nothing punk rock.

I can only remember and believe
in the furious grace of jazz.
here so many miles upon miles away
there is little hope for the stage,
for something other than the chorus of the wind.
but it is a choir that calls me to somewhere else
to some future full of light and heat
of sound and fury,
full of skin and sweat
love and sex.

there is nothing punk rock about this place
except how crazy I am for the doing of things.

I dwindle between sanity and subdued psychosis
hungry for the worst that man can do
hungry for the lowest demonstration of society
hungry for that moment where rules break down

and we all pretend we are stone-cold and vicious.

somewhere out across this place there is a voice calling me.
in this whisper I know I am capable of horrible things.
that I am prepared to do acts of violence on human flesh.
deserved or not somewhere out there is the man whom I will kill first.

no love of punk rock
jazz
break-beat poetry
is going to save the life of me.

I can only disappear into these things and try to break away
from the dream I’ve had since I was a child
from the hatred that has been bred into me
by a world convinced of its ending
from the inevitability of blood fire screams and terror.

I can only find myself through destruction
only build new strengths from losses and hurt.

I hear the whisper of another man on this desert wind.

I hear my voice calling from the future back to me.

I am saying:

believe.

Home -- Poetry

Copyright 2005 -- Scott Kirkpatrick -- All Rights Reserved
May not be used in whole or part without written permission of the Author