A lot of times I write poems in my head.
too slow and lazy to get up and write it down as it's happening.
and as I Know that I'm too lazy and slow to get up to write it down.
I just write it in my head for myself. Something about prison guards. and suburbia. something serene and full of deep thought about the walls of their homes being made of the same structure as the walls of the prisons.
sometimes the poems are good enough to make me get up and write it down. And I'll think back to how it started and what the best lines were and it just sorta sits there in the purgatory of my own little mind. Like there's someone waiting on the other end of this thing. waiting for the perfect poem to emerge from my desk. the one that defines the era in an omniglow. makes it known. spells it out. triumphantly describes the times in perfect detail that's so grand that people tear down the very last tree on earth just to be able to keep it in print.
all them years go by. no one saying a word. just regurgitating the same old shit. putting a new face on it. showing it in a different light. all art turns to shit. it's got about as much immortality as we ourselves do. Peoples names. sculpted faces. reasonable wars. mass killings for justice. the sweetest melody ever sang. the worlds most intelligent man. Winston Churchill. That was his name right? the guy that did that one thing when all the Stuff was going on... I think that's how you pronounce it. Something about a Great big explosion. and all the people yelled. The ant hill was crumbling from the inside out. Everyone was gasping for air. Climbing over each other. Family members splitting and forming gangs to wipe the other one out.
I wonder what they'll say sometimes. While my back is turned. will anyone even mutter a single word? or will it all still be in question? will everything I ever said and ever did vanish as if it never happened. was it even worth it. The slightest bit of fame. the slightest it of notoriety. for anything. Who started world war 1? no one knows. a couple dipshipt nerds that like to think they're important. it's Not important. none of it is. We have de-evolved into pure advertisements. we pay attention to them about as much as they pay attention to us. There's nothing in between. No more static. No more chaos. No more life. It's all been swept away. white washed. flushed. Canned and processed for long term storage. Where do we go from here? what's left to be said? what's left to be discovered. We know that God is dead. We know that love is a fairy tale. We know that We're responsible for destroying the Earth. but here we sit. ready to gas our cars up one more day. take that day trip to our daily commune. shave and a hair cut. It's all up in the air. but yet it's all been discovered. How can we exist if everything is predetermined. Maybe I'm the only person that really exists and all of you are just imaginary. How do I know. Maybe if I killed each and every one of you and drank your blood I could find out. But who has time for that? I gotta go to the bank and I gotta get some cat food.
but yea. what is this fame thing? did it ever really happen? Elvis. It's just a name and a song. face and a dance. who cares right? we come and we go. So why worry.
