Here's some poetry I just wrote. Got it posted up in the Bipolar Confessional, where you may want to visit if you like stuff along these lines.
"A Rusty Knife"
Cool little blessed teddy bears
A million little blessed teddy bears
Come to the sundown ritual
Bring your spotless goldfish, just put him in a jar
And gather at the foot of the mountain
Where fools perish and prophets hide
Now my mind's gone blank is it sometimes wont to do
I've forgotten everything you've said not too long after you said it
And it frightens me but what else can a man do?
Price to pay, eh chap?
A trollop dropped a wall-full of bricks and made an awful divide
Betwixt the things I don't remember and the fine line which sunders in two
Knowing and not knowing
Being and not being
Thinking and not thinking
Living but not living.
Dying but not dying.
Betwixt the things I don't remember
And the things I can't forget
You seem very disappointed that I will not attempt to describe the way these episodes feel, what's going on in my mind, how I perceive "reality", it's purpose, the fleeting nature of the whole damn thing.
I am genuinely sorry for that state of affairs, but alas, what power doth mortal man hold to fuck around with the hands of time, to try to tie them behind his back. I reserve the right to keep my mouth shut and set out to do a shaker's dance. Just out behind the church, right front of the out house. Cross that field of flowers, crushing the lucky ones, and meet me, that's what it was all about, mister, you've got no idea, and furthermore, we weren't even shakers, only two kids too young to be messed up yet. So little of it survives in my memory. I can't even remember who she was. Or what she looks like, even. I only know that the cold steel of the blade she had hidden in her "Sunday Best" skirt was the most painful thing I've ever felt in my life.
It was a sharp blade. But old. Rust stuck to it and black dirty from all the blood shed carnage clinging onto the hard metal. This rendered the knife even more painful than a clean, sharp-edged sword.
Okay...give me a moment...
What was all that? I seem to have wondered off
Did you say
Something about shakers?
Or did you say quakers?
Soul Shakers and Earth Quakers
Could it actually be
Thor
Who crashes his camera
He hasn't a hammer
The flash is a freaky thing
It sticks to the back of the eyelid
It burns and it burns and it burns
Thor, is that you?
If it is...stop, please o magnificent god of thunder
cease from this mental torture you inflict
Upon one only humble
Your disregard for me saddens and discourages
I've worshiped you, Thor
I've brought burnt offerings to you
The spotless lamb, a pail for the blood
A pail for the blood
A pail for the blood
This suffering must come to an end
I'll take the rusty sword that brought me here
And slice the beast's neck
And hold it above, let it drain like a fountain
A pail for the blood
So, Thor, look down and consider your worthy servent
Mighty Thor, Manipulator of Gods
Trust me, if I thought I could
I would once more wield my dirty blade
...if I ever thought that this very blade had power to slay deity...
I would thrust it deep into Thor's guts, below the heart, so that the blade will cut sharp when I yank it up and cut in half the organ that pumped blood through his useless body.
Laughing, beaming
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