Epistolary Purge

I occasionally like to riddle through the old pages of my journals. I’ll admit, I’ll admit, most of it is shit. Though certain lines or phrases tend to take the lead. I’m sure there are other graphomaniacs who share peculiarity.
Though most of the winnowing has been achieved only for the sake of personal notability, I still share a little here. Perhaps for a bit of immortality. I’ve got nothing else going on.
Paper tends to get burned in this House.
Though the monthly bonfires are getting smaller.
And none of us ever dared to dare to try a ritual dance.
I do seem to recall meeting a dancer just last week.
I sigh at deviations…

To forgive is divine?

To beg forgiveness is humility?

Great. Let’s all get The Complex.

A fever has laid her hands upon me,

And through the pain and aching bones,

I realize time bears the burden of all things.

Including Love.

This line left twirling. Spinning.

Round the Sound.

Won’t be long til the gateway is won.

This crystal shooter left shrinking

To fuck all above

As if to spite some deity with love.


You know, I’m well aware, I really can be a downer. Especially poetically. Some of it’s ironic, sure. It’s not like I start my days with a brisk middle finger straight to the heavens. I’m actually not bad off in the world right now. I’m able to smile, relax, laugh and enjoy my life more now than ever. Part of this attitude comes from my own acceptance of the fact that, yeah I’m going to have to deal with being fucking looney for the rest of my life. I’m going to carry this burden of sorrow with me to some sort of end. Or a possibility of no end. Whatever. To me it’s the only lasting reality but, I’ve got this now. We’ve grown to need each other if maybe just a little. I’m the sanest psycho you know. And here I am laughing over it.
That really is rather creepy.
But the purge of the day seems to be laughter so let’s just go with it.

As I was saying, most of my writing is dark. Let it be. I’m sure a few of you understand, the darkness is there and it can eat you away. Unless you find your own way of making it useful or at least comforting. Pain is Art, they say.
So I choose writing as a Home for things that may otherwise take shelter in more ruinous spaces.

–Johnny trainWreck


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Filed under mad ruminations, poetry

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