Bad Word Doc Poetry

Wow. So, I found some awful, truly wretched poetry on my laptop from about 2009, maybe 2010. One poem is hilarious but pornographic so I ought not to share it. And there are actually a few salvageable lines in the file so I probably shouldn’t share the whole thing. That’s not self-plagiarism, that’s upcycling.

But I was kind of surprised by this one, so this one I’ll share. It’s got a line (in red below) that sounds an awful lot like one that turned up in The Museum of Us. It’s just always funny to me when you recognize your own verbal tics and intellectual hobby horses. I’m not sure why I’m so obsessed with what I guess you might call alienation from reality.

Also, the fear of all writers: I seriously, seriously hope that in 8 years I’m not as embarrassed by the writing I do now as I am of the writing I did 8 years ago. I thought I might take a stab at editing this and weaving it into something else, because at about 50% of the length it could be an interesting chunk of prose for another project. I like that image of a door really just being a window if you never go out, and I like the phrase gamboling lights. But yeah it’s pretty wretched otherwise, and we all have our juvenile efforts.


The Door

A pill is a door
and a door is a window
because I do not enter,
I only endeavor to see.
I want to see it moving:
the old static architecture
becomes gamboling lights
normally meaningless
now blazing like film.
I am addicted, yes, I am
full of wonder at these ghosts.
I can’t wait to see them
I want to be with them
constantly surrounded by their
long damp fingers.
If I know it is a drug
and I choose to lie here in the dust
never washing my hair
always half a mess towards death,
am I less than human then?
How does a man hold up
and watch everything he loves leave?
Watch the ghosts hold him
cold in his little world
like a jail cell in his winter mind.
If I know it is a drug
and I choose to watch myself die
spread naked here on the dusty floor
lost in my movies and my dreams
can I say I truly lived?
What is life at all without
the glossy pictures and sounds?
And where are those nowadays
except in the pills and vapors?

Am I still a man now?
Even now that I lie here and cry?
Open a door and escape, or maybe
just sleep until the light is gone.