Campfire Psalms of the Lost and Angry
And so we love
We love the campfire,
O how freely that we love each other!
We love as a reaction
We are angry. We are furious.
This home-made compass
is always pointing in the direction we’re going
and we’re going.
because we are scared.
seeking flowers among dead.
We bouquet together
& plant in NH’s mountains
in tents and without-tents.
The absurdity of it All!
The asburdity of that man’s beehive beard!
But long beards of filth do not sway us!
No, they burn our finger tips
and light veins in our eyes.
We lovers are hummingbirds.
My lovers are hummingbirds.
They approach me
seeking flower juice
but realize I am not a flower
What friend is not worth crossing a country?
What lover would you not drink deeply of?
Who signed the post cards slid between your journal’s pages?
My hummingbird will die
coiled in human fingers
still thinking we may be flowers.
I found a priest’s resignation letter to God in the smokey remnants of my hummingbird’s corpse.
So I decided maybe there is a God
and if he is true
let him damn me
because a life well led
cannot be defined by any external force.
I will bring heaven with me on my way to hell.
because we are angry with the world.
We cannot bring ourselves to hate our brothers and sisters
no matter their lack-lust or lust-for We sacrafice to love.
We love to community.
We cannot falter for flowers,
we must falter for hummingbirds.
Hummingbirds drinking the blood of hummingbirds
the most beautiful vampirism.
Reject all material barriers to participate in Ultra-Destruction of Self!
Self is beautiful, destroy it!
Legions of small insects dream of sheep pestering fleshy eye lids
Insect nails force them wide, watching The Movie of your reality
reacting upon Moments’ curtian’s call 1/30th of second, quickest time
The temporary insanity of loves must sleep
Love for material, love for people, love for highs, love for Love
A void must be build within Self to destroy Self
Conscious in womb, a glorious death (birth of illusions!) sweet as pomegranites stuck between skin of
Zippers of flesh open, bleed freely along eternal mindscape of perceived Consciousness
Physical body is not conscious, a Vermont cabin for glorious I
What are you seeking crying philospher?
Why try to be so goddamn zen?
The sobbing philosopher chases destruction lovingly, slitting his wrists
burning revalations so he may say he has burned revalations for honeysuckle ignorance!
Vision slit in geometric patterns
Horrors of insecurity comb body with knives, strings of body knotted to machine snap
and freedom destroys him.
Babble of idiots chase his giggling leaps
Thoughts quest for elusive Truth,
bawling for authentic Love.
“Betray your quest, wanna-be philosopher! Abandon the rebirth of Self! Life and love me!”
Weeping on sodden type writers, archaic thinkers of the present consume within the universal poem
Organic truth is mystery,
Saliva of God wets philosopher’s eye lids,
dripping upon flesh encasing skeleton encasing potential soul
Languid spine of man is malleable
Osteopaths of Eternity’s fingers direct bone molds, suit cases for truth-seekers
Star glazed eyes bellow “Keep away!” darting into reccesses of Manchester
Evils of Brown Ave must be contemplated, loved and hated, understood in highmind terms of seekers! Seeking oisis from feverish socializers and cogs
Misty maze of conversation seduces Beauty and rapes her back alley
Soda crack fizz of Midnight sings monologues,
Self-centered poems sung to Ego! Philosopher! You are getting lost on purpose!
Reject the trivialities!
Cry over nothing rather sob over the trivialities!
Trespassing rough surface, tripping
High with Self, high
I see God (I think) in eye blink of eternity
and schreech WHY
Faces of trees gnaw on bones
only spit back WHY
My pockets are empty pools
only splashing WHY
The evils hold no answers
to only answer WHY!
No thing truly matters, bury heart, build your value compass,
or magnetism of Love and Self will direct you circular.
We need need need!
A truly beautiful destroyed Self does not!
A truly beautiful destroyed Self is a babe opening eyes to watch for the first time a pencil dance on
The beatific wonder!
A nose born! Then eyes!
O vast Earth, how is this so?
His mindscape yet to lay with circuits, yet be infused with social barriers, with desire filters for
Acoustic heartfelt squawkings of Loving love have yet to play its tune!
His well of thought is pure to gulp
Steady drip of human experience will dry faucet of his mind to a trickle
This babe is a waterfall of understanding,
not yet a dribble of mindless Self
Not yet a dribble of wired Mirrors.