~Nietzsche suggested we lift ourselves up on our own shoulders~
~he was imprisoned in a madhouse by his loving sister~
~Manson asked his girls to do something nice for Charley~
~they gave him their best~
~Jim Morrison said it, lived it, & died it~
~no one here gets out alive~
~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: III~
~Visions from the Gallows Tree~
The isolation of this cell is a discipline to be mastered one day, one hour, one minute at a time. As a potion prescribed by a healer, it must be consumed in doses. There are voices beneath the floor, no escape, shared wailing of the damned.
Having studied the history of men with a predisposition to self-imposed misery, one might surmise I’d know better. Seems we study ourselves in others, unintentionally and near-blind. We are not what we become, a conglomerate, a mere synthesis of our surroundings. They are only and all the earth keepers of our feet.
If Jesus were a country, an island, would you seek him out, go there to pray? Not I, it would be too crowded with sycophants, councils and committees. I am sufficiently intelligent to be trained, woefully antagonistic and un-trainable. Who drilled holes in the spanking board?
She steps across his body and wonders, did she have him or him her. Pondering this, she thinks (hopes) maybe he is dead. The reverend lights candles in the choir box. His singers have refused to sing. Having rung the bell himself, he knows he’ll have to find a ringer and find one soon.
Concerned citizens drive Cadillacs to a protest against oil magnates. They read poems condemning war, high taxes, gender factors and pollution. My fists punch holes in cardboard boxes. I crush aluminum cans beneath my feet. Why doesn’t someone clean up this goddamned mess?
There is no room in this room for me. It is full of ghosts and hobgoblins. A giant golden fish has swallowed my stars. There is a lady married to the sister of her protest mate. They intend to arrange non-emotional sex to impregnate her so the ladies can be fathers. There is no room in this womb for me.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~he was imprisoned in a madhouse by his loving sister~
~Manson asked his girls to do something nice for Charley~
~they gave him their best~
~Jim Morrison said it, lived it, & died it~
~no one here gets out alive~
~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: III~
~Visions from the Gallows Tree~
The isolation of this cell is a discipline to be mastered one day, one hour, one minute at a time. As a potion prescribed by a healer, it must be consumed in doses. There are voices beneath the floor, no escape, shared wailing of the damned.
Having studied the history of men with a predisposition to self-imposed misery, one might surmise I’d know better. Seems we study ourselves in others, unintentionally and near-blind. We are not what we become, a conglomerate, a mere synthesis of our surroundings. They are only and all the earth keepers of our feet.
If Jesus were a country, an island, would you seek him out, go there to pray? Not I, it would be too crowded with sycophants, councils and committees. I am sufficiently intelligent to be trained, woefully antagonistic and un-trainable. Who drilled holes in the spanking board?
She steps across his body and wonders, did she have him or him her. Pondering this, she thinks (hopes) maybe he is dead. The reverend lights candles in the choir box. His singers have refused to sing. Having rung the bell himself, he knows he’ll have to find a ringer and find one soon.
Concerned citizens drive Cadillacs to a protest against oil magnates. They read poems condemning war, high taxes, gender factors and pollution. My fists punch holes in cardboard boxes. I crush aluminum cans beneath my feet. Why doesn’t someone clean up this goddamned mess?
There is no room in this room for me. It is full of ghosts and hobgoblins. A giant golden fish has swallowed my stars. There is a lady married to the sister of her protest mate. They intend to arrange non-emotional sex to impregnate her so the ladies can be fathers. There is no room in this womb for me.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
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