The Modern Gentleman

I've finally finished it!

"The Modern Gentleman"

I am the modern gentleman!
A clever man
A silvery man
A walk talk balking man

The assured man
The versed man
When the Canon is burned man
It’s easy to be the best amongst my fellow man
I’ll catch you on the sly, man
And rob you for all you’re worth

But I ain’t no Picasso
In an era where the Canvas is king
(Or queen, depending on your preference)
No, consider (me) at once the ladykiller
Migrating from romance in flow
But consider me a separate Entity

So give me a feather of Vigor
And (Like an ego trip at the edge of Hell)
I will be All-Body
All-Mind
All-Soul

I am the man who
When faced with the cry
“Meaningless! Everything is meaningless!”
By the heretics
(Those dog-eared, French-borne heretics)
I reply
“Yes, I agree.
But
We needn’t make a mockery of things.”
To which they reply
“Who made you think that our goal?”
The response:
“You’re adherents in name”
(Not spirit)

I will be my conception
Of the Grand Ol’ Trinity
And I will be my conception
Of all that a man should be

I'll be as Wilde was
A velvet-suited villain
A rakish wordsmith
With absinthe-stained breath.
I will not die a cadaver
I will cartwheel to my demise
Chuckling, "My, what a ride!"

I have seen your peaks
I have known your abysses
Bollocks!
Bollocks to the lot of it!
Let me know my own glory
Let me know my own despair
So long as it is mine
Mine to win
Mine to defeat
So long as it is mine

A cynic
That's what they'll call me
To my friends and lovers
Do I send this word
Don't be deceived
They are treacherous
They will do all that they can
And more than they may.
Their greatest trick will be my sainthood
When they beatify me
Tackle the pedestal that I may fall
We worship Jupiter, sure
But our heroes are truly,
Purely promethean

I will sing our age's hymn
I will light the incense
I will clean the altar
I will do all this and more.
We are a wily race of humanity
Trembling and mumbling
But for eons have I soaked
In the fetal fallopian fluids of the universe
I return to love you all
Aye, many of you are wicked
Despicable
Mediocre
But my faith in you is limitless.

And I am the modern gentleman
The soulless man
The coldest man
An altogether too bold man
Indeed, I am the modern gentleman

"Tomorrow: The Sporting Life"

It seems that today is now Tomorrow.
That word weighs ten-thousand pounds and states quite
totally its dominance over our
life. There’s no use in fighting that great wave
which would wash us away if it had a
say in the matter. But we must be proud!
As we climb the cliff, we must not shrink from
Hell’s flames, but stretch towards the Best Within Us.

If you have found the best within yourself
then you have mistaken a plateau for
the Mountain Top. the Will is a muscle;
it withers when left one way for too long.
So bend and tear and mend and rest, sure, but
never let it sit. This is what makes graves.

But many things will try to break your Will.
Often, the greatest villain is yourself.
Without consent, nothing may smash apart
our pedestals. But just one trembling:
the demons pounce with chisels and hammers.
Avoid doubt and regret. The former is
a childish whisper of playground defeats.
The latter is the grime of living. Though
you might have done wrong, you should not condemn
your future to the Cross. We must not chase
after missed opportunities. Account
for your losses if you are brave, forget
them if you are not, but don’t stop the March.

Within you is the stuff of a legend.
Use it and live heroically. Nothing
as great as your satisfactory grin
at what you yourself have accomplished will
be found in this world. So live a sporting
life. It’s the one item you’ll always have.

"Advice"

Blank verse is awesome!

"Advice"

Advice, via myself, via a friend:
Have fun and ambition, make a few friends,
Succeed, propose toasts and be worth a few,
Get heartbroken, figure out what love is,
(Report your conclusions back to me, boy)
Keep close the fact that you’re not always young,
Accept mortality, say charming things,
drink good whiskey, smoke Turkish cigarettes,
get in a scuffle for the girl you love,
dress to kill, set the discotheque on fire,
Flirt shamelessly, make art (even if bad),
Look back upon death and say: twas worth it.

Composition #7

Apologies for the repetition.

I’m aware of my mistake and miffed, too,

That by grief and good humour, I’ve, in lieu

Of honesty or punkish petition,

Become, a goggle-eyed pisser ex-beau.

It’s been a rough month; everyone needs rest

And if I’m sentimental, well, es geht.

If henceforth I keep cards close to the chest,

Perhaps I’ll find a routine. If that’s so

Apologies for the repetition.

"Prayer for the Lone Oak Buffalo

This is in honor of every small town Texas high school student who is going to make something of themselves.

"Prayer for the Lone Oak Buffalo"

And from the beginning:
This town is toxic to bison like thee
No singing or sinning
"-No!- it's prayer that will make you free"

But god is a dancer
The pastors, wallflowers
While you've got Will to Greatness
They offer you a corrupt cancer
So fly! fly! fly!
Ain't fuck-all they can do!

