Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.

Monday, January 3, 2011


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

Of empire

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

Some religion

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

And again.

No comments: