A Ballad For Me When I am Old And Dead In London, a Life fanfic

I am so drunk as I write this. Very depressing. Don’t read this if you aren’t a fan of my stuff. Fuck don’t read it at all, it makes me shiver reading it now. Far too long, read it if you have time, or just read a paragraph now and then. An odd title for an odd poem. So fucked up… A proper epic. 8 pages, 13 pages when double lined spaced. Isn’t cool huh. Fictionpress fucked up my Stanzas again, I hate you, you need to drown in vomit Admin.

A ballad from the life to the death of me when I am old and dead in London.

The beginning of the end.

This a ballad never to be read

Words to be erased,

Just to be buried with me,

A paper on my coffin,

On that lonely hill,

With no mourners.

To find a home with the sightless maggots,

That do both eat mine and Hamlet’s flesh.

We go to be dined upon and not to dine.

Poor Shakespeare, time is a bitch.

How ironic!

Shut up.

Nothing is funny anymore.

Don’t you know God was laughing in Delight?

The day Ts Eliot and Shakespeare died.

The day I was born

Was the day that the world died.

The prophets screamed, the sinners cried.

The womb was disassembled from the core.

Baby to death, I will always be a bore.

My Eros is a conjuration of Thanatos.

Or maybe I’ve slept with too many corpses.

My tongue tastes of tasteless taste.

Sans, sans sans.

Sans the sans,

The eyes are gone they cannot be spectators.

I should take LDS

Or have,

I can’t remember,

It makes even the skinless smile!

Even the boneless dance.

Even the people with brains be cast into trance,

Dedicated by the beat of drums.

Those blissfully ignorant inducing club drums.

My veins all popped in one.

I let the finest things in life pour over me,

I’m like a glass

That people empty and drink out of.

Stop the metaphor,

Fracture me and eat the glass.

I’ve got an empty list of things I’ll do tomorrow.

And tomorrow, and tomorrow.

Signifying nothing.

I use the words poets have used before,

To describe a process poets have gone through before.

I’m so intelligent,

I’m aware of my limits.

Knock me out.

With a hammer,

This isn’t poetry,

It’s a fucking plea.

Help me,

Help me.

Take me to the moldy hops.

I took a swig from the urn of knowledge.

Ashes to ashes dust to dust.

Till we distill in that vodka bottle in the sky.

To feed the youth.

Thrilled to trauma

I can’t reason why.

The hand that rubbed over my forehead

In an attempt of a mimic of Marlin Brando in Apocalypse now.

Icons that are smothered in mud so they can’t light my way.

I put my hand in the cold water,

And passed boiling steam over it,

And a razor slid down my hand,

From God,

It symbolized nothing,

Don’t take this as a metaphor,

It just felt good.

Things can exist just because they feel good can’t they?

Feeling is rare,

Pain is good.

I sold my emotions for 2.99 on the stock market,

I deflated in value.

Till I was floated and sold out,

To another rich old man.

Meat can be purchased.

I will be purchased.

Canned.

And thrown away.

It doesn’t have to make sense.

Nod your head in a drunken sway.

Head, girls have long tongues.

Pornography,

Did I cast an image in your head?

Did I cast an image of a blonde giving head,

It’s a metaphor for life really.

All suck and no give.

We feel hollow on the inside.

And inadequate compared to the greased Greek gods

That strut my TV screen,

But James Freud said…

Freud said a lot of things, now he’s dead and rotten.

With a 7 inch penis. ..

If the head feels dense, your on the way to paradise.

Welcome to the stupor.

To the repetitive rhythms, that you have heard before.

The day our generation makes music,

Is the day music dies,

Alcohol weighs me down.

Smile,

Like a downed plane.

Hitting a tower, or two.

With a God that gave us life,

And then shows us how to die.

With passengers clawing at the windows in vain,

As they see a dead man’s view of the earth,

Happiness like the strychnine poisoned,

Smiles tattooed on their faces until they fragment on the earth.

Needles under my finger nails.

Office workers said hello to the great below.

As they used coats as wings,

To guide their way down to concrete heaven,

Urban ambrosia makes a mess.

Man’s inners diagramed out on the pavement stones.

A new coat of paint for New York city.

White Man’s blood.

The falling stanzas.

Pass your last years out on the stage

Tipping your eyes into a wine glass.

So they can’t stare at the ugliness around,

Blind.

Swilling chardonnay like Soma

Seeing a messiah through the whiskey glass.

Drugs are red in the candle light.

Forgetfulness is nature’s greatest gift,

Ignorance is truly bliss to the ignorant.

I was tied down to floor from birth,

Why even try to fly?

A bald head with a trendy hair style

And swinging hips that motion to the young girls,

With large tits.

And so red and luscious lips,

From short skirts

That would lift like an elevator with a glass of baileys,

Alcohol is virginities switch blade,

It jams it open and makes it fade,

They have abortion pills in hand,

With dead fetus’s in their pockets,

And wide and open legs,

Who fucking cares huh?

Who will one day be like me.

I could make her babies,

We’re like factories,

The young and old,

Trees that lose their leaves,

Fertilize them.

Death is life so say the young.

I’m too drunk to care.

If only her boyfriend weren’t so young.

She smiled at me the other day,

I looked down and fled away.

I was a failure from the cradle to the grave.

