Consummated Randomness

MY Longest Poem yet

Can Hope Alone Sustain?
As I sat there moping in my drunken horror, it became painfully clear
that I was alone. Me! Voted most popular by my classmates but not at this hour.
Both phones have been secretly silent, why do I pay for 1000 hours? S’ok, I never really
was a fan
of those awful incessant interruptions known as, “The cell”s. Mine’s been dropped

so many times it looks like the gnarled eye-knot imperfection of an oak log. Tonight I
guess I’ll use it to score some weed!
That’s all its good for lately, really…just the outgoing calls. My incoming list is stacked
with only one name, my cousin calling from Brazil:
yah, the one causing my incestuous fantasies—absofuckinlutely gorgeous. Eyes the
color of New Mexico’s heavens on a clear summer day, crisp powder blue, and
let’s not forget
those legs, molded from Olympian clay, not even the most eloquent poet could find
words worthy enough to provide a sound image of his perfect 33” inseam, lightly
dusted by fine angelic fibers spun of gold. My mind slips suddenly to the region

….control eluding my grasp—desire—concussive lust: I cum knees buckling I’m stuck
to the floor, wiping off in leaves.
Snap back to reality…I’m numb, mind traveling fast like trippin, the trails tricking the
ominous forest scene
That forest is my life, paralleled conclusions lead me to believe this: it’s dark-I’m dark,
it’s surrounded by civilization-I’m surrounded by civilization, it’s isolated-
I’m isolated that’s why I fucked it: the closest I could get to fucking myself
and it never said
“No!” like so many of you. Except for Rain, he’s never said it, further complicating my
incestuous flirtations inching me to tip-toe society’s judging blade.

So what exactly is the meaning of Nietzsche’s Cause of altruism? does he mean to say that we
can never be truly happy as poets? as people? as lovers? for once we’ve found love
we will yearn for desperation once again? He may have been a great man, well ahead of
his time, but my desperation currently is more painful than flesh-searing bullets weaved
precariously through my sides
and to love is a good thing, but to be reciprocated is astoundingly so much more. The
Power, yet unrecognized by so many people I’ve noticed, for you can always tell
from the instant of a faint smile, those who’ve known requited love. They are
those who, had humans been grapes would be the only ones appearing ripe enough
to pluck passionately from the vine.
And I’ve heard through that same grapevine of course, to relish my unwanted singleness:
to have fun while I’m not tied down, to fuck around like crazy, spoil myself!
Deceptions—all of them: meant to suppress harsh feelings of emptiness__push
it back so far, you’ll be ignorant, then
you won’t have to worry about thought or feeling, because it wont exist. Death is what I
call it: livin it up is what they call it…the stupid meaningless drones sucking dry
the aquifer roots

of the American free world! and once again I’m alone, still numb but the trip is wearing
off…time to get that weed! Gotta keep the mind moving and the hand writing, for
it’s the sense of purpose that I need, ensuring my mind’s safety: keeping me from
breaking apart.
I stumbled back into the house, pungent odors of minced garlic and curding milk flare
up my nostrils, toxics to the brain…and for a second there I was back on Nine
talking to God in his NYC bum outfit, cardboard burning in his hair(I guess it
keeps him warm : / ). I invited him over later to smoke out with me and offered
him a bath with clean water
but before he could respond, a sharp pain jolted me back down, I was laying in a pool of
blood, red-hot iron shoved in my nose…I couldn’t see straight so I just laid there,
and when my sensory receptors healed I noticed my watch
it was 11:13, getting late…so I picked up my cell and dialed Moss, my dealer…he was
low on weed, not enough for my usual bulk; offering me shrooms instead. I was
livid, I didn’t need fucking shrooms, I got portabella, shitake, crimini,
enoki, white, maitake, oyster, and psych…how bout opium? Yes! Perfect! I can
smoke it out of my fresh blown glass.

It’s ritualistic in a way:__my obsessive use of mind-altering, attitude-adjusting illicit herbs
is merely just an appetizer filling the void until my entrée comes along, the entrée…
usually served plain on white ceramic, unembellished because in and of itself it’s
perfect, like the grain
of the Hope Diamond: flawless. And the hunger I have for him will never be satiated
until he grows up and realizes my heart is where he belongs…his eyes are mine,
his heart is mine, but his penis takes him elsewhere, that all fine, gorged, beautiful
electrifying seven inches of length.
Jumping from continent to continent delving into the pleasures of hyper-sexuality, he
fucks anything that’s hot…a true connoisseur. It’s a fine talent he has, I’ve
already been shown. He’s stolen me, jaded me forever, leaving me to wonder if
everyone he touches feels the same? Can life go on without him? To hell with
how his tricks feel…I was never a trick, I could see it in his eyes—mysteriously
I knew that once he dipped his stick in all 7 continents, he’d be back…suddenly silence is
shattered, OH shit he’s calling my cell…composure…”hello?” He sounded
somber, “I’m coming home” and I think to myself what does this imply?

posted by RPF @ 7:12 PM