Soap Opera [Poem]

[MJJ_Lover]

note: there is vulgarity in this poem, so if you're opposed to that, don't read ahead...

Cringe and cuss at your face
a reflection of us.
abominable angel, from above
destructive catalyst, Embodiment of frantic fear, gone insane,
in a world of anarchy…
who’s to blame? Minster, take my sin, make me new
with the renewal of Christ to Fame.
Blame the disaster on the soul of pasture and lands unearthed,
to cringe at rebirth.
Bring him to notoriety…
poet… A feigned deity. He is you.
This creature, manifestation of evil… deception. He killed millions. Hates you.
Bitch, f**k off…
fucking criminal, slut, whore, wife, murderer… recidivist…
as we re-enact our court room re-enactments --
fold the paper.
Stare a little. Grudge, begrudges… pull her hair apart.
The verdict was funny… I laughed.
[All over TV… soap opera start.]
Everything you don’t want to be, we create you to be…
because you be through watching
and the innate fear emerges as a potent potion.
So everything you see is a reflection of the self,
and couldn’t be if you didn’t be yourself…
and be inside the monster you condemn for being yourself.
Yourself, yourself, a lie.
We are a lie. I am a lie.
Bitch, lay down and die…
because from afar the eagles cry emerges with the sky…
and nothing

but a painting of larceny.
Oh, false apprehension. Bring him into court in a tie.
Spotted tie, with polka dots and brown rimmed shoe’s with black openings and nice holes, polished by the fat man down the street. Give him books to read so we tell him how to see… Speak with a foul accent -- a British, broad. Semantics. Speak smart. Street smarts. Get the guy where he belongs. Fool the fate… as the angels conglomerate to find him guilty of past deception and rules of how we should be…
turned around like a mysterious weapon.
Our gun you trigger with insentience.
Watching death eat us up.
A mockery of humanity, as he looks at us…
with acceptance. How can he accept us? Does he accept himself?
Does he accept Christ upon the cross of mercy? Take me down, cut me up.
A mimic of my former self.
Crucible, detachment fable…
anarchical ambivalence…
stealing sentience from a baby’s womb. A growing tomb, to capture me.
Set me free into the clutches of society.
[Where I can be… free?]
No. no, not free, Lord.
Oh, the Beer tonight, upon my beard.
Grown long to match that comic on TV [The Flinstones?]
The Simpson’s… I saw me there.
I fucked Marge in the night, whilst the children emerged from their beds.

I never grew up.

Take another pill. Sedate my will, and false words spoken, to steal my own.
My own voice silenced by this destructive case
of insomnia. I wake to see a penitentiary surround me.
With its walls… as thick as your ignorance.
Suffocating my chance to speak, and educate the wealthy…
of the disparity.
poor dwell beneath, and reveal society,
for you…

You are me.

 

[MJJ_Lover]

Something I wrote 5/6 months ago... unfinished pieces I guess you can say. But ones I'm not messing with cos messing with art is contaminating truth thats there to be celebrated in its honest purity.

If there are spelling mistakes it's because I haven't been through it with a rake and comb yet. I don't usually do that. I used to. Now I just want it to be as raw and untouched as possible... I don't want to contaminate it by changing the form and making it a more poetic structure too.
1:

Never wanna speak, sleep. Can’t cough up blood, when I weep, of rainfalls of ochre, seeping, from the pores of an earth scarred with barbarity, crying to quench its tribal desire, to feed the hungry, and caress the lands of the dreaming… men walking into monster, seeming civilised to teach disorder and faun… bleed for another swipe at humanity, seems to be crumbling, like the drying earth, under the burden of falling trees… faun to bleed, and see the ravaging oceans that seem… to regurgitate ash, it transpires into another fable, hidden in media fabrication… a nation that derives its nutrition, from mothers that bear milk of foul wisdom… sensationalism… teach them, preach them… to walk with the Cain of able, and dehumanise the lord, self-righteousness provokes me to caress his soul with divinity… in hands that ought to be cleansed. Put myself on a cross of self-righteousness… teach the poet to spit out lyrics; he knows nothing about the raps of hatred the devil peruses… my seductive soul… quick pleasure, another f**k for you.

And when I awake… I’d rather live asleep, dead lying, to weep life from tired eyes. And when I hit my earth with a supple body… I’d rather be buried by death… of a story of harmony… not curled up waiting for life to take me…

2:

Touch me, you might tease me, to attack you… and please me… say words of few… to leave me alone, don’t breathe on me… I don’t want to see your life when mines so far gone. When the child is stolen from the arms of black Sabbath, and hidden in lies and vomit… and a gun to the head, I’d rather be dead, for salvation and redemption as the lord said. Erecting tents of men’s pride… phallic sovereignty, inside the innocent hide, to awake to the sound of an adults stride... pulling them from the clutches of a mothers womb, gone to doom in an instant carried away… life sapped from nature and corruption into a replica of our system.

 

[MJJ_Lover]

*sigh*