Black Poetry beats in me like a painful yellow fog
Murky, pungent, sucking life
This is garbage, you think
(Or maybe that’s me)
For Poetry is the thing Dickenson speaks of!
Hope singing, and the like
I bring a different kind of Word
Self-indulgent, maybe
But not if you really knew…
Well
Some of you do
Some of you do
We are the artists, yes the long-suffering Clichés,
Whose works, year-after-year-after-millennium,
Somehow still rings True
Life strikes down her yellow-gold-silver-blue
Splitting us all open, cracked as we already are
Shattering and shattering
You can almost here Zeus laughing in the skies while
Children are dying down here in spades
While so-called Gurus spew
Unrelatable but somehow edible
Spiritual vomit
People sinking knee-deep in it
Eyes wild, wide
Heads nodding, bobbing like Robotrons
Mouths lapping up regurgitated chunks
Hungry
Starving to ingest the One-Sided
Disguised as Salvation
Hands dripping with acid stench
Shoveling, scooping
Inhaling someone else’s excrement
Proclaiming it delicious
Denial is a Siren
A sweet Goddess of affliction
Who is so annihilating-ly believable
We all think we’ve got gold in our palms
Ever-fooling ourselves
So I take on the role of The Outcast
I must
This painful yellow fog beats out of me
(Go ahead and find it disgusting)
Not because I wish to be different
(Though, fuck you, I’m different)
But because mainly
I must be a Counter
To all the golden puke we cling to
Pretending that it is Soul
ariaphoenix 