Daddyo 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 anything. 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, unknown; 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!