Eat Your Heart Out
December 2011
I have always had a rich full fun life.
Everything comes easy to me.
I don’t care about being
Respectable
or so “successful”,
or acceptable
beyond this inner flesh.
I surrender to play and to life.
Everything comes so far
into juicy bits
of extraordinary supernatural modality
of relationship dynamics upon my word.
I know this is not what to say
if you want to be included in
the addressing Fields
of dazzling whiteness
over oils of press and applause.
They want victims
suffering against overwhelming odds
of the temptation
to editorialize
defeat to survive barely,
waiting to take possession
of these annoying
medical monsters of yokes
of repression…
A special freak
who came to replace
the control box
by profound attention
and ordeal of extraordinary dimensions
bearing upon big terms of
keeping with heavy leaden gray deceptive dawn
between the tempest
and this dreadful nightmare of repression.
Of course you can’t do it,
they say.
He
[me]
is special
with courage,
strength surmounted all obstacles
being mauled by isolation
resulting from between physical problems…
And abilities of luck…
All of which you
and most people
unhappy don’t have.
He
[me]
is special exception
that proves the extreme point of
hopelessness,
helplessness
appalling disaster
which imprison everybody
without any possible alternatives.
They push this shit!
I am always able to handle anything,
having fun
in the freedom
of not knowing
what is impossible.
My dreams are melting
into juicy molten
every day activities just as
people who thought I was Jewish!
I surrender to play and to life.
Everything comes so easy!
Yes, it is hard work sometimes.
But I have come out
of the extreme edge
of things
in my wheelchair
addressing similar circumstances.
Escape from whatever
between us and fun!
They want you to think
you got it
better than me,
somebody,
anybody!
You ain’t got shit!
But at least you ain’t
a victim
of cerebral palsy for life,
suffering with cerebral palsy.
At least you ain’t confined to a wheelchair!
At least you can walk,
talk,
feed yourself,
wipe your own asshole
in the way God tends you to do!
At least you can play football
until you break your neck
playing football!
Then…
Oh, well…
At least
you ain’t
a nigger
or a woman,
or a fag!
Reporters scramble everything up.
They don’t use their souls,
their formidable pricking eyes.
They see a wheelchair
and they write
suffering victim
of cerebral palsy
confined to a wheelchair
and is ninety eight percent disabled
with no body control…
Oh yes he saw a murder!
Reporters are brainwashed.
They have only filter tip eyes!
They see me dancing,
playing piano
smothering the piece
of pounding
lustily on the keys
with vehemence and whatever else,
painting those unknown sights
in oils by Jackson Pollock physical ritualism
of direct engagement
with my whole body control of the paint
with my head,
seeing me
feeling up
right up
her inner flesh with style and aim…
And they conclude
and report
I am paralyzed,
stiffened under the bottom
of no movements
or control
or bodily feelings
and am
ninety eight percent disabled,
helpless,
vulnerable,
hopeless fizzle.
And you depend upon them
for the clear ultimate vision
of direct experiencing
of observation of objectivity!
I suppose
I could even paint
if I was Jewish paralyzed.
But I would have to come up
with a difficult style and techniques
which involve the necessity
of deferring to explore
my luck
and whatever
between physical touch
and the one more reckless effort
to free any particular color.
But the brainwashed plot
is so complete
that some playmates
who had romp with me
flexuosity
and yum
yum
yum
have then bought
that empty press surrebuttal
of my Body of Christ.
I told you so, folks.
I obviously wasn’t meant
for the control
of what is possible!
Poetry of truffles
and Champagne
and yum
yum of philosophy,
humor among various gangland serfs
and behind the curtain of fog
and romantic shit
about how boring it
was to build
upon communicating
even before speaking.
The margins exclude
almost entirely most of everything
which is noncommercial,
uncensored,
unconscious,
unexpected
original Files
under the command of Bruni d’Entrecasteaux,
ignoring such bestial-looking creatures
like you and me.
Also he gave me shit
about getting deeper
into the ultimate midst
of the arousing desire
of magical colors
disappeared from humanity
and love
with wide open legs
thrust into bed
after eating
the contents of folly!
But wisdom
which may be able to procure fresh meat
for everybody here
is what I am looking for!
From the book, Skin Passion by Frank Moore:
https://www.eroplay.com/skinpassion/index.html