Worshipping the icons of those who have pasted

Desperate kingdoms of love are for the young.

I passed around with a Juliet so many years before,

She kissed me,

But Dawkin's logic stabbed her in the breast.

Love rolled around crying for a little while,

The died.

We have been called into death’s dream kingdom

In that last funeral bebop march.

With Johny Cash albums planted like palm leaves at my grave,

And the rest my dear dead play writes is silence.

The rebels sleep tonight.

And now the radicals are the staple of the industry.

James Dean is a movie star,

Johny Rotten got a knight hood from the queen.

Leather jackets are the new in thing.

There used to be an old cat who lurked about my windowsill

Yesterday through an acid trip I saw him run over by a truck,

He was purple, his blood was blue.

It meant nothing. True.

Pretty though.

How postmodernist!

I punched David Lynch in the face the other day.

He bled red blood.

He couldn’t question the why and the what that things seem.

Don’t you know everything was made for you and me

It all belongs to you and me.

Let’s look at what we made.

Fashioned from our greedy hands.

Industry, a city of industry.

It stinks of the dead

That burn in furnaces of money,

Smoldered dollar bills.

Catacombs of knotted skulls and bone.

The old cities that manifest themselves in the new.

And passed.

And the deaf that sing,

And the dead that breathe

Through the ruinous architecture of London.

Arches that guide us,

To barren sqaure and churches.

What are they now save tombs for God?

Burial mounds for faith.

Wandering through the galleries populated by the portraits made by dead artists.

A history that is made of rigor mortis.

A history that is nothing but a coffin’s breath against my skin.

I never had faith in love and music,

The end will be too fucking long.

Pete,

Fuck, I’ll never get to sleep with you,

You will dead soon.

Permanent housing.

Ts Eliot has a grave now don’t you know?

Oh you don’t?

Welcome to the future,

Where the graves of the past lay heavy on the cemetery ground.

Perched between the council estates,

And the suburban ways,

Under high trees

And low hills,

On this average landscape.

Fuck I don’t know,

I don’t know anything.

No one loves you like I love you.

You don’t love me.

Never been a better time to die,

Then right now!

So the travel companies tell me,

So the bombs in distance signal.

As I sit on your sofa and discuss the merits of him.

The demerits of her.

Impotence served,

In a spirit tumbler,

That tastes like nail polish,

Of a girl I used to love,

Until she found me to be boring.

Dependence chained me like a dog,

Or a base cur,

My petty addictions I lap up like water.

I can almost remember

When I fucked my girlfriend the other day,

Through the closed pupil of a heroin needle,

Dilated,

Flotation,

I floated on a sea of barbed wire dreams,

We died,

We fled away,

From your bourgeois breath,

That reeks of death.

And of Shakespeare,

You smell of all things that have failed.

I have never achieved anything I have wanted to.

And as I look through the kaleidoscope of years

I know I will look like you.

A child next to me,

Destined to out grow me,

Zeus nailed the his Titan father to the wall,

All of this has gone, and gone, and gone before.

Evolution kills us off for a reason don’t you know,

My will for life will be leached from me,

Out of breath,

Out of mind,

I fucked Thanatos last night,

That wasn’t a metaphor,

I fucked the corpse of a wife.

Her brains scooped were out with a brandy knife.

So many years ago.

All my heroes are dead

Cigarettes will take my hand and pass me to the grave.

Epic last requiems,

Ashamed last eulogies

Uttered from my empty liquor cupboard

And my weeping heroin stash.

Wedding ring to rusted to be saved.

Throw the decay into the fire,

And use the fumes to turn the wheels of industry

That trample the poor

Like slugs.

My addictions are my crutch,

Sold to me for damn cheap prices,

A Philosopher is blind against the execution wall,

The first kiss put me to sleep.

I have never been in love.

Save me with a numb gin glass

And a civil service job,

Who knows,

My body could be prime minister one day,

I’ll wait for time to pass by me,

It’s polite

I will not reach up and grasp in the twilight night.

The special moments that flea from the mediocre to the obsolete.

Like the bus I missed on my council estate,

It passed by me in a swirl

With my childhood friends waving at me,

Dismembered hands and all.

Things are grey these days,

Things got cold,

Things never fell apart,

They weren’t dramatic,

They just slid away,

And unstitched,

And slowly etched to ruin they molded down,

Until the wedding march turned to the funeral Dirge,

And the cakes were buried meats.

I cough out memorial flowers,

In a cocaine hue.

Bleeding from my nose in the spinning eyeballs of perception.

Plato is dead don't you know?

No, I don't know where he lives now.

The last rites.

Life is very long,

Alcohol and heroin is a grease or lubricant

To ease my way in the a sliding tunnel

The blind turns,

Twisting over itself,

With closed exits

To a warm damp grave,

I embrace oblivion everyday in my whiskey tumbler,

To nestle in it,

Rest my head against a pillow,

And forget how you looked at me.

Disgust.

To swim in the dirt,

Squirm and dematerialize.

Take me to the old cemetery gates

That welcome so many new inhabitants through them

That never leave,

Those gates are the apex to life,

That final purpose made metal.

That cold wet decay that seeps into flesh.

Toffees that become liquid.

And Are chewed by greedy fat men.

I’ll be thankful not to think,

I breezed through pleasure on a bloody cross of strife.

I wasted my life, why should I want an after life?