Dead Souls have abused this living syndrome of illumination.
I said. Gogol, my apologies. You went insane for nothing.
We live in a Modernist time, where creativity has been
Sacrificed for convenience and conformity.
Dostoevsky opened his soul to a bullet. Just to have language
Mutinied. To rhyme
Mind with Kind. But I guess it’s all
“Art.” In defense of Dead Souls.
Anaïs Nin, my apologies.
I understand the burden of Un-Lady-Like.
But do I? This is a day & age where
50 Shades are Gray. Not black. Not sex.
Sylvia Plath, my apologies.
I understand the descriptions of peril
Kept you here a little longer than you desired.
But do I? With such contemporaries as Katy Perry & Taylor Swift.
That’s considered Confessional, now.
It’s nothing more than a commercial for the mundane.
From the origins of Beowulf,
To the Free Verse of the King James Bible.
All the banned ramblings of:
Miller, Burroughs, Vidal and Ginsberg.
All the censored love of:
Whitman, Pound, Hemingway, Sexton and Atwood.
Ah, but Shakespeare was a drunk.
“Sic semper tyrannis.”
But he had to keep himself intoxicated
Because alcohol was cheaper than food.
When Drake writes of the “bottom.”
But spends thousands on champagne.
But he’s a poet.
…He’s a poet.
And I am just an opinionated clock.
Wrinkling away the numbers
This is all for NOTHING.
Art is deader than God.