Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.



Sunday, March 27, 2011

anarchist postman

the pale sparrow of boredom
drives me through embarrassing imagined lust of experience itself, slow, gradient,
where thoughts of radiant mail comes wired straight to my doorstep.
the postman tells me this:
i have come here to deliver sound
to the deaf.
to transport tragedy
to the comfortable
to spread blazing comfort
to the threadbare.
to blitz the sleeping
with alarms of the marvelous
to recreate movement
to the limbless.
to arm people with thought
to arm people with lust to revolt
to arm people with jagged edges of broken bottles of spite towards subjugation.
to not mince words
when people tell me
'oh, this sort of endeavor; opinion and revolt is not the territory of poetry...
poetry is only to deal with what is...'
i say with firm joyful awareness in response that
well this 'is',
a shattering lightning bolt against the pale steeple,
real as ever
a radiant beam out of the excesses of sloth that enrich the oblivion of rage
in prospect of no masters touching us in creepy domination ever again.
we will have our fucking say
we have crafted this language exact to the specifications of revolt of thought.
we have been struck by the voltage of excitement for being,
someday this will all carry on,
we arm ourselves with those expectations
we obliterate the need to define linear awareness
and on and on, to the dawn breaks its back from the weight of our great refrains.
we have nothing now to lose
we have nothing now to lose
we have nothing now to lose
but loss itself.
(((but loss itself))).

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