a poem for everyone who ever went crazy

(PRE-HISTORIC TIMES TO PRESENT)

by D.A. Królak


See note on formatting at bottom

TORTURED freak angels attend to thy wild obsessive tantrum.  you call it art.  with the smell of neurosis.  Marred well, and worn with mascara memos. Makeshift narcissism. Plunging into the depths of your sorrow, is alot like hearing an unfit mother and her child. 

SCAPEGOAT DAEMONIC FOLK DEVILS

MOLEST YOUR CHILDREN

IN THE FACE OF FRANK PARENTS.


DEAD long gone mythologies of parents well-buried by telegram.  WHILE TWO SOULS BURN OF THE PASSION THEIR SUICIDAL SEXUALITY BRINGS.

every other word is YOU.


GIVE IN TO THAT FEELING.  LET YOUR TRANSFERRED GOD*LIKE LOVE*INTEREST SMOTHER YOU IN SELF*DEPLETING DEPENDENCY.

WHORES, JUNKIES, AND THIEVES . . .

THIS IS WHAT MY HEART THINKS IT NEEDS. 

with my head cracked open like a lost doll who's MASTER cries herself to sleep with a salty,  soggy, sobbing

EVERY OTHER WORD IS me.


but mannequins will never manifest this masturbatory nightmare. 

THEIR NORMAL FACES ARE PAINTED NOT PANTING. THEY HAVE ONLY DESIRES TO BE TRANSFERENCE OBJECT. DIVINE.

No Pain.  No Fright. 

EVEN IN THE DARKEST NIGHT.

Where Across Town A Friend

HEARS TREES WHISPERING 

and Leaves Like Clasped Hands

RUSTLING TO KEEP THE 

secret.

(a block away)

(IT KEEPS HER AWAKE)

M.             G.               T.

MIGHT                   get                      TORTURED.

But Why?   The Price of Life Aware of Itself.

THE CRAZIEST PEOPLE ARE JUST, SO SENSITIVE.


Wait,  that's not what she said in BLINKING LIGHTS.

HOLZER,					(jenny, what?  what was it.)

power outage.   PITY.

and just when i was transferring my desire to be SLAVISH.

	(fred  you dismissed my HERO, and left me with nothing and ness)

Nietzsche

Poor Boy, Pious Women, and Father went MAD.  Soon ye prodigal son will  follow, sad.


SENSITIVE, eh?   Well Weeks and Arson Only Order What We Need.  When We Need It.  Burning Boxes With Wailing Effigies.  Existentially Pondering Prosperity.  TV.  HUMMING.  SKY BLUE STARES.  PAINTING SHADOWS.  IN  CHALK.  CHARCOAL.  AND CRIMSON.

every other word is GOD.


Kandinsky,  Kosinsky, and the KING AM I Capturing Corpses of those TOSS*Away Children. Left Locked Inside Too Long. 

EVERY OTHER WORD IS devil.


Map of Stars with No Legend.

Desperado Poet Beating editor dead.

Artist in Resistance with Neurotic Negligence.

GIVE  ME  A  JACK*HAMMER

AND A LICENSE AND I'LL

TATTOO STRUCTURES WITH THE MEANING OF LIFE

M  A D  N  E   S S

C U  T  O U  T   S

Meditation with ReARRANGEMENT..

SELF PORTRAITURE WITH THREE SOULS MASQUERADING AS ONE IN A TIME WHEN CUT*throat BLOOD*thirsty kill*your PARENTS*Music was an invite.  If i could just thread this BLASTED needle with a transplanted thought and leave sutures on the FACE of the CULTURAL*encompassing Morally Right and PC ART ELITIST NAZI SNOBS.

SCARS AS ART

MOTORCYCLES AS PART.

STOP YOU ARE GETTING TOO 

DAMN CLOSE TO MY 

HEART.

{fin de siecle}

constellations with catacombs.

cultural iconography without contempt.

absolute absolvement of fear and guilt.

and end to neurosis without notice.

DAY WITHOUT NIGHT. 

CONSCIOUS JOY WITHOUT UNCONSCIOUS DREAD.


WHAT PLEASURE   A LOST

S              O               N

FINDS      WITH     FATHER

D        E         A         D



TWIN STARS PLAYING SATELLITE TO MY INHERITANCE OF DISCONNECTED MYTH. 



GRAVESITE UNSEEN. OH BUT THERE I GOT TO 

W               E              E              N

Desires of Destitude in a Crusade of

w         e          a          l         t      h



Blindfolded by DESTINY in a FUNHOUSE of HALLOWED HERESIES.  KISS the Madness From My Mind. Blow on My Back, and Call it the North Wind Under your Wings. When I restore Eden in the Twilight over My Life. I will Let Loose a  SHRIEK.

Like a GIBBON*MONKEY*FREAK.

The Poet, the Pauper, And a perfected possession. Where was this passion perched when damnation and its twin DOCILITY, dared to bridge this world and theirs?  PERHAPS, it was washing its hands, and ReARRANGING ITS HOUsE, yet i suspect it just soaked in a warm tub of seltzer.   silly, eh?



PONTIFICATING POVERTY AND USELESS UNDULATION, MAKE FOR SUPERIOR SUPERSTITION.  WE CAN MARKET IT, OR TAKE IT TO MARKET, AND THROW IT IN FACES WHERE MAGIC IS BUT A HYPNOTIC TRANCE TRACED TO THE WOMB.  THEN WHEN LIES DISSOLVE LOVE AND THOUGHT CONTROLS YOUR GODS AND LET'S THEM LIVE WITHOUT LARCENY.

Your

TRANCE

I Will

TRACE

The

Sky

with.

© 1993 | All Rights Reserved

Note on Formatting: This was a hard poem to transcribe or translate to digital media. It was originally composed on a precursor to the computer, a typewriter that had software built in to make it a “word-processor” and that accounts for the use of the Title Case & UPPERCASE as they were unlike normal typewriter in that it actually had more like a dot-matrix quality. You shouldn’t read them as if they were shouting as we do in our text/internet culture today. Instead they were meant to visually represent ‘digital cut-outs’ in keeping with the text smashing beatnik poets of days gone by. This was then used with a series of xerox art to make one-of-a-kind copies for dearest friends. On Page 2 you can see the PDF version of my original copy, presented as images, or you can download the document.
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