But collars aren't your only
Members of the Axis
/school and society/
They wanna crush you
And from time to time they will
(Remember: they can stay and stare when you actualize)
But you are
Smart&quick&clever&strong& & &
Better
Well, okay, not better
But you are better made to live on this earth
Don't listen to the screaming tutors of 'truth'
Theirs is a corrupt truth of facts and figures

(Don't forget the three sorts of lies)
-Lies
-Damned Lies
-Statistics

And friends may (will) at times be rare
Course you don't deal in small talk
Like a side-street weapons-dealing gangbanger
You are an international rogue
The terror of every empire!
And each word that pours from your mouth is an ICBM

(And henceforth)
So rally your fellow soldiers
The time to fight is now!
The senseless shallow waters won't make waves
And remember that stunted ambition
Hell, that's what makes graves

A Thing To Be Read

First segment. More to come. Very Tired.

"Composition 2"

His name is Charlie. He is walking through downtown; the tram wires are slashes on the skyline. Charlie is meeting Samuel, his father. They are going to discuss what is to be done with Judy’s ashes. Judy is the mother of Charlie and the wife of Samuel. Samuel had great affections for her before he lost it all. Samuel only cared for his drink, then. Charlie felt alienated from Judy; Charlie is an atheist, and he always felt an enormous distrust (and an allegorical hatred) for this symbol of Catholicism.

But Judy is no longer a Catholic. She is dead. All that remains of her papist tendencies is a tender silver vase. Samuel wants the ashes to remain in his house forevermore. Charlie wants to see to it that they are scattered beneath the willow tree that stands at Judy’s familial summer home. Samuel loathes Judy’s family. Judy’s family loathes Samuel. There is a great group of people who could with ease congregate and discuss their mutual loathing of Samuel, with the source of these hate-filled waters acting as the foremost member.

Charlie is early. He is drinking his fourth cup of coffee. He’s been waiting for forty-five minutes. Charlie’s throat is scorched. “Christ,” he mutters upon realizing how much this place charges for coffee. He is sitting outside, so he leaves. He does not care to see his father, so Charlie decides that the best course of action would be to not. He has not seen his father since the service and would like to go to great lengths to preserve that.

Charlie is walking through downtown; the winos are pissing in the alleys. Charlie needs to get back to his apartment. It will be late soon. It will be dark soon. Charlie can see the vibrations of the disordered city. He knows what happens when the sinners arrive. The sidewalks crackle with their electricity. They are living. Charlie is terrified of them. They live without thinking. Charlie thinks first. At least they are living. There is the great majority in this evil place who only exist, allowing Newton’s forces to work upon them and not much else. Charlie avoids the Existers and will chum about with the Sinners when the time is right for friendships. They flatter him; compliment his turn of phrase and turn of cheek.

“Shit, I’m lost.” Charlie is lost. He was enticed by the bright lights and rhythms of the boulevard on which he now stands. The Sinners are out in full force. They look happy. Charlie looks happy to them; even more than that, Charlie looks established to them. “What’s a guy like that doing here?” they whisper as he walks by.

Apologies for the intermission. That won't happen again.

Here is a piece of very brief fiction written on a dare. Please, give me more challenges; they help me stretch myself.

And I hope no one is offended by any language; if so, I give thee my deepest condolences.

"Short Story #1"

“I swear to Christ, I’ve got no fucking idea why I was passed out in that bathroom!” It’s true; I really didn’t have a fucking idea as to why I was passed out in that bathroom. My captors/fascist pricks/blue-suited jerk-offs/police officers wouldn’t accept the veracity of this claim, however, and decided to take me to a holding cell where a really very nice man decided to perform numerous drug tests (I failed the opiates test, of all things) and cavity searches (I’m positive the two following the initial anal investigation were more for his personal pleasure rather than to uphold any notion of justice). I was released on bail several hours later, sentenced to 100 hours of community service, and let off the hook. There is a certain convenience, I must confess, in being related, however distantly, to the assistant to the city’s attorney general. In the ensuing months I have gathered the scraps and bits and pieces of that day’s story.

As with all things, it begins with Echo and the Bunnymen. They were playing here in Seattle at the Paramount on a…it might have been a Tuesday, possibly a Thursday. No, it was a Tuesday. 29^th of March, if I recollect clearly. I was going. Here’s what occurred prior to that. I woke up late (so says my roommate) and went out for a smoke and a bagel. I don’t have the money to go buying breakfast, but it was a Tuesday (or Thursday) and these are historically bad days, so I figured there was no danger in one more mistake. It was chilly, windy, and lighting a cig was hard. The bagels were as big as flying saucers (no shittin’ ya, ya know?), but all that was left as far as selection were the poppy seed bagels. Whatever. Two of them, a coffee, a couple of smokes, a pretty French girl. What more does a man need? The French chick was some ‘lost foreigner’ named Amelie who wanted some direction around her new city (she moved because her father wanted her away from Paris’ bad influences). She found new ones, fortunately, and invited me to a little get together later that day. What’s the harm, I said?

