Dying swan

I think I'm dying. Oh well. I hate doctors so I won't be going to see them -- not until something goes ----

Rewrite: Forget death. Listen to Leonard Cohen. "You Want it Darker". Can't be bothered writing about my own death. Can't be bothered to THINK about it. Just ... gotta... roll..onwards....

I should be writing some dark poetry now that I might be slowly passing on. Articles just aren't fun, and even prose sorta seems a bit too rigid for a dying boy, don't you think? Dying boys write poetry. What the hell?

she stands on the edge of emptiness  
     next to a weird black swan
    dark nights in a Parisian alleyway
  smoking some pipe
  filled with black tar 
      feet on the hot street 
   black concrete 
   black opium
    black love 
    in a midnight hotel 

Thats something i just wrote quickly now. Thats my idea of poetry and I don't CARE what you think of it! My dying head thinks its splendid you know...it'll be my last work...sigh...I'll admit i won't miss much of this weird world but I will miss having the chance to write poetry...who knows if they have poetry or songs, even, in the next world I'll get shipped off to? What if its even more bland than this one is? Anyone else out there ever think of that? Like, imagine a world filled with all the bad shit from this world (department stores, high schools, colleges, Republicans) and then imagine that this world doesn't even have any of the good stuff, like wine and poetry and free thinkers and rock music, etc. Imagine what an awful fucking place? Nothing but Republicans all over the place, shopping at Wal-Mart, driving F150's down crumbling highways, hating black people and fearing all the fun stuff all day. God it would really be ghastly. A world with no Baudelaires, no Rimbauds, no Morrisons, no Leonard Cohens, no Edgar Allan Poe's. I sure hope it ain't real, babe. Sure hope it ain't. I don't wanan go somewhere like that ....

But oh well. Maybe its my destiny. To die with nothing published and nothing truly completed. I should have contacted publishers, agents, editors, and businessmen long ago! What a mistake i have made. I'm going to die in front of my keyboard, head slumped over, blood pouring out of all my orifices, without anything published. Not even a little pretty pocket sized book of my poems and diaries! OH how I yearn to see my poems and diaries published anywhere but on this insufferable fucking blog. I hate blogs. They're too modern. I want a little hardcover that someone can read with no internet connection, on a camping trip. Thats the ultimate thing man....

I want to write another poem now --- lets see what I get:

languid smoking iguana 
  back of the Bus 
   hands pressed to a jagged window
sharp knife shanked in the stomach
    locked in the cell w/  a 
    rabid angry dog of a boy 
   wild long screams  in dark silver Nights
     girl running down a hallway
  boy running down a freeway 
   zip cord around the throat 
    "pull it tight Micky" 
    boy pulls 
   bloody incision throat dripping 
   dead on a bed 
    bullet in a head
    she never got wed 
   dogs never fed 
        and now i stare out the window to the Moon 
      penis soft and tiny 
     in a pair of old underwear  
     time traveling
      unraveling 
      eyes dazzling 
      Mister Maveling. 

That one was pretty weird right? Mister Maveling. Whose he? And whose Micky? Maybe Mister Maveling and Micky are the same person. What did you like best about this poem? (Write your answers below, student slave).

Now I guess I'll try to get back to my vampire story or maybe I'll just watch porn. Lololololol.

WAIT! WAIT!

I was thinking of something for a moment, of a good idea for a story, that could keep me occupied for the afternoon (god how is it already 4:30?) but now it slipped my mind. I'm sorta seeing some imagery of a lonely hi way and a truck stop. A girl on the run from a psychotic husband. Could she be pregnant? Maybe. 5-6 months. She is pregnant and she is armed and dangerous, and her plan becomes to steal someones car. Why? She has a cousin in Tennessee she needs to reach! But the robbery goes wrong. She winds up accidentally killing the person whose car she wants to rob. First image of the movie we see is her with blood smeared all over her face, zipping down a Virginia highway. Ya!

Meh, i dunno. Scrap it. I'm gonna write another poem again and then go:

squid and sea lion 
  open mouth flame 
  cigarette ashed into your eyes 
   beachside dreams 
  cancerous tumors 
     ripped open chest
 doctor with green hands
   reaching in 
   nurses gathered at a bedside
  whispering 
     black faced priest crying 
   a little woman on knees, shaking
   Church music playing 
   man on bed 
   half dead
   Angel in a window
    legs spread
       brain fluid leaking
      the high is peaking
       some whore shrieking
    the stairway to heaven
      creaking.