The fifth episode to my podcast aired today and, like all the other episodes, I was very happy with how it came out. I discussed a wide range of topics, such as individuality, spirituality, the outlaw’s war with life, the need to be combative with authority, Nietzschean philosophy, my own personal war with existence, mother nature and the existential necessity for lack of safety in pursuing enlightenment. All of this stems from a poem I wrote titled “Rotten Man’s Throne” from my first book, Rotten Man’s Throne…you can find a link to purchase it here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08541HSXH/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_9YMTS5FE2QA6D2CB04VX)
Poem and link to video included below:
Rotten Man’s Throne
Been living too long in this wild, wicked world, With matters of mayhem and black flags unfurled. Two decades of doldrums and dark, dog days too, Concealing confessions, I think I owe you a few. Been waiting too long, desperate to postpone, As I’m earning my spot on the rotten man’s Throne.
The words that I ramble and put down on paper, With each shot of bourbon all reason will taper; And what I write, every rhyme scheme off kilter, Smoking every cigarette down to the filter. Nothing to do, a true poet’s always alone, As I’m earning my spot on the rotten man’s throne.
You see me, I’ve got a style all my own, In this wicked world I’ve got a style to hone; Tough to dress for success in a world on the brink, And the people you meet will just drive you to drink. Because this wicked world tends to bare all your bones As I’m earning my spot on the rotten man’s throne.
Burning out my eyes staring into the sun, After decades of doldrums too tired to run. I will recline, relax, and refuse to respond, I’ll ignore the wicked world until dawn has dawned But now, night never ends, suppose I should have known, As I’ve been earning my spot on the rotten man’s throne.
Been living too long in this wild, wicked world, With matters of mayhem and black flags unfurled. Two decades of doldrums and dark dog days too, Concealing confessions, I think I owe you a few. Been waiting too long, desperate to postpone As I’m earning my spot on the rotten man’s throne.
The third episode to my podcast aired today and, like the introductory episode, I was very happy with how it came out. I discussed a wide range of topics, such as the family structure, spirituality, the war of life, love, my own personal family and the existential need to fight for beauty. All of this stems from a poem I wrote titled “The Savage Storm” from my first book, Rotten Man’s Throne…you can find a link to purchase it here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08541HSXH/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_9YMTS5FE2QA6D2CB04VX)
Link to the video included below, please subscribe to my channel and tell me what you think:
From the warmth of his home, he critiques the world, In his mind he’s a martyr, his black flag’s unfurled, He votes with his passion, his news sources he reads Not knowing these monsters seek to shatter his knees! In bed with the monsters, the serpent of envy and greed, That demonic leviathan to him it still lies and it pleads, By indulging his fears and his pity his empathy is seized And engage with his sympathy to spread its disease! For each day’s a battle, in some book each day is wrote And for those who defy this, their armies go up in smoke.
It is him who I shall watch and it’s at him I shall stare For whose existence is resisted will decay in despair, To resist life is pointless and this nihilism is terrible to grasp So that fallacy becomes the cocoon of a fabricated mask! He who is sickened by everything that knows chaos and strife Forgets that what batters down walls will hone down his knife! So accept the violence and chaos, man, don’t shy from life And know that life is a war, man, please engage in the fight, Whether in battle with gloves on or at your table to write! For each day’s a battle, in some book each day is wrote And for those who defy this, their armies go up in smoke.
The Bum’s Lament is a series of poems I had written while languishing in a crappy studio apartment, no money in my bank account, no job, engulfed in depression and nihilism and bathed in alcohol and cigarette smoke. This book is an early attempt of mine to explore my own suffering and, in doing so, strives to understand the suffering of all of humanity throughout the finitude of the human lifespan. I was attending school at the time of this writing, a local community college, and was stricken by the lack of depth in analysis which the classroom setting could produce. My life previous, and my current life as well, exposed me to the dark pit that is the natural universe and, unlike my peers, the surface scratching that the modern academic setting yielded to me no recourse to understanding. This book likely will do no better, however, it is a genuine attempt with nothing held back.
The real introduction to my podcast Bourbon, Cigarettes and Syllables aired today! Link included below. Let me know what you think. Criticism and suggestions will be greatly appreciated!
Every Wednesday here after Ill be posting a video where I’ll be discussing the topics talked about today in the introductory video. Primarily boxing, poetry and meaning in a nihilistic world along with many other topics. Watch subscribe and comment please!
Seeds that which from heaven fell Have all now grown tall and Blossomed red like flames of hell,
Blue buds blossom in hot red cinders, Expand to meter wide maws Of spiraling fangs and thorny fingers!-
They yawn, savage snarls to the heavens. Thick stems grow miles high and Ooze sweet smelling sludge which beckons!-
Prey as they approach in a tentative fashion, Fragrant pheromones, chromatic colors Feign the mercy of a nurturant mothers passion
And thorns, dark razor predator’s talons, These dagger’s dense honed edges Like savage claws of gallant onix dragons!-
Are hidden from view in a pretense of virtue, Shielding prey in secure arching maws As stems assume a guise of a sentinel statue!
Then, in their horrid hunger, their friendly facade fades, Terrible thorns collapse in a crushing embrace And their prey is shredded! By onix blades they’re flayed!
A trusting beast has perished by maddend masses Of the fierce and gluttonous flora Consuming those creatures so pathologically passive!-
For miles and miles these maws traverse, Smothering landscapes in death, Petals wilt as a poisonous pollen disperse.
Recline back now Watching the fish swim in the sky Splash me with water Then dry up, choke and die. Falling from the heavens I watch them as they sail Shriveled buggers As the friction burns their scales. And you know that makes me so sad I’m lonely, wanted to hang, They didn’t seem bad. But when they made it, falling in fast Straight down to me They were nothing but ash.
There’s a house at the end of the street where All the little ghouls collude to meet and, In plumes of smoke and cigarette ash, they Invade the solace of a forgotten past. Where All window panes are thoroughly smashed by By wonton bottles of boozy glass And the drywall bursts in thick sullen clouds of the White plaster shrouds of those thrashes, so loud! . These white plaster shrouds precipitating down On scratched oak floors anticipating the sounds, Of the words to be spoken and pentagrams drawn In the black hope of inciting a terrible dawn! Here the ghouls all read the Book of the Law And call the basement below “the Hungry Black Maw” and Scamper on down engulfed by the sound of the Steps below creaking, in tremors they’re bound! As below the cob webs of many a year are Imagined to them the apex of fear! In the dark Below, in all superb drear, the ghouls surround In a worshiping pose, a sight so queer in tranquil repose! The skeletal remains of the man of the house, now quiet And still but with a lesson espoused! For the man in shambles In the darkness below had died as he lived And bitterly so!
While all around the protests scream, Wood signs swing in thick fog of mace, A murderous mob’s collective fangs gleam Upon a single, mangled, stupid face. Fires ravage a business built by many a year, In minutes eaten, blackened from within; In one Body, no single Cell harbors fear, Nor does a single Cell bear collective sin.
No one Cell gathers any guilt from the smoke, Just a collective Body warmed happily by heat, While pests within structures flee and choke And amass upon the carnage of the street. In tribal masks the Cells upon pavement dance Upon these streets in a primitive display. Around the fires their Body’s Shaman prance As the infidel contagion look on in stark dismay.
