I write these letters
With latex gloves over my hand
So that the pigs can’t trace
The point of origin.
Yet, I recognize the irony,
That in that I am anonymous,
I will be heard
Words of me and my comrades deeds
Could shake the foundation
Bring it to its shoddy knees
Through constant barrage of force of our hatred reciprocated.
But this pointed malice,
Will be more than just some ideology
Something to push on unsuspecting folks.
This is beyond revolution,
This is banking on
That there are moments
When everything will change
Through force of the fact of the hanging man cutting himself down off the noose and torching the city.
In that they say, “oh, an artist has a duty to society”
In that they say, “don’t write just about drugs or love, unrequited or otherwise”
“do not write about women or men”
“do not write about politics”…for fear I guess of ruining the blossoming ambiguity.
In that ailester Crowley thought he was onto something while having sex on drugs,
Some demon magic,
He really thought he could destroy Christianity with that,
Had it by the throat
Could wrestle it to the ground and choke it.
Maybe I am a dirty patriot of some stupid country,
Becoming the things I loathe, by believing in forms of love and civil warfare.
But I do not know these terms as you think,
They are particular things
A radical expansion of revolutionary elements, spreading viruslike to the intestines
Of this fucked society. That is my civil warfare.
Not some fucked unfair fight with germ warfare,
Not some spectacular amalgamation of slaughter,
But rather a blunt and seductive dance
With the truest elements of change.
And love, in the same way,
I love you with my guts
I love you without clarifying the subject of you,
Unsure too if it is a wise move
Like 1984 says, “Against the suicidal impulse
To declare myself openly”.
I made the device,
Lit the fuse,
Now shit’s fucked
In the best way,
It’s a dangerous bet to hedge
That I will get away unscathed,
But when I said that,
I used words like “love” and “guts” loosely,
Not sure what they even are,
Just intestinal knots,
Just the clammy dregs of passion
That keep getting revitalized,
Heated up again
In a sense of wild becoming.
I write this letter
With latex gloves on
With invisible ink
Out of fear, safety, danger, confirmation, and some sort of aspiring revolutionary force.
I have came for you.
Something has happened,
The earth shifted
Can you feel it?
Does it still whisper everything I said three nights ago back to you
Guarded against the wild stupidity of hope and submission
against better judgment yet sound longing
I become all that
In hopes and dare I say, fucking dreams
Of in similar circumstances of reckless abandonment and confirmed reconciliation or longing
Meeting you like this again.
Till next time