Posts Tagged ‘Kurt Cobain’

Come on over,

Come as you are; as you were

I miss the comfort in being sad

I need an easy friend

Use just once & destroy

Clean up before she comes

Scent is still in my place of recovery

She eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak

She said she/d take me anywhere as long as I stayed clean

She/s over bored

She should/ve worn a crown of thorns

She just wants to love herself

I always knew it/d come to this

Daddy/s little girl ain/t a girl no more

She asked me to untie her

If she floats then she is not a witch like we thought

She keeps it pumping straight to my heart

Pain

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I.

I have convalesced with the best
You can see my footprints
Across the Margate Sands
Yet, somehow lived to bear witness
To Eliot’s Waste Land
What I’ve known I now believe
The poetry of dying becomes a thing of beauty
Agnostic letters forming the words of Gods
An archaic language still spoken fluently
By dreaming the dead dreams of desolation
Obtained my very own house of pain
But I must set adrift from this harbor of shame
To be released from the benediction of being alive
A blessing not always guaranteeing life
I must reside where death can be an inspiration
No longer vainly, I commit suicide for spirituality
By traversing through the means of verse
I descend into limbo & purgatory
Where there is NOTHING divine
In this dark comedy
Only the “comfort of being sad”
Accompanied by the ramblings of the insane
Schooled by the inherited sins from an absent dad
Circling the seventh circle with Plath and Cobain
Soulless souls lost in this abyss
Nodding down to number nine
Where politicians preach with the nationalists
Which makes me recall Ezra’s influence
Allowing me to see where I once was blind

II.

Then, as if stricken by a sudden chill
Groaning the only movement, all seemed still
A man stood mumbling, looking out the gate
The gate through which moments ago I came
He began to stir, pacing and waiting
Noticing me, he approached debating,

“And you! Do you know what is is, to be?
Oh Hannah, my Hannah I’m so sorry…
Being in time, time in being; I wrote…
Never mind the swastikas on my coat,
I told a thousand Jews a thousand times,
Intended to change things from the inside”

Interest lost, he turned back for the door
Though he muttered, he spoke to me no more

I waded through vapor rising from ice
Bodies frozen still by their own device
& across the sheet was Ronnie Reagan
Freezing, begging with the other masons
I neared the middle of the frozen room
There He was feasting; guarding His blue tomb

“You are the Beast and I am your disease.
I did as you pleased; me, you must now release.”

“Must I now? You dictate what I need?
Don’t hesitate! For on your fear I feed.
But this is quite curious, please do tell:
What would stray you from a warm home like hell?”

“I must confess, I sizzled with the best.
I’ve nothing left and I’ll never have rest.
My suffering is, with or without you.
Turn me loose, I’ve given you your due.
Your not my Father, just dad, Prince of Lies.”

With that he stretched his mouth and out poured flies
Their buzzing a noise I did recognize
My alarm buzzed, and the dream, realized

III.

The power of the prodigal son returns
As a life renewed begins to surge
Call out to the forgotten kingdoms of heavenly affluence
Granting the power to resurrect thyself
Baptized by fire; my own sins I will purge
I ascend from the circles
Back to this land of the truly lost
The entombed fabrication of commercial reality
Where every act of love has its cost
Here I find myself amongst
A manifestation of manufactured identities
That I once gravely mistook for individuality
So soon it is that I curse my return
Sometimes a journey so dark
Can illuminate where fear finds its rest
Thus granting a great passion to kings
Generating the songs of which the poets sing
Seeking an eternal reward with little avail
We all must pursue this empty quest
While we search for our Holy Grail
Those loves lost too soon; leaving
For the shores of Avalon
I draw from its waters
To extinguish my infernal burns
I gently gather my ashes
From the lands they’ve been scattered
Collecting them in a Grecian urn

http://zenspeaknine.com/

I have convalesced with the best

You can see my footprints

Across the Margate Sands

Yet, somehow lived to bear witness

To Eliot’s Waste Land

What I’ve known I now believe

The poetry of dying becomes a thing of beauty

Agnostic letters forming the words of Gods

An archaic language still spoken fluently

By dreaming the dead dreams of desolation

Obtained my own house of pain

But I must set adrift from this harbor of shame

To be released from the benediction of being alive

A blessing not always guaranteeing life

I must reside where death can be an inspiration

No longer vainly, I commit suicide for spirituality

By traversing through the means of verse

I descend into limbo & purgatory

Where there is NOTHING divine

In this dark comedy

Only the “comfort of being sad”

