A Poem by gorbochevy

Author: gorbochevy
Created: December 24, 2011 at 09:31 am
Upload Type: Poem, G (All)  
Category: General/Other | General/Other | General/Other
Upload Stats: 5 Stars by 1 users with 2 comments and 127 views

stuff too dry.  

This is my death-paean. Pack your ship, Mr.
Lawrence; Mr. Eliot, tell your wife you're done:

I'll warm my hands: I'll tell my hands to life: give
them a thing to lift: progress, what are its fruits:

what's it to me, this craziness: and how, after
all that I've done, can I think to do more: well,

it ain't too much that I ask! I mean, if the human
passions are few and far between, so should

be the questions about 'em: at least I'm asking,
am gaming the muses with my telling 'em to

do a little work for me: and what if it were like
that: that is, what if the muses were at my

disposal, all the time---merely, I had to snatch
for 'em, rather than coax 'em to want to possess

me: what if the only duty I had as a writer was to
take dictation: that is, the west wind blows in my

face, and I shit out an ode: all I need are ears to
hear the fanning: accept this art and push the

boundaries: do out a good, mature canvassing
of each and every inadequacy: don't blankly

negate everything about yourself, DAN: you'll
do it poorly: rather, be happy with something

beyond an ability to be happy with: beyond any
feeling at all: in that case, whatever it is that

needs pondering can't be good and can't be bad,
can't be anything but a core that exists, a core

self: new, perpetually new: a scary thought, that:
inertia, stasis, suspended motion's beastliness:

every writer needs to change, once in awhile: the
problem is doing this while still retaining the vital

parts of what make you you. The buzz of thoughts,
when I've already gone beyond the event horizon,

and can't turn back. I made the choice, whatever it
was, and that's what counts. Do I squeeze to drops

all the fruits of my labors, labor to provide what grows
from my telling-tree with at the very least a moderate

amount of precipitation: I'm dry already, dried to
death, and could use a little rain, before left to spin

yarns to an unraveling: I, well, we all, don't we,
question the futile with limits: the muses are that

need for more, aren't they: but, they're done with
me, that is clear: better relieve 'em of duty before

they get tired of my chatter: or am I shirking on
that: what else is there to say, really, I mean, really:

death is quite a concept: as are songs of death,
a ship to carry 'em in: a ship to navigate towards

the telling of oblivion, the long journey towards
oblivion, Mr. Lawrence: happy? Thought so. You'd

want me to go for much more than what's come
so far out this full, bodied self: it's a destruction

of self, to want more, to not be satisfied with self:
how, after all, can one be satisfied with what is

beyond standards because all we, I have: life is
like death, in that way of a finality. Why? Well, it's

fucking death, yo, of course it's a finality, a
destruction of things, a crashing without

redemption: life's a crashing of into that, isn't it,
a voyaging towards the dirt that feeds the tree,

telling more of more: when will I get to a point
where I don't drive shit into the ground; tell

myself into a very nothingness of fruit snatched:
when will I be alive enough to have strength to

die: well, CHRIST, be happy with the path that you
are on: don't worry about whether this'll be the

last thing you ever write, ever think about; that is,
how limited I, we are, am---that uncovering the

secret of life is the same as living satisfied, being
happy with the creation, rather than murdering it,

dissecting it with a thought in itself limited, done:
as opposed to starting new, strange paths every

two stanzas: maybe that's why thought is a vacuum,
thunderously strained; because, it's unsatisfied with

what it's pursuing, abandons the subject before the
subject is fleshed out, before the bizarre fruits of

dissatisfaction are snatched: or is that the path: is
the core the lack of a core: the need to correct,

forever: or should I, we correct that need: is it
possible to process a thing without dissecting it,

murdering it with thinking: well, I can't know: we,
I don't know: I, we, don't want to know---I just

want to know what it is that is wanting in me: maybe,
like I said, that core can't be good or bad, is

beyond the odd moralities of personality, is a
motioning to come here without knowing what it

is I am going toward: in a way, this is like death:
it is like destruction, an eternal fire, burning stuff

too dry: burning the muse out, the dry muse, dry
with the fanning of the west wind 'gainst my

unheard-of ears, like a sick music suffered through:
like a tree of life, of death: like songs of death: like

songs of an errant thought of death, without
conclusion, without reason---like life---life not

bothered with questions: not bothered to make
sense of---rather---lived in the core of its inimitable

fruits. Found rare, in time---with time, found out.
With one path taken found, dismissed by the

second stanza: in each second found, in each word:
but: thinking it more into what it's not, but is, that is,

if we, I were to just consider how brief life is, how
eternal this our, my death might be: that what comes

after just might be a moment of what is, now: a path
not errant, followed through to a sound end, and

fared well throughout, fared well without the passions
limiting us to a sense of human thunderousness, less.

Last Modified: December 24, 2011 at 05:26 pm
© gorbochevy - all rights reserved

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Comments & Reviews

January 02, 2012
Helpful? Thumbs UpThumbs Down
Hi, Gorbo. I can't tell you how much I love this line:

a voyaging towards the dirt that feeds the tree,

this is food for thought. Secret of life=living satisfied.

how limited I, we are, am---that uncovering the
secret of life is the same as living satisfied, being
happy with the creation, rather than murdering it,

below, sounds like an enlightened state: but the challenging part is, we have to use our sense of discrimination, comparison, judgment, to get close...to climb the hill these tools are needed, so we must respect them, but only a little....and we have to be ready to throw them away without hesitation or regret, when the moment of enlightenment asks us if we are ready to cross over, into what looks like madness from our side of the line. It's the guardian on the threshold (it's often called). All a matter of the correct timing, the correct sense of priorities. I always pray: when I get to that point, Oh Lord, please kick me like a football across the goal posts, because otherwise, I will not be able to cross.

conclusion, without reason---like life---life not
bothered with questions: not bothered to make
sense of---rather---lived in the core of its inimitable


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December 24, 2011
Helpful? Thumbs UpThumbs Down
great write
Interesting soliloquy or rather a rant about dying up and dying because of some stagnation." Is it possible to possess without dissection? " The problem is that the mind pounds the shit into the ground and we just can't let things be. If we could get into the flow whatever that is, them maybe effort can be effortless and the supply will come without drying up. I like your stream of conscousness and how you divided your poetry into two lines.

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