Monsters

What do you do
When you love something
That was created by a monster.

Can a monster create something worthy of love
Can a monster create value

What is a monster?

The best I can tell,
Monster is opinion.

Dictionary says:
“an imaginary creature that is typically large, ugly and frightening”.

I say:
“something or someone that incites fear with malice and the certainty of malicious destruction”

I sit in the center of a circle.
There are rock piles everywhere
and people in the circle
throwing stones,
they haven’t noticed me
but they’re not happy
and they look as if they could turn
at any moment
and target me.

Those in the circle seem upset,
they’re all speaking at different levels
and differet tones,
none of which are endearing
or warm.
They seem jittery, nervous as best
fanatic at worst.

The ones in the circle are trying to make decisions
but it’s hard
because they’re frantic
and it’s difficult to agree with someone’s frantic.
But they try and the best they come up with
is directing their stones at
some other poor bastard.

They’re screaming now,
screaming that they’re in pain,
screaming to look at their pain,
they want people to see their pain,
and they don’t realize everyone can see it.

They must actually want something else.

I saw one person, she asked them what wrong
and they all stopped,
that poor girl,
they all stopped and piled their stones onto her,
piling their stones,
she tried to escape,
I watched,
but the stones came so fast,
she was buried
and they turned away as quickly
as they came,
after the last stone was placed neatly
and there was nothing more to cover,
except their own stones,
they stopped,
Went back to the circle
and began, again, a building wail
“Look at our pain” they screamed
“Look at our pain”.

I look around now,
those rock piles,
they have soft centers.
“Look at our pain” they screetch
with fire in their eyes
and rocks in their hands.

They’ve noticed me,
and are wondering why
I’m not screaming.

The first rock lands
and then another,

They’ve noticed me.

The Death Of Life

The problem with suicide apologists
is that they don’t take their own advice
and get confused amongst the
horror of the act and the loss and the pain.

This is their pain,
their experience
their ownership
of someone else’s choice.

This is the problem with suicide apologists,
perhaps the worst people,
even though they may not know it,
but they may,
but it doesn’t matter.

To mix together
your pain and your reason,
to bake a conclusion cake
as a trojan horse
like offering beer to an alcholic
or heroin to a junkie

Does it matter if they are in recovery?

These people are fat and have diabetes
and suicide apologists
offer chocolate cake
as if it’s medicine
or hope.

What is it that you think you know?

And have you ever considered
that it’s you’re “knowing”
that caused the person
to KILL THEMSELVES.
and now,
you continue to know
and to serve poison pills
disguised as sugar
to children
who look to you
for guidance
strength
and wholeness

And what you give them instead
is a vision of the warped
sickly world in your head.

The worst people take their perception
of other people’s pain
and make it their own,
and then try to force feed
it to you.

If you are a grown human
a mature human
you are equipped to deal
with this nonsense
with this attack.

If you are a child,
you are prone
to the weakness
being shared
as strength.

You do this.
You.
Suicide Apologists.

The ones who think giving up is strength
The ones who think giving up is bad
The ones who judge more harshly
The ones who should commit suicide

You take other people’s pain
make it your own
and forcefeed it to children
disguised as caring.

Suicide is the death of life.
The death of life is not heroic.
But it is a choice that everyone has.

My Head The Convent

I don’t really want to discuss it,
the need to understand
makes it very hard
to love you.

What does my life mean
if I figure out the answer.

Silly rabbit.

My experience of life
is that of a cloistered nun
my head the convent
I walk quietly
through neural pathways
of ancient stone
and believe what I find
and stay comfortable
and sane
with my hope

and when I say “sane”
what I mean
is

Dead.

Maybe…

My life is like a wisp
curling up and out
dancing for a moment
with the air around it
and then…
gone.

But when my fingers
are arranging pixels
and the coffee
sits, hot and strong
butt in chair
solid.

How can this be.

Such potential for non-existence
fleeting is the best I can hope for?

Maybe I am wrong about life

To hold on so tightly

What else do I hold on tightly to?

Is life the same as those things
and how does it work out
when I do hold on to other things?

For fuck’s sake…and love…

Maybe I am wrong.

