Daddyo and Other Poems

Doug Draime


            I would like to go up the side
            of the heads of all the
            preventers of unbridled
            concepts, and moral outrage,
            about the dying of the light.
            Daddyo wields the blade
            of monetary worship, drawing
            financial conclusions
            based on the body count,
            and the seemingly
            endless string of sellouts,
            who parade
            like baboons smoking cigars
            with their pitiful beat red asses
            into the gelling gene pool
            of warmongering Daddyo.
            Production lines of spiritually
            deformed humanity selecting
            and sorting the newest in
            brain implants. We send spaceships
            out, and build more; train the
            explorers to be conquering politicians
            and butchers, who are down on their knees
            with their sucking mouths to Daddyo.

		who built this place?

                Who built this place? Shadow & dust & shit
            & cobwebs & spit & blood & flesh
            & feathers  &
            sawdust & sap  & bone &
                ragweed & tar & piss & wood
            & parts of all distorted spirits: the offspring & faithful
            who nourish all things now & all things
            gone. Take the withered, lying veil away!

            Who built this place? In traveled time (one step is
            suppose to be in front of the other). In sidereal time,
            in tangent & bleak memories,
            in gyroscope rapture, in erthorn puddles, &
            benedictions for all the lost, inward & outward.
            Benedictions, but no names please. You can doubt
            the immaculate conception. The imagery perplexes
                    the already blasted brain, drives you insane.
            Let it be, fuck it! Iım sick of trying to convince you of

            Who built this place? Love is giving up using people. But
            the authorities never intercede for the prisoner. Moonlight
            breaks through the trees at the moment the
            prisoner discovers the light is
            only true
            within himself  & no place else. He makes a run for it
            after he poisons the dogs.

        Who built this place?  Passing doors half open, burning
        flesh poring from the windows. Dizzy & tied  to the bone
        & bored & very very off center.  Calculating detailed
        illusions. Like picking treads off a strangerıs coat.  Always
        lies &  more lies. Huge hawks fly through the smog  & perch
        on tops of downtown L.A. buildings, laughing like dying hyenas.
        Come one, come all ... bring on your politicians, bring on your
        magicians ...  bring on your morticians.

        Who built this place? Their literary devices will death rattle
        you into oblivion from truth. Donıt dare ask me what truth is.
        Cutting through the shit in our brains
        is not easy like going against gravity; it pleases no one. My
        motto is: distrust anyone not seeking
        liberation, and donıt even breath the same air. The concert masters
        are frauds.
        The music they play are black dirges disguised in the drum beat
        of rock nı droll. The people in the front rows duck & dive &
        die for fake tickets. Nothing is discovered except
        wandering emotions and pointless, vicious conceit.

        Who built this place?  The faithful donıt have to look at calendars.
        The reunions are never worthwhile, when the horror that was your
        family stare back at you like zombies, handing out old  dead dreams
        like fried chicken legs. Like our writer/hero down south,
        who never moved away from his mother, and his mentor/sidekick
        dead on a railroad track on the great Plains, with a needle
        full of speed stuck in his ass. Take the withered, lying veil away!

        Who built this place?  There are those still born in
        plastic polluted skin, who are forever in death, they
        are death: no breath of life can touch their endless void.
        Dishonor&   unparalleled deceit is the method
        of the authorities. They will mess with your luteinizing
        hormone and youıll think youıre just voting in another election.
        The poets die
        of cancer & alcohol & drugs & suicide & fear.  We dance
        around their graves like broken &
        burning scarecrows praising our own straw.

        Who built this place?  Breaking through the web of lies
        is an every moment task, constantly struggling
        with the brain washing.  Below the core, embowered
        embryonic membranes of clay & steel & poison & semen. Was Odious
        a word Shakespeare used or was that the cat who killed
        his father to fuck his mother? Everyone is on the same non-liberated
        page. They will use every literary device within their reach to help
        you to find comfort in your torment. Titillate you, to keep
        the attention away from the truth. Take the withered, lying
        veil away! 

     		Advice To An Unsung Hero

            Say goodbye to literary styles,
            confines of moronic social pettiness,
            masturbationıs of ego.
            The truth can be
            written from
            any slant, mate.
            Piss on language
            and all forms
            there of.
            Your rage seething with pure vengeance,
            rage against the machine,
            and the continual conspiracy
            to kill the light.
            Be not a poet/writer functionary,
            a Wunderkind     kiss-ass kneeling
            to authority
            and egotists trends.
            Visionary! Revolutionary! Experimentalist!
            Dissident! Renegade!
            Always cultivating the soul
            with individualistic experience and
            wonderment of the unseen,
            burning like a storm of a million fires,
            being the inferno of flame
            and light.

             Digging Out Of the Catacombs Of The Poets

            iım buried deep but i start thinking.
            i think of Jean Genet in prison,
            delighting in the smell of his own farts...
            in the catacombs of the poets
            i think of Gauguinıs wife and children,
            driving him away to paint the beautiful
            faces and bodies of young Tahitian women,
            who eventually fucked him to death
            with syphilis...
            in the catacombs of the poets
            i think of Knut Hamsun eating out of
            garbage cans for years on the streets
            of Christiania, surviving it to win the Nobel
            Prize, and living to be 92...
            in the catacombs of the poets.
            i think of Picasso, and his statement
            that, ³art is not created to decorate
            apartments, but as an instrument  of war
            against the enemy.² ...
            in the catacombs of the poets
            i think of Henry Miller begging with ads in
            literary magazines for money for
            food and warm socks, and not getting
            any responses...
            in the catacombs of the poets.
            i dig my through a hole started
            by Rimbaud in the 18th century.
            i climb out, knocking from my body, rats and bats,
            lies and compromise ...
            from the catacombs of the poets
            with my body stinking of death and my heart
            full of revolution!

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