground
She is a doorway to existence
No one else has found
She is ancient
And profound
She is only wood
She is a tree I’m chopping down
She is the flash of light
The waves
As they pound
She is the moon
And the aliens we haven’t found
She dreams
And as she dreams she grounds
She is a tree
I am chopping down
A Poem To The Head
It’s over
It’s the end
No more
No friend
It’s complete
I pray
Fuck the end
It’s not fair
Anyway
And I go
Because no one needs me
And I leave
Because no one heeds me
And I fuck off
Because everyone is so god damn greedy
It’s over
I’m putting a poem to my head
And blowing my brains out with words
And I’m gonna be dead
It’s absurd
And fake
So don’t fill my email with caring loving messages
Or bible passages
Don’t brown on me
And surround me and call me lonely
I’m overstimulated by people
Who come in all good intention
And are evil
Don’t deviate from the choices I make for you
You can’t own forever
And when it comes to art you can’t even deliver
Too long with pets
With TV
With fucking around and not being EXACTLY like me.
6:51
It’s six fifty one
Have you written enough posts?
Look at your pad
It’s overrun by ghosts
You got one like
It’s from everyone though
Did you want it in a box?
Tied with a big bow?
And labelled “ohellino”?
No?
Well you’re a bit rude
Do you think you’d get more
If you weren’t a dude?
Are you conflicted
And not confident or with self esteem
Do you worry about dying without leaving behind
A bunch of poems that awkwardly rhyme
And still sleeping too much
Still dipping in your madness
And writing a bunch of poems
To purge sadness
ohellino 