You are loved
By many people…
Thoughts of you occur,
In good humor and good memory.
Who can resist loving you?
Like actually you, the person reading this…
I’m sick of people who don’t want filters
On their cigarettes when I can hear their screams from their
being our age
in your early twenties or whatever
you act recklessly and deep down
deep inside, in your real personality
your real heart.
you don’t care and the tragedy
It’s a trap.
You still have people who will read this
And roll their eyes or whatever.
They’ll raise an eyebrow,
Their rules take over.
They’ll think, “Good god,
I already know death awaits me.
Why do you have to remind me?”
It’s like SHUT THE HELL UP!!!!
It gives me a headache to watch myself
Emulating Bukowski’s style by saying
SHUT THE HELL UP!!!
Mingling at the pleasure-pools;
To watch my own mind and body wrapped up in seaweed.
The secret world of life is so fucking awful…
Drunken closure and festivals…
The beginning of this poem is ugly.
Each person is uniquely special;
To recognize the fullness of that reality
Is important beyond drunken conversations
Because it goes deep…
How special do you feel?
The walls dissolve when you stop resisting them.
To not have the multi-directedness of like
Walt Whitman’s poetry
In every goddamned moment.
Infuriating that the label of pretentiousness
Is out there waiting to dismiss…
I told my friend,
“I wish people understood that it’s important to support
your friends when they make art
because no one else has their style…
once they die,
He nodded, grinning, full of high-philosophy.
And said, “Yes, but that would be too easy.”
And you know what buddy,
I completely disagree.
All of these intellectuals trying to one-up
And anger I see in every action.
Stephen still gets cluster headaches,
And no one can put it into words.