Accompanied by the ramblings of the insane

Schooled by the inherited sins from an absent dad

Circling the seventh circle with Cobain

Soulless souls lost in this abyss

Nodding down to number nine

Where politicians preach with the nationalists

Which makes me recall Ezra’s influence

Allowing me to see where I once was blind

The power of the prodigal son returns

As a life renewed begins to surge

Call out to the forgotten kingdoms of heavenly affluence

Granting the power to resurrect thyself

Baptised by fire; my own sins I will purge

I ascend from the circles

Back to this land of the truly lost

The entombed fabrication of commercial reality

Where every act of love has its cost

Here I find myself amongst

A manifestation of manufactured identities

That I once gravely mistook for individuality

So soon it is that I curse my return

Sometimes a journey so dark

Can illuminate where fear finds its rest

Thus granting a great passion to kings

Generating the songs of which the poets sing

Seeking an eternal reward with little avail

We all must pursue this empty quest

While we search for our Holy Grail

Those loves lost too soon; leaving

For the shores of Avalon

I draw from its waters

To extinguish my infernal burns

I gently gather my ashes

From the lands they’ve been scattered

Collecting them in a Grecian urn

Writing has always been an integral part of my life. I can’t remember when I decided to become a writer. I suspect it came from an infatuation with comic books and Star Wars. I would get so angry sitting around waiting for Lucas to follow up Return of the Jedi, I’d just make up new storylines and act them out with Star Wars action figures. Crazy, I know. I suppose most writers have delusions of grandeur at an early age. The innocent days of childhood. Somewhere my dream of  becoming a storyteller shifted into a much darker realm. Fast forward a couple decades. Years abundant with self-torment, drug addiction, and mental anguish. I used to believe that those were the key ingredients of good writing.

When I was a teenager I was obsessed with Kurt Cobain, William Burroughs, and Vincent Van Gogh. No wonder I wound up drowning in manic depression, struggling with drug addiction, and living with suicidal tendencies. And to think, I actually strived for the life of the tortured artist. Be careful what you wish for. I thought drugs expanded the artistic vision. Maybe they do in some moderate instances. But it turned into a living nightmare for me. I became so preoccupied with the drugs, I started writing less frequently. I had little time for anything but chasing after the drugs. The addiction consumed everything. It overwhelmed me. I quit high school and college. Forfeited my position at a local newspaper. I have witnessed the depraved evils of mankind. Evils that many authors only imagine in their writings. I have twice survived prison. I’ve slept in cars. I’ve fought with the best of them, or the worst of them, and walked away bloodied and bruised. I’ve seen twenty-eights friends buried as a result of drugs and countless lives left in ruin. Though I may be able to write with a sense of authenticity now, I’m not so sure that I couldn’t have just read about this stuff instead of experiencing it directly. Take it from me, drugs will hurt more than they help your writing.

My memory may be fried, but one thing I do remember is the day Cobain killed himself. Cobain was more than a musical icon to my generation. He was a symbol of contempt for the mundane existence that was being thrust upon us at the time. Some of us didn’t want the life that our parents had. We didn’t want to work our lives away for corporations that cared so little for us in return. We felt abandoned by our parents and a society dictated by corporate greed. Somehow the corporate world still managed to get a stranglehold on Kurt. We watched our superhero deteriorate via MTV as the record label just continued cashing in on his artistic talent. I recall the utter lack of hope I felt when I heard the news of his suicide. He seemed to be on top of the world, adorned with all the money and fame a person could want. If that wasn’t enough for a legend, what hope did the rest of Generation X really have? Some of us surrendered to the corporate world and some of us surrendered to our addictions. I was heaped in with the latter of the two.

Burroughs had to live with the fact that he had shot and killed his wife (accidental or not) while all hopped up on bennys and God knows what else. He was a portrait of the toxicity of narcotics to the human constitution. He was always broke, both financially and physically. Few people could stand being around him more than a few hours. And Vincent, we’ve all heard the stories of Vincent. Supported by his brother Theo. The self-mutilation. His desperate search for the companionship he would never have. The suicide in the sunflowers. It makes one really question this tortured artist gig. Don’t get me wrong, I do have some insane experiences to write about. But this crazy lifestyle has set me way back and I don’t recommend it. Especially after seeing so many intelligent people fall to waste rather than rise to glory. My advice to the up and coming artists: just watch a bunch of R rated movies instead of experiencing this crap first hand. Addiction will definitely hinder you more than it will help you.

So what now? What is one to do after waking up from this malaise to a state of utter devastation? Thank God for blogs I say. Otherwise, I would have little opportunity to express myself artistically. Especially in this age of self-publication where money talks and poverty walks. I used to think I was born to enlighten the world. Then I thought that I was here to burn it down. Now I’m just angry with myself for wasting so much time that I will never be able to regain. When I think of the tormented artists I so admired in my teenage years, I now know how tortured they were. Don’t put yourself in this position.