Some part of me wonders how many different ways someone can view death. What financial, moral, physical constraints might make a person think of death in one way or another. I suppose it’s all in how you interpret life, and your view of it. You should already know what I think thanks to previous journals. I won’t wax poetic here, that’s what poems are for.
After vile, bile Monday I have resurged into some good writing. Strangely I wasn’t able to make a poem about vomit. I say strangely, it’s actually rather grotesque, but how many times are you in the moment and lucid enough to get your thoughts on paper? The feeling and taste… disgusting, I know. Nobody wants to read this paragraph unless they’re genuinely curious what a poem about upheaval would look like. It’d be the color of stomach acid! Maybe I should work on that. Don’t know when the next time I’ll become ill is, so we use the inspiration while we have it, right?
Man, we’re two paragraphs in and we’ve already covered death and vomit. I can’t wait to see what else I can fucking dredge up.
My mind’s a little numb, you see, as our family has just received some awful news. One of us has been found to have advanced brain and lung cancer, showing symptoms of a stroke at first and rapidly declining. It kind of makes you think about your fragile, mortal self. What kind of legacy would I leave? What kind of mother deserves to see one of her sons so near death, and possibly on the cusp of? It’s humanly to start rationalizing when we get bad news such as “you have three tumors in your skull”.
In this world, bad news IS the news. There is no shortage of vans being used as tools for mass murder, and no more vitriol that can be hurled the way of President Trump. That’s our world. That’s where you live. The only way you can change that is to either go to space or kill yourself. Thanks to Louis C.K. for some wonderful words of wisdom.
I’d love to be paid to interview laymen around the world. In Russia, the Middle East, Indonesia, Australia, Germany, no where in particular. I’d love to ask people what their thoughts were. Surely, death is a universal fear. It’s bad news the entire road to death, so why should we fear a release? I think it’s stupid.
So that’s what I think about dying. If I get t-boned and die, I’d like to think that I’m always at a point in my life that says it’s okay. I’m pretty content with reaching for my goals, and if they get cut short, then who’s to blame. I don’t believe in fate, but I don’t think things happen any other way than they do. Someday I’ll be meant to go, and until then, fuck it. I’m going to live like hell.
This journal’s excerpt is from a sexy poem called “Bare Bones” (aren’t we just all over the place today):
“Let the taste of the eden feast
Never leave my vocabulary
As you kneel unto me
And you come cyanide
Kill what was before
And from your thighs
My conscious emerges
So I may make love
To the sky”
Sex poetry is definitely not something I’m adept at. I think I qualify my erotica every single time it comes up, but hey I can humble myself in this what I don’t in everything else. It’s not something I think I’m great at, but I really really like this one.
Such as with death (or vomit) poetry, it’s difficult to carve under the surface of the immediate or obvious emotions to get at some deeper semblance of understanding. Death is death, but death is not the same to everyone. That’s what that tangent earlier in this journal was for. You and I will not view a poem simply about death the same way.
Sex and death mean very different things among individuals. It’s about the context, the moment of climax, and the release. What I’m trying to say is orgasming is like breathing your last in a metaphorical sense. Both themes have the same motions.
Every death is different and every moment of intimacy is different. You couldn’t write a poem about a single moment of intimacy and get away with it sounding like every other one, because it shouldn’t. They may be interlinked, beginning the cycle and ending the cycle, but they alone are very generic. It’s everything surrounding the moment that makes it unique and makes it worthy to chronicle. I think that’s why I never flinch at death tolls. You wouldn’t understand what 100,000 deaths really means unless you had 100,000 best friends of 30 years who all died at war in a day.
So one looming death is going to bring down an entire extended family. Such is death.
This night is young and I’m afraid there’s some actual, very real brooding I must do if I’m going to ruminate much longer. Wouldn’t want to write about sex in this mood, no sir!