I went back to my apartment. I freshened up, flipped through my old college textbooks (philosophy as a major? I really was a loony young man) for fun, and generally just went about my business. At about four, I arrived at the meeting spot where I was meeting that Parisian lass. Outside a bookstore. I went in and skimmed the rows filled with communist screeds next to five-dollar pop thrillers. There’s something appropriate in that. I guess the fact that the books of Marx were dusty and the trash novels almost gone from the shelf shows which system really works. Amelie showed up around four-fifteen and took me upstairs; her friends were also the friends (twenty-somethings) of the proprietors.

I was introduced to everyone (“This is Charlie” in a jaunty Academie lilt). They were hedonists and revolutionaries, all of ‘em, and they were all very impressed with themselves. But bad morals are no matter when the spirit is good and the spirits are classy. One of the Dionysians, Phillip, was versed in mixing drinks, so everyone was able to pretend they were sophisticated. “God, I’m sophisticated.” No one appreciated the Fitzgerald reference, but these things happen. Heaven forbid they be versed on their nation’s literature (Amelie being the exception, for obvious reasons).

At about seven, I decided to leave the ‘salon’ and go ahead to the Paramount. I felt woozy. It turns out that one of the pseudo-smart spoil sports slipped MDMA in my drink. I could feel what everyone else was feeling. As it turned out, alcohol and ecstacy don’t mix well, at least not for me (I don’t hang around ‘that’ scene, so I am unfamiliar with the effects of the intermingling; I metabolize alcohol in a weird way, so that might have something to do with it). By the time as was at the venue, I needed to vomit. I was aiming for the toilet. I hit some meathead’s shoes. A pummeling later, I am lights out. And you know the rest.

What the hell was a jock doing at an Echo and the Bunnymen concert?

Dedicated to the Poets!

And the poets they scratch lyrics out

On wrinkled, crinkled sheets of scraps

Of napkins (soaked in symphonic 'pardon me's)

They're like two-bit junkie beatnik wannabes

No sense, but hell

At least they have fire!

They're addicts to their own thoughts

So self-absorbed, (but at least the self is solid)

All they can be

Is, captured-crystallized, in thirty-some-odd lines

They're Onanists

And their poem the semen stain

That the world can launch volleys upon

(Jesus, they're just kids!)

And I don't even know

How the bastards get out of bed

With a mouthface all glowing

Like bodhi tree matinee marquees

Give 'em the poem, poets

When the crowd tears you limb from twain

At least you were causally supportive

You sent volts through the serpents' spine

And no one likes to be woken from their nap

Keep the scene real for the artists who must step hither

At least someone

(When you are doubleplusdead)

Will read your aching shaking tumor births

All tear-irrigated at your story

A punch on a bathroom stall in despair

"Someone has to write the poetry"

A Soul Poem (Untitled)

This is what listening to only soul and funk music for a month does to a person. Enjoy!

Honey, they don't know about you and I
We ain't some jive fighter pilots
Bound by the ways of the pimps who went
To the Underground praying machines
To pick the bones of the saints
From lottery cards and package stores
What a crazy scene

So baby, won'tchu chain away
Your darkest fears
When you're with me they sure as hell don't belong here
I'll massacre the angry folk
Cause try as they might
They ain't puttin' us in a cage

So fuck the trends
And the Nazi pricks
We ain't got time for their wicked game

So let's go back home
To the simpler days
When there wasn't so much pain
And I could keep you out of a chemical haze

I'll work at a hotel
You'll work at a mall
Or you could just stay home
If you couldn't deal with them all
(I'll just have to work more)
But darlin', that's okay

Character Sketch #2

Welcome all! I am the Mesmerist!

Here! Now! I will show you the wonders of the

Ethereal!

What is a man?

Is he, as some suggest, a machine?

A roughly-carved cog that fits better into its place with time?

What is a man?

Is he a boundless energy?

In that mortal vessel, is the breath of God Himself stirring?

What is a man?

Is he a wet a naked existence saddled with the burden of essence?

Born in a dark world that cares not, is he to craft himself?

I know.

I know exactly the answer. It's something far

Far odder

More human

More divine

Than any of these would suppose man to be

But, you must consider this:

Do you want to know?

How much of your life is a parading buffoon in a circus of idiots?

Are you ready?

Ready to have the veil of unconscious torn?

No, I do not take you out of the world

I throw you into it.

Ready? Good. Let's begin!

Character Sketch #1

The first in a series of brief character sketches. They're really meant to stretch my writing muscles when I'm not in the mood for longer pieces, more than anything else. They'll probably be rubbish, but then, practice makes perfect. Without further ado:

i am the peacock king

elegant

stately

precise

know i am without feeling

without thought

only Being

Being raised to singularity was my goal

Being raised to singularity was my gift

to whom? to all. to myself.

i soak in the fetal fallopian fluids of the universe

i am the universe

become me. i am already you.