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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476887" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Stupid, Stupid World Full Of Lies</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476887" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Stupid, stupid world full of lies, self-deceit, greed, <br>conspiratorial stinging nettles, leeching bills, vampiric, <br>cutting off the flow of things like tiger-mussels, <br>hillbilly hippies beating up their girlfriends on crack, <br>all these egotistic puff ball mushrooms with labial gills <br>mythically inflated by one night's good rain <br>into albino planets, people who have more keys to heaven <br>than they have locks on hell, abandoned school bells <br>that go on talking to themselves like wandering scholars <br>light years after the children grew old at their perennial recess<br>and the moths and the mice and the mildew <br>keep putting out books epilogues after everyone's <br>forgotten how to read the signs of their own decay.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476887" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Between the horns of the moon that's been thrown <br>like a goat skull into the wishing well of my heart, <br>roadie spiders string my harp for me like false eyelashes <br>in the green room, and the nerves of the mirrors <br>are shattered into the frayed deltas of the ropes of hope <br>endangered elephants are trying to climb up to heaven on.<br>The thin-skinned blissed-out gardenias of Maharajji<br>are wilting under the eyeshadow of their Mary K cosmetics <br>as their rainbows grow vicious as vegan dogs <br>in a spiritual junkyard of razorwire and foodchains <br>that have overextended their supply lines like the umbilical cords <br>of kites and puppets and angels on the strings of arachnids. <br>Too pure for me. I'd be afraid of getting myself on their floors. <br>Tracking starmud in from the mindstream I've been floating down <br>from one neuron to the next, one town to another, <br>like the new moon of an origami swan in a scenic calendar <br>of apocalyptic moments in the life of a hand grenade<br>people keep pulling on like the handle of an empty fridge. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476887" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Count me among the Andalusian vandals of the delinquent dragons <br>who keep writing obscene truths in lampblack and terza rima <br>on the walls where the flamethrowers post their prophecies.<br>I was born to burnish gold. I was born to dry the eyes <br>of weeping diamonds. I was born to wire the rainbow bridges <br>with satchel charges of fireflies and lightning for demolition<br>so everybody can learn to swim through stone<br>like glaciers to the other side of their polarized cataracts. <br>And whenever I look at a house of worship built on quicksand<br>I've got to laugh like an avalanche of meteors <br>at the self-serving lustrations of their pretentious extinctions<br>as the world blazes all around them like a halo of inflammable hairspray. <br>I've got holy wars of my own to go to that won't be disarmed <br>by the soft swords of their beeswax candles surrendering <br>to such a little flame of life at the tip of a limp wick<br>that trembles with every breath it takes like a feather in a furnace. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476887" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I see the mad dogs like arsonists with hydrophobia <br>frothing at the mouth for war, citing ancient conflagrations <br>from the burnt out scriptures of their sacred matchbooks <br>raving at the supernovas that ignore them like ingrown solar flares<br>that couldn't stand up to a drought, let alone a forest fire. <br>What good is inspiration if it hasn't got a detonator? <br>Or enlightenment if all it does is ignite a funeral pyre, <br>cremate a desire to live like a peer of the dynastic galaxies <br>you were born among with the silver spoon of a universe in your mouth<br>whether you use it to cook crack, take your medicine <br>like a human suffers an excruciating transformation, <br>or let the hummingbirds sip from it like syringes <br>flagging snakestongues of blood in celestial sugar water? </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476887" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">And all the warrior poets buffed like medicine bags <br>of talcum powder, and all the healers selling <br>batches of bad heroin like dealers to the high school kids <br>who used to steal their mother's oxycontin from the medicine chest <br>so they could rail the yellow brick road like roadkill.<br>All the vates, seers and shamans consulting <br>prophetic pundits and polls as the critics <br>repeal the fate of the artist before she's born, <br>cuckoos taking over the nests of better birds, <br>parasitic guests taking over the house of the host<br>as the journalists turn from objective observers <br>to political spiders weaving the webs they spin as the news<br>and the audience, breaking mutually consenting protocol<br>gets up on stage with Hamlet and turns a play into a talkshow<br>for the fifteen minutes of pop-tart celebrity left on their i-phones. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476887" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Originality that used to emanate from the roots up <br>like the light coming out of a dark universe <br>now seated like an air traffic controller in an orchard <br>like the wind assigning runways and instructions<br>on where to take off and land to a riot of blossoms <br>with pre-conceived flightpaths and well-known destinations. <br>Creative writing professors in the literary mills<br>grinding the grist for whole new generations <br>of mimetically enculturated oxen <br>to keep the wheels turning of a lucrative careers bank<br>that used to be the calling of the insanely inspired <br>too busy working in the visionary mines of their genius <br>looking for jewels of insight to waste their potential <br>on getting a job regurgitating words for baby pelicans, <br>masticating poetry into spiritual pulp fiction <br>or sipping them from other men's mouths as if <br>spit were the nectar of the muse they've never met.<br> <br>The real dragons, their spines lined with sundials, <br>really don't care how many chapbooks you've published in a year <br>nor how many times per capita you've mentioned butterflies<br>just to ensure your fan club you're still sensitive to beauty <br>or where you're reading next like a matchbook <br>burning in the valley of Tuwa or whether your chimney-spark <br>expiring under the stars is an inferno of unignited creosote <br>caked in your throat like a callous of black matter<br>or the ore of the braille alphabet blocks you throw <br>like snake eyes in dice playing your randomness off <br>against the lottery of your autobiography copied and pasted <br>like a colony of red army ants putting your books together <br>like a folio of butterfly wings perfectly bound for the ant heap.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a></strong></div>