The Madness of pavement speak

The Madness of pavement speak

A Poem by gram linski
"

" take away my typewriter, and all you have left, is the sickness that started me writing in the first place, " C Bukowski

"
The words flowed like monsoon mud, I couldn't stop, it did not stop, a fever came and entered me, fucked me from behind my  mind fucked mind, like the mute that learned to talk and talk, and the blind man that saw too much, the hand seized up, the ink ran dry, the pages turned and burned and turned away, and language spilled outside my mind, and still, and still, on and on, no end in sight, no reason, rhyme, no purpose in this pointless s**t, I spewed upon the hapless page, the sickness was unending, I prayed to god, I wished for death, I cried and lied, and hoped to hell for some kind of understanding, but there was nought and I was nix, and rivers flowed and mountains slept, and oceans went unanswered, and dreamt of sand within my blood, collapsing and congealing, and wrote it down, in s**t on walls and pissed my name in imagined snow, and drank too much to stop the thinking, and thought too much too, and four makes five, and wired alive, and sought the church for sanctuary, for sanity, and lost it in an instant, the bones of dead men speak to me, taunt me with their indifference, and still, and still, and more, and more, the pen destroyed the end, and scarred the page, and scared the night, and rambled, never ending, and dawn broke upon my spine, damaged, non returning, the fog remained, the dusk retired, and it rained and rained and rained, and in the damp reclusive eye, I spied some colours dancing, shadows merging, black was white, and grey was non-exsistent, the fields ran dry, the flowers died, and ennui was abundant ,with heavy arms and lifeless limbs, I carried death aloft, it laughed at me, mocked me in my sorrow, I looked afar, I looked too far, no line on the horizon, for I was blinded by a rising sun, and died a death undecided, reborn, afresh, screaming freshly screaming, in morning's dew, the morning's due, surely, as surely as a lion's roar, a tiger stripe, a panda not procreating, I tell myself, soon, too soon, I answer back, f**k you and f**k you, and woke into a fitful sleep of regret and useless memories, the end was nigh, the sign said now, the road retracted unbending, it raced behind my fragile skin, and re-appeared upon my brow, the future frowned, the past was dead, resurrected, the now was now, and dead and gone, the dead were alive and kicking, against the pricks, against the walls, one last puff of cancer mind, inhaled and held too long, the eyes upon the mantle refuse to blink, and I stare back entranced, a mirror breaks, already broken, a clown laughs and sighs, the beast within, escaped somehow, and spoken wordaged on a whim,  the wounded soldiers brought to life,  a mist of hazy phantoms, the broken window laughed at things in chaos form, entropy encroaching, quantum physics blinks it's mind, the meaning is in nothing, reality waves crashing

                                                                                                             

 burning

                                                                                                               silent


                                                                                                               sound
                                          

© 2020 gram linski


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This gives me a feeling more than a definite sense of meaning. I don't always think meaning is important. Sometimes I think understanding the underlying way the world is impressed upon the mind that is writing is the more pressing thing. Chaos reigns in the creative mind that is barred from creating. Sometimes creation is a means of rebirth when inside there are storms that rage and need tempering through expending their energy.

Every creation story I have ever read began with a chaos and void. Which seems to point to the fact that order is birthed from chaos. Or perhaps that we learn of our need for order because we first experience chaos. But we have to have some way of bundling the chaos neatly or it will destroy us.

I liked the way you took these impossibilities and made them reality. The mute speaking, the blind seeing. I read a poem where Lazarus was unhappy to be brought back from the dead. Can't remember where I read it, will try to find it again. But there is something in that, I think. What we think we or others are missing, may not be so easily replaced or improved. Sometimes an end is the meaning itself and what comes after may not be discernible by us, but that doesn't mean it's necessarily negative. I think that's unrelated to your poem. Maybe not. I'm just trying to piece my ideas together.

What I get from this, mostly, is that there is a need and also no way of meeting it. And the need to meet it becomes more urgent and the inhabitants of the mind become more ornery as time goes on. I believe the mind is populated. And even though those people and things are confined within that space, it does not mean they have no power to impact our lives or health. As your Bukowski quote alludes--if we lose the power of expression, there is a greater loss than merely the creative one.

Rambling. This is deep and makes me feel like a wander through the levels of hell in someone's mind. It is intense and unsettling. But also communicates, to my mind, the importance of release through self-expression. Good stuff, Gram.

Posted 1 Week Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

gram linski

1 Week Ago

thanks, Eilis, it was a bit of a mad ramble of pavement speak spewed upon the sidewalk, but you are .. read more



Reviews

This gives me a feeling more than a definite sense of meaning. I don't always think meaning is important. Sometimes I think understanding the underlying way the world is impressed upon the mind that is writing is the more pressing thing. Chaos reigns in the creative mind that is barred from creating. Sometimes creation is a means of rebirth when inside there are storms that rage and need tempering through expending their energy.

Every creation story I have ever read began with a chaos and void. Which seems to point to the fact that order is birthed from chaos. Or perhaps that we learn of our need for order because we first experience chaos. But we have to have some way of bundling the chaos neatly or it will destroy us.

I liked the way you took these impossibilities and made them reality. The mute speaking, the blind seeing. I read a poem where Lazarus was unhappy to be brought back from the dead. Can't remember where I read it, will try to find it again. But there is something in that, I think. What we think we or others are missing, may not be so easily replaced or improved. Sometimes an end is the meaning itself and what comes after may not be discernible by us, but that doesn't mean it's necessarily negative. I think that's unrelated to your poem. Maybe not. I'm just trying to piece my ideas together.

What I get from this, mostly, is that there is a need and also no way of meeting it. And the need to meet it becomes more urgent and the inhabitants of the mind become more ornery as time goes on. I believe the mind is populated. And even though those people and things are confined within that space, it does not mean they have no power to impact our lives or health. As your Bukowski quote alludes--if we lose the power of expression, there is a greater loss than merely the creative one.

Rambling. This is deep and makes me feel like a wander through the levels of hell in someone's mind. It is intense and unsettling. But also communicates, to my mind, the importance of release through self-expression. Good stuff, Gram.

Posted 1 Week Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

gram linski

1 Week Ago

thanks, Eilis, it was a bit of a mad ramble of pavement speak spewed upon the sidewalk, but you are .. read more

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Added on June 26, 2020
Last Updated on June 26, 2020

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gram linski
gram linski

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" If I lose the light of Sun, I will write by candlelight, moonlight, no light, if I lose paper and ink, I will write in blood on forgotten walls, I will write, always " H. Rollins more..

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A Poem by gram linski