mad drunk genius

I used to have all sorts of problems. Now there's just the one.

Tag: poetry

Alcoholism is a meritocracy.

The night give up the morning when the birds say.
Dawn is a formality only.
——Non-human persons make sense to me.
——Human non-persons, too.
——An acorn is an oak but not a tree.
——A dolphin neednt thumbs for empathy.
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And then one day no suns will rise on anyone again

It’s terrifying to think how much of your life & actions can be predicted accurately by probability. For you, an interaction with someone in customer service is you making decisions about what to say and do. But for them, you’re just repeating something from one of a handful of categories they hear every day.

Poll a thousand people picked randomly enough and you’ve got a great idea of what 300 million will do.

If instead of an election, we had a full census and lottery, and picked a thousand to come serve in Congress for two years, we’d have the equivalent of a full, direct democracy.

This is terrifying. You’re not a creature with agency & will: all of your complexity gets smoothed out when there’s even more complexity to average out around you. How miserable, that all those billions of years & hundred trillion cells in your body, all coming to this, to make you the same as millions of other people.

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The mind is a soup du Jour

——Fuck what I do & that I have to do it, & every fucking worldly thing.
A woman today said to me that infant mortality is different from
abortion because God has the right to kill the unborn & infants &
children as painfully & awfully as might be imagined, but it’s
immoral (only) when people kill 
zygotes, embryos & fetuses.
——The morality of man exceeds the morality of God because God’s
——benevolence appeals to force, only, while man’s appeals to common,
——intelligible reason. Nothing, nothing. End of all none soon enough.
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Well, at least it rhymes

I ate her as she disappeared
I ate her as she cried
I ate her as she wept red tears
I ate her as they dried

It’s morning now, the churchbells ring. They sound like churchbells ought. The church attends to folk so poor, their souls are all they’ve brought. But these are what’s desired most, these souls that need be cleansed. Wash fresh the sins of naked flesh, the sins of naked men.

Too quick she left and took my fun
Took quick she ran home sobbing
But home at last is where she rests
While I’m alone, yet throbbing

You don’t quite seem to understand the service churches render. They remind us that we’re more than beasts, give reason to be tender. The laws of man are easy broke, man’s justice easier still. But the laws of God are absolute, and find us, good or ill.

Little girl, little girl, don’t lie to me
Don’t lie and spread your fibs
Was snake, not God, who made mankind
Eve’s children, Adam’s ribs

Salvation, then, is rarely found, in nature or in heaven, but here on earth it’s all around, all week, all day, each second. Salvation comes from Christ above, Christ the true Messiah. Christ alone can save weak souls, and rapture the pariah.

Too late, too late to change your ways
Too late to even try
Too late you fin’ly realize
To whom you owe your eye

Softer the Flying Cat v.2

In the land of gemstones and platinum submarines,
there lived a cat with paper wings.
Her name was Softer the Flying Cat,
and of course she did just that,
soaring through the sky above Gemstone & Platinum Submarine Land,
singing merry melodies and whispering tiny mysteries
to which no one listened but all could hear.

“The honey honey runny runs down the trunk of the carnelian tree,
but it’s funny and the sunny sun is hot, smiling down upon us.”

She lived a simple life.
When tired, she slept on the clouds.
When cold, she wrapped herself in their wool.
When hungry, she ate of them, cotton candy treats.
When thirsty, she flew beneath and drank their rain.
When conversation she desired, she spoke to the Stars,
and when love she desired, she embraced the Sun.
Despite the many treasures in the land below, Softer the Flying Cat wanted nothing
for she was happy.

No other citizens of Gemstone & Platinum Submarine Land could fly at all,
forced instead to trudge along emerald-ruby pathways
or sink beneath silvery seas all the livelong day,
crying, “Weep weep! Weep weep!” in notes of woe.
And it was a sad thing.

But still Softer the Flying Cat flew above them, sang her songs,
and whispered her mysteries for she knew nothing of these troubles below,
and therefore was troubled not by them.

You may think that this flying-singing-whispering endeared little love for Softer,
and you would be right indeed,
for most every other Cat and Rat,
Dog and Hog,
Badger, Codger,
and Trident-class vessel in Gemstone & Platinum Submarine Land
despised the Flying Cat and the elevated position she held,
which impoverished them so.
None knew why she had been granted such a gift as paper wings
(for she had had them as long as she had lived,
and no one could remember when she’d been born or made)
but every citizen wanted to fly with all of their hearts,
and Softer mocked the fact that they could not simply by doing as she did.
And it was a sad thing.

The Dogs of Diamondy Draw hated Softer the Flying Cat most especially
and many went mad running in her shadow, barking and shouting curses
until their tongues lolled out their mouths and their muscles spasmed
and they collapsed from the sunny sun’s oppressive heat,
lying down in jade forests to die.

“Weep weep!”