Forgotten To Themselves

I am waiting

It’s not the right time

But really

I’m not ready

I like to be holed up

Warm and safe

Curled and blanketed

In my mind, body and soul

There is nothing wrong with this

But if there is suffering

The sufferer is making it wrong

And what happens when you make

A natural thing a wrong thing

What happens is a disconnection

A split like a canyon that starts

As a crack

Places meant to touch, no longer touch

Perhaps they still relate

Until the crack grows wider

And then the sufferer eventually forgets

The other side

Forgets they were once one

Forgets they had history

And there is nothing wrong with forgetting

But if there is suffering

A natural thing becomes wrong

And a crack forms

Before the canyon

We are full of cracks

And again

They’re is nothing wrong with being

Full of cracks

But if there is suffering

The sufferer will forget

And pretend as if they are

A sliver of themselves

The tiny sliver of their last

Forgetting

And as they sufferer

Their sliver becomes smaller

And thinner

And eventually

Their mind will shut down

Because it can no longer accept

The fantasy

And so the sufferer will become

Forgotten to themselves

And be lost.

Manhood

Boys talk about fighting.
Men fight.
A real man will not hurt another person
without having been hurt himself
and when he does hurt another
he will recognize the hurt he’s caused himself
and his family
and the world
and he will carry the hurt with him

Forever.

Boys talk about fighting
and nobility
and honor
as if they go together
rather than
being a tiny trickle
in a great ocean.

Honor is not angry
nobility is not strong
I’ve learned how to recognize
the boys,
as I’ve grown up myself
and left my boy, to walk with me

Behind.
Always a reminder and playmate,
Seldom the leader.

Boys, you boys, you silly boys,
there is nothing wrong with boys
the only problem is the monster
who strangles the boy
with the noose of his father.

Boys will be boys.
There is no escape,
because they must.
The only question is
who will step in,
not to proclaim boyhood
and point,
but to demonstrate manhood,
so the boys can find
the only way,

ever.

Music 3

When you want to listen to Amazing Grace,
because you’re being overcome by music,
traveling the canyons of your soul
remembering and becoming,

You listen to Whitney Houston cover it.

I am saved.
For the moment
and the moment is all there is,
and I am saved,
I am found.

Now I see.

Music 2

There are caverns in my soul
carved by the waters and winds
of my life
they are smooth, colored, deep

and old

Music is the walls of the caverns
the sides, bottom,
music is what’s been ground away
and what’s left
music is the different shades of browns
and purples.

I can visit these caverns,
so vast, they never leave me
they are made of what music is made of
and that is why I vibrate
when I listen,
and that is why I cry,
and that is why I realize
what I am.

Music.

Music

I don’t know if you write about music.
My son would say
“you ‘can’ write about it” and so you can.

But I’m not so sure.

But I want to pay attention to it.
I want to pay attention to the music
and the healing.
And this is how I pay attention.

Take me there,
thank you,
oh take me there,
oh thank you…
I’ve been gone for some time,
take me there,
oh, thank you, take me there.

I return, with you to my most famous
and worthy fantasy,
my father and mother,
my mothers breast
and soft hair
the touch and laughter of
my father,
the smell of freshly mowed grass
and soil in the forest
and the yelling of children
the glee
the water on it’s own way
I breathe
I breathe
I breathe

You Can't See Me

There is a part of me
that only wants to hug
and be hugged
to be warmly and forever
embraced.

There is a part of me
that basks in the emotional
glow of good feelings
of kind words
of percieved love.

I used to think there was soemthing wrong
with this part of me.
That this part of me
was weak or less or immature.

Now I see that this part of me
is natural
innocent
necessary
human.

And the part of me that is weak,
less
immature
is the part of me that
refuses acceptance.
It’s the part of me that
pretends that wanting comfort
is bad
and acts like a petulant child
when faced with
the desire or fullfilment of comfort
and the strategies of comfort.

Of course we need strategies
if we’re not honest
or mature enough to
accept our normal, human desires.
We need strategies
so we can sneak around ourselves
pretending we don’t see
or don’t know
making up the biggest story
of them all,

That we are somehow compartmentalized
that the filing cabinets of our mind
don’t exist within a greater
context that knows everything
that anything could be separate.
We believe we can hide things from ourselves
but really
we’re like the young child
little hands
covering little eyes,
saying…

“You can’t see me”.

Elan Mudrow

Smidgens

Bitter Gertrude

Blogging about Theatre and Culture since 2013

Engage!

Critical Dharma for Thinking Minds

Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha

Musings and books from a grunty overthinker

Josep Goded

Seeking Truth

LYNCH

:to put to death (as by hanging) by mob action without legal approval or permission

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