Virginia Woolf in Fragments

today i heard a british transcendetnalist speak her mind
to a homeless man in the San Francisco Public Library
the only thing i could gather is that her mind was a mess
she spoke in ridiculous fragments
the bum asked her who Virginia Woolf was
she said, "just a woman with words."
"Who the fuck is Mrs. Dalloway's problem?" the bum says
"oh nothing she's just alive, that's all." she said fragmentally

the bum talked about how the only things he read
were the bible, the koran and sometimes he'd read Camus
and yates and sartre, but he has only read No Exit once apparently
she said "oh you're an existentialist, then!" so excited
he said, "no, I just think Camus is a great story teller."
"it's a bit depressing don't you think?" she condescended
he said he didn't think so, not understanding what she meant

he asked if the black kid next to him knew what a "google" was
while the transcendentalist british reader and fragmentally cognitive woman
sat there and read and talked about "To The Lighthouse" like it was the bible
she spoke of God as an oppressive father figure, she would sