#Philosophistication

“Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,
All the King’s Men and all the King’s
horses… Wait Humpty Dumpty’s changed again!”

Words are needles, sense is like wool,
needless of believing, expression has
got nothing to do with you. Whether
mind is twitching or tongue is twisting,
pen may ricochet, or depth may dismember
your literal sense, glance from your distance,
we won’t milk your glands for these
words to believe they’re living; even
dead, the Autumn leaves give the
season meaning and embrace.
So digest my disgrace, watch me digress
what you lawfully made sacred.
Maybe I’m serpent on the verge of
feeding secular fact, or I’m godhead
and all is merely a scheme to damage
the craft’s worth, or >I’m Batman<,
I’m vengeance for not being read.
Or I’m dead; ghostwriting from my
grave, nonetheless believe I’m
Godly; with nude lewd words, get a nosebleed.
Eden vacated, fearing the word roaring.
Beginning was too wordy, the firmament looking
too versey; full poem messy, universe, starting
to see the sense, the scene seeming
dense, writer too versatile to jail in
a Facebook page, thrown onto empty
stages and C us age with the mic enslaved in
our golden right hands. Open the gates,
heaven needs John’s ghostwriter declawed,
build a clergy to criticize and declare
if I’m a modern literal hoax; your Bukowski,
your Wakowski; the enlightened monstrosity
of sorts, now learn to depend on my
deep end to give your mind a rest, our
mindsets are set alite by old poets with an
envious stench, wreckage and death, corpses
with fingertips tattooed with wrong ink
stains, wrinkles and bad breath, analyse
our breadth, not too deep to be read,
dance around with stilettos and embrace
Paulo Coelho, write like birthed in Glasgow,
damaged hands failing to grab a pen
and grasp that poetry is like candle,
the flame implanted in Narcissus’ flesh,
ego and self; express what the self needs
to let loose, stop hanging responsibility
on mental like testicles, test your clues,
poetry ain’t that hoax that your lecturers
made you ingest, jizz, you’re bereaved
and failing to Be.

To be or not to be? Ask us to change
belief, tweak metaphors, metamorph,
our choice of words aren’t chosen
at all, formless mindless renegades.
Aye, they speak like gods, needing
worship and hunting for form,
when the pen fell sanity left their
ballpoints, when the stage became too
vacant to embrace they fled from
a page, junkies feeding teaspoons
of punchlines to hungered crowds,
sense is tasteless; poetry reduced
to awes and sentences that exist
to snap your neural networks, it’s
hypocrites preaching F bombs and
forgetting that intimacy is depth
in its own form, failing to see how
poetry is water, ever moving from
streams and gallows unseen, it
fills holes and tunnels hidden from
the scene, swallows the ground as
the ground believes it swallows it,
poetry is seed!
And old poets are ground beetles
feeding and poisoning IT,
best believe we grow to see, best
believe we learnt to ingest your
toxicity.
We’re mere sparrows trying to embrace
a sky, we’re mere sparrows from the
chimneys of mental homes we’ve
been banned, homeless tenants,
now we free fall as wings fail
our forms, sparrows falling from high
points, we lose our highness, bones
fragile like fingernails, we might
shatter and bones scatter, we
might not be seen after our existence
is buttered; fallen angels or martyrs.

Corpses remain, stories in graves,
poems like dust within shelves,
food for silence and loneliness,
closed rooms, poems now whispers
echoing only to the mind and
silent like a deaf ear, it’s the
same men and women of the
word, or of the cloth that crucify
the younglings and label teaching
through buttering, yet recite
poems of harmony and poetry
being a uniting melody, Pharisees
wowing at what they choose to see
as true poetry, potency comes not
with msunery. Instead teach us
about shelving silence between
the hands of the clock, cage us
not in docks, enslave us not to sound
like slavemasters who recited poems
to fool our folk, let us swim within
the streams of the universe of literature,
since Universe is uterus let us
be birthed once more, with your
punchlines as our umbilicals, then
cut them off! The revelation is yours
to withhold.

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork by Mark Bryan

℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗

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