# The Score



## egodeath (Oct 27, 2008)

The Score

I have seen through sleepless eyes the greatest transgressions of our generation,
Our corruption so hopelessly jokingly intertwined with salvation staring vacantly down long empty back alleys,
sitting cross-legged dharma Buddha spinning helicopters, meditating, praying, screaming, howling for forgiveness when, really, none if it was so bad at all,
Tripping balls on bad LSD or mushrooms, smoking pot, hallucinating, horrified, dumbfounded and lost,
Looking for answers to psychotic riddles rhymed by mimes,
But mostly reveling in harmony, good music (rock or jazz?), calming a crying Demeter who?d lost Persephone only very recently,
And listened to a certain bespectacled old man with crows feet and gray hair and nothing much to say,
who preached to me a certain way of life and told me to find Jesus and wrote out prescriptions for alprazolam, lorazepam, clonazepam which did the trick and quelled the anxiety, rising like a furious tide and railing against injustice and time,
And felt the bitter hope turn to snarling lips on rabid dogs beaten down by crooked cops in Long Island drag races, too much to drink, but driving, outrunning sunrise in four states at 120 miles an hour, pedal on the floor, nothing but gasoline and amphetamines keeping us going,
And smelled the rotting corpses of dreams trapped in brain-dead sycophants in offices on 55 Broadway, cup of coffee, lunch break,
And tasted the soured milk of honey bees who, fed up with Her Majesty, harikri-ed with razor sharp smiles plastered across bruised and bleeding faces, sitting on train tracks, pretending to be doused with gasoline, but really waiting to rape and pillage when the tables turned and all was made even.
Satan swam with me across the Hudson (and out of that hell infested with sin) where I bought some good weed from a friend?s friend who loved me briefly and talked to me sweetly and we went to the park to drink at night with bums begging for crumbs, really wanting a buck to trade for vice?dice or whores or junk,
The best of us, the worst of us hurting inside, longing for a cigarette or a hit or a fuck, some sort of fix,
Recounting good blowjobs from sluts with grimy cunts and ecstasy on XTC and crazy conversations with strangers about cocaine and snakes.
I told angels my story and suffered their fury, fire and brimstone, broke hell?s gates, rang bells, danced angrily, shrugged off horny suitors, flashed back to New York for a cheap slice of pepperoni pizza made by a Mexican missing an eye,
who was really Nicaraguan and told me that patience was key and I laughed at him, but we shared a joint out back and he told me where to buy decent smack, which was quite decent of him, 
and so began my quick descent, plumes of smoke my parachute, hot tinfoil, vaporized pleasure, pounding heart.
The sight of the scale is too much for me and I?m too tired or confused or lonely to add up the score,
waking up sore and hung-over and hungry only to realize that last night was nonsense and finding a manuscript of absurdities, realizing my insanity and celebrating because at least I?ll never be bored.
Can?t sleep without benadryl any more?blood lusting vampires see to that?and can?t wake up with out dexedrine, and caffeine and cigarettes, of course, couldn?t have done it without God, who broke a sacred pact and abandoned me as a babe somewhere on the wind-swept cratered moon.


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## Conjurus (Oct 25, 2008)

Constructive Criticism:

I initially didn't want to read it because it's not organized so well- maybe try arranging it in a way that's easier to read. Actually it's pretty easy to read still, but it's just kind of an eye-sore the way it's arranged.

I liked it- I liked the progression of the words and the wording itself. My only other criticism is it sounds like one big run-on sentence (contrasting my style of sentence, sentence, sentence, sentence, and just seeming pretty choppy). I'd say a half/half combo of your style and my style would be perfect. 

Oh and I can identify with the 120 mph across 4 states, except I did 140 across 3 :mrgreen:


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## Guest (Mar 29, 2009)

Whether it was intentional or not I kinda like the disorganisation of it, it just fits with the sentiment and "discard" of the whole thing. It kinda reminds me of the ramblings of a crazy old saint branded a fool and seemingly talking nonsensical wisdom where there is method in the madness and surrender to the chaos. It's disorganised like life is. Its raw and real and I like it. Maybe that's just what I get from it..we all get different things from others poems.


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## egodeath (Oct 27, 2008)

As to the physical layout, it was originally much more organized in MS Word, but this forum doesn't like it when you copy and paste and it was way too late for me to edit it. It is kind of a rambling sentence; I wrote it on a whim after reading Allen Ginsberg's _Howl_. Thanks Lyns, I like to think it's gritty, raw, that sort of thing.


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## Conjurus (Oct 25, 2008)

Note pad works well


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