The leader of the Dogs of Diamondy Draw was a great white pit bull
with a big black spot on his back,
and with each day that this went by,
he would become angrier and angrier still.
He would chase her himself,
pleading with her to come down and stop torturing the dogs as she did,
but to no avail.

“If Softer the Cat,”
he would not utter the f-word,
“would like to kill our people,
we will kill hers instead.”

“But where?”
whined all of the Labrador retrievers and German Shepherds,
Beagles and Daschunds.
“There is no one as she is in all the land.”

“Yes, but there are many like her,” the pit bull said.

And so the Dogs of Diamondy Draw roused to the hunt,
and they set upon Cats of Opal Lake at once,
who were mauled to the last kitten.
Not a one escaped, and no more Cats lived there
until the end of the age.

But the Flying Cat gave no heed and continued to fly-sing-whisper
as if it was all she was made to do.

“Let the fire-sky turn ash or die,
I care not when or why.
Light and warmth are quite divine,
but I like the cool and darkness fine.”

Big Black Spot the Pit Bull for a time was pleased.
He now controlled two lands not one,
and promptly made a treaty of friendship and mutual defense
with the yellow-painted Typhoon-class submarine in Opal Lake
and neighboring Badgers of the Turquoise Hills.
Quickly, however, the singing of Softer the Flying Cat
floated into his floppy white ears again,
and Big Black Spot’s joy turned to rage,
dark as his spot.

He called for a meeting between the Dogs of Diamondy Draw & Opal Lake,
the Yellow Painted Typhoon-class submarine,
and the Badgers of the Turquoise Hills.

“The Rats of Jasper Mountain are very high up,”
said Big Black Spot,
“They are very near the sky and mock us with her.
I can stand it no longer.”

The Yellow Submarine was suspicious,
but the Badgers of the Turquoise Hills had long desired the Jasper Mountain,
and it was agreed that in mutual defense
they would force the Rats out of the mountain
for the benefit of all.

The fighting was very fierce.
Many Rats died, and those who survived fled in every direction,
becoming a nuisance to all Gemstone & Platinum Submarine Land
by eating the young, old, and sick of every place.
But the victors still rejoiced
for they had won a great battle.

The Dogs of Diamondy Draw, Opal Lake, & Jasper Mountain
resolved to split the mountain with the Badgers,
and all were satisfied with their holdings.
Nearer now to Softer the Flying Cat,
they hated her more,
and set about finding ways to bring her down.
The Badgers worked to make catapults with jewel shard missiles
while the Dogs met with the Codgers of the Topaz Plains
and convinced them to use their shotguns and broomsticks to tear Softer’s wings,

For weeks they prepared,
Badgers making catapults,
Codgers cleaning their shotguns,
and the Yellow Submarine re-calibrating its targeting system
as the Dogs spread out all across Gemstone & Platinum Submarine Land
looking for and following
Softer the Flying Cat.

Soon, the day had arrived
and the Beagle raced to the Jasper Mountain
to tell all of the Dogs and Badgers and Codgers of this news.
Dozens waited on the side of the mountain,
when all of a sudden from behind a cloud there appeared the Flying Cat,
doing as she always did.

“On the meaning of life there is much debate,
but ’tis nothing less or more than to love and mate.”

Hearing this, Big Black Spot barked the order to fire,
and fire they did.
Softer was caught completely by surprise
and only realized what had happened as the first shard and buckshot
tore through her wings.
Staying aloft, she tried to glide away,
but the missile from the Yellow Submarine exploded in the air above her
and she tumbled, tumbled, tumbled
toward the ground below.

The Dogs gave chase and found her near the edge of Opal Lake,
panting and crying.

“Weep weep!”

“You should not have flown above us as you did,” Great Black Spot growled,
putting a firm paw on Softer’s belly,
“Had you walked as the rest of us do,
you would have lived much longer.”

“Is eating me a sin for you to do?”
Softer asked
as she realized their intentions.

“No. We are Dogs
and this is our way.”

“Then I have no regrets.”

And they ate her
until they had cracked her bones for the marrow.

Softer the Flying Cat

Softer the Flying Cat sleeps well. Purrs in silence, waves its tail. Wakes up quickly, jumps up high, Softer soars through moonlit sky. The night is Softer’s and its alone, the world is Softer’s and stars its throne.

Softer hungers, wants something sweet. Clouds are cotton candy treats. The Flying Cat zooms toward the puffs, devours till its had enough. Softer’s belly mostly full, it finds a stomach filled with wool. Throat half-parched and organs burst, it dives toward lake to quench its thirst.

Softer breaks the water’s surface edge, stays beneath till God’s last dredge. When heavens come to look to save, the Flying Cat stays in its grave. Damnation settles down instead, and Softer sleeps well in its bed.

What is the highest form of art?

Imagine if you will an ancient Greek city-state where once a year there is a week long festival celebrating the ingenuity of the human mind and creative spirit. During this month, all of the self proclaimed artists from the surrounding area come to this place for the purposes of mingling with other artists, and of course lauding their own particular works.

