Love For Knowledge
© Surazeus
2015 09 20
Richard slouches low in the dirty couch
and watches Tina paint elegant swirls.
"In all my years of college, I cannot
recall one single teacher who inspired
love for knowledge in my dry dreary heart,
and not one guided me on path of wisdom.
I learned everything I know on my own.
I stumbled in a bleak haze of despair,
staggering through a labyrinth of disgust
at every book some professor assigned
for me to read, discounting every truth
proclaimed by some ancient foul rotting corpse
of a dead philosopher or novelist
who dared proclaim that his distorted vision
of this messy world was more true than mine.
Poets have no grand visions of this life
anymore, except for me, for my vision
incorporates all history of Mankind.
I am self-generated from my mind,
blooming into a genius of word play
in the clear sunlight of my own desire
to express how I perceive this whole world
of colliding atoms that spiral waves
of aggressive lust to reproduce models
of its hungry passion, and so we wake
from endless beautiful enchanting dream
of hunting, fighting, eating, building, singing,
and copulating to realize shocked
that we are alive after all these years,
millions of years since our brains first evolved
and started to devour this entire world.
This vision of the world inside my head
is nothing more than a model of the Cosmos.
I journeyed into underworld of fear
and battled monster of my own desire,
then transformed into clever clown of wit
to rise like Orpheus again from death
and become the Jester Messiah King.
I stand on street corners and hold a sheet
of blank paper while pretending to read
but I mouth nonsense words and call them poems,
and people drop money in my torn hat.
I am the Prophet of Nonsense, the King
of Nowhere, the Emperor of Ecstasy,
and all the dead ghosts of workers and slaves,
whose labor is exploited by fat pigs
sitting on plush thrones in posh country clubs
and rule over empires of factories and banks,
flock around me, invisible to eyes
of foolish mortals, and proclaim me God.
I am the embodiment of dead god
who was crucified on a telephone pole,
and now appears on television screen
in giant church with clean suit and slicked hair,
praising Jesus for his noble sacrifice
because like him I die for all your sins.
If you give me money, you give to God,
so offer your love in large dollar bills
for God wants me to live in a huge mansion
while you slave all week in a factory
and hope to win the ponzi lottery,
because I am the divine son of God."
Richard leaps to his feet and spreads his arms
wide toward the ceiling, then howls like a wolf,
and falls back laughing on the tattered couch.
"I smoked too much vision flower of joy
because I cannot remember a thing
I just said, though I dreamed I was Jesus
riding a donkey into the White House."
Richard drinks grape juice and stares out the window
where cars glide flashing on an arching bridge
that shimmers like a rainbow after rain
while ignoring the painting of his wife,
who died of cancer, painting futile hope.
"There is no afterlife after all, my love.
I ceased trying to comfort myself with proverb
that you are still alive in all your art.
Your art never smiles back at me or laughs."
© Surazeus
2015 09 20
Richard slouches low in the dirty couch
and watches Tina paint elegant swirls.
"In all my years of college, I cannot
recall one single teacher who inspired
love for knowledge in my dry dreary heart,
and not one guided me on path of wisdom.
I learned everything I know on my own.
I stumbled in a bleak haze of despair,
staggering through a labyrinth of disgust
at every book some professor assigned
for me to read, discounting every truth
proclaimed by some ancient foul rotting corpse
of a dead philosopher or novelist
who dared proclaim that his distorted vision
of this messy world was more true than mine.
Poets have no grand visions of this life
anymore, except for me, for my vision
incorporates all history of Mankind.
I am self-generated from my mind,
blooming into a genius of word play
in the clear sunlight of my own desire
to express how I perceive this whole world
of colliding atoms that spiral waves
of aggressive lust to reproduce models
of its hungry passion, and so we wake
from endless beautiful enchanting dream
of hunting, fighting, eating, building, singing,
and copulating to realize shocked
that we are alive after all these years,
millions of years since our brains first evolved
and started to devour this entire world.
This vision of the world inside my head
is nothing more than a model of the Cosmos.
I journeyed into underworld of fear
and battled monster of my own desire,
then transformed into clever clown of wit
to rise like Orpheus again from death
and become the Jester Messiah King.
I stand on street corners and hold a sheet
of blank paper while pretending to read
but I mouth nonsense words and call them poems,
and people drop money in my torn hat.
I am the Prophet of Nonsense, the King
of Nowhere, the Emperor of Ecstasy,
and all the dead ghosts of workers and slaves,
whose labor is exploited by fat pigs
sitting on plush thrones in posh country clubs
and rule over empires of factories and banks,
flock around me, invisible to eyes
of foolish mortals, and proclaim me God.
I am the embodiment of dead god
who was crucified on a telephone pole,
and now appears on television screen
in giant church with clean suit and slicked hair,
praising Jesus for his noble sacrifice
because like him I die for all your sins.
If you give me money, you give to God,
so offer your love in large dollar bills
for God wants me to live in a huge mansion
while you slave all week in a factory
and hope to win the ponzi lottery,
because I am the divine son of God."
Richard leaps to his feet and spreads his arms
wide toward the ceiling, then howls like a wolf,
and falls back laughing on the tattered couch.
"I smoked too much vision flower of joy
because I cannot remember a thing
I just said, though I dreamed I was Jesus
riding a donkey into the White House."
Richard drinks grape juice and stares out the window
where cars glide flashing on an arching bridge
that shimmers like a rainbow after rain
while ignoring the painting of his wife,
who died of cancer, painting futile hope.
"There is no afterlife after all, my love.
I ceased trying to comfort myself with proverb
that you are still alive in all your art.
Your art never smiles back at me or laughs."
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