Nietzsche suggested we lift ourselves up on our own shoulders. He was imprisoned in a madhouse by his loving sister for the latter part of his life. 7-25-2018
Manson asked his girls to do something nice for Charley. They gave him their best. (7-25-2018)
Jim Morrison said it, lived it, and died it. No one here gets out alive. (7-25-2018)
Visions from the Gallows Tree (7-25-2018)
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
We study ourselves in others
have no idea we’ll become, a conglomerate
a reluctant synthesis of our surroundings
They are 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 is certain
he’ll have to find a ringer and find one soon
Concerned citizens drive their 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 goddamn mess?
There is no room in this room for me
It is full of ghosts and hobgoblins
A giant gold fish has swallowed my stars
There is a woman married to the sister of her protest mate
They intend to have non-emotional sex
to impregnate her so the ladies can be fathers
There is no room in this womb for me
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2018 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©
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
We study ourselves in others
have no idea we’ll become, a conglomerate
a reluctant synthesis of our surroundings
They are 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 is certain
he’ll have to find a ringer and find one soon
Concerned citizens drive their 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 goddamn mess?
There is no room in this room for me
It is full of ghosts and hobgoblins
A giant gold fish has swallowed my stars
There is a woman married to the sister of her protest mate
They intend to have non-emotional sex
to impregnate her so the ladies can be fathers
There is no room in this womb for me
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2018 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©
RSS Feed