However, over the years the size of festival has outgrown the size of the city and the artists who once mingled freely have become to grow unmanageable, unable to decide how much of the city should be devoted each particular medium, each one of course believing theirs should have more than all the rest. Being the wise, benevolent dictator that you are, you decide to have a hearing so that you may choose which art and artists best deserve the right to come this festival, however it has already been made clear only one form of art (and in the case of some, one subset of a form) can be allowed to come to the festival, no more. Small groups representing each of the respective mediums shuffle into your courtyard and stand, waiting to be heard.

Fittingly, the philosophers begin the discourse. They argue (and would have had more to say had they not argued among themselves so much) that they impart direct truth to humankind and produce not only the most important art, but reasons for all art itself.

The poets argue that that’s nonsense. Philosophers deliver truth sure, but blunt truth. The poets say that they are responsible for giving the world beautiful truth, though they disagree with one another about the precise source of their art. However, the poets do agree that their works are the oldest of all human art, and the kind that will likely survive the longest, in some form or another, via oral traditions or underlying themes.

Here, the painters, sculptors, and architects all contend that that’s false and that mankind has been creating visual art from the very beginning, not poetry. They say that every culture that is known of has left some trace of themselves behind in the form of the visual arts, but here the painters and architects break off into their own argument, painters stating that theirs is the more common and personal art, architects that theirs is the grandest and most impressive, sculptors being ignored as they contend that statues are the best compromise between the two extremes.

The playwrights and actors have been bickering over who is more important, the one who creates the work or those who perform it, but do not hesitate to take this opportunity and begin explaining that while all of the other arts mentioned so far are dead, theater is alive because each new performance is a rebirth. It adapts to the time and place according to the actors and audience, and is both literature and visual, surely the highest art of all.

The philosophers take a break from talking among themselves and vehemently protest the assertion that all other arts are dead. The audience, the perceiver, is the one responsible for new life, and as long as any of the mediums have an audience, they will be alive.

The musicians have been silent up until now, only considered to be at the festival for entertainment purposes, but several stand up and say that surely music is the most important art, able to be enjoyed by anyone, regardless of their language, literacy, or nationality. It is the purest expression of creativity, and able to be shared by anyone who can play an instrument or sing.

The visual artists are cohesive again and they argue that their works can do the same and are much less subject to change or the winds of time the way a particular melody might be, and don’t rely on the performance. Music as an art can be ruined by just one person involved- as can theater -while they need only rely on the eyes on their audience.

Physical art is subject to the weatherings of time! someone shouts out.

And philosophers are a bunch of boy-loving faggots! yells another.

A riot breaks out among the representatives and your soldiers repress them, then kick them outside. You say you’ll make your announcement tomorrow and retire for the night. You get up next morning, get dressed, and walk out to give your decision.

What do you say?

The Price of a Quiet Man

I listen to the wind, to the silence and serene. I listen and I hear and I am glad. I part my mouth to speak, but have a second thought, I think I ought be pleased by what I have.

If I should want or feel, to do so is to scream, and screaming I’m afraid would break my vow. Though I entered life as such, crying, bloody, and afraid, now it shames me I could have ever been so loud.

A babe’s nature is no sin, only natural and right, and surely then I had no shame or past regrets. What might or would have been, if I’d had a chance to grow, to laugh and dance and let my nature stretch?  

It’s much too late to question what I did or didn’t do, much better to just accept it and move on. To analyze or fret would have no benefit, it’s better to just leave it, leave it gone.

To be a Quiet Man, I confess the cost is dear, but the prizes I receive are dearer still. I wouldn’t take the world, to be a louder man. The things I lack are nothing, so I feel.

The Last Spring Shower

When I was a child, I did as children do
I loved the whole world and it loved me, too
When I played in the field, Nature was my toy
And each new day exercised my joy
In those days, Man was my friend
I never thought that it would end

But then one day I saw it had
And saw I was no more a lad
And nowhere could a joy be found
And no friend could be seen around
So I cried out my last childish tears
And wept a dirge for wasted years

When those were gone, I dried my eyes
I knew a real man never cries
I knew I was not what I ought be
But I didn’t know what life had brought me
It’s said a real man can’t be so fettered
I know it’s said, but I know better

Ode to the Sun I

I praise thee Great Hyperion, gold titan in the sky
love thee Brave Hyperion, fie’ry beacon upon high
Thou givest the morning its splendor, and the day its light
At dusk thou art all beauty, and thine absence felt as night
Thou art lovely, holy, gentle, divine!
But when thou art angered, all vengeance be thine!
Though thou seeth me always and never doth err,
Perceived trespasses please pardon, avert thy fierce glare!
I cry out to thee begging my sins be forgot,
I hide from thy wrath, Lord! oppress me not!
Thou art Life-giver, Father, Protector, and Friend!
Those who despise thee, thou smolder and rend
love thee Lord Hyperion, body, heart, soul, and mind
I love thee fully, my Lord, so thou shalt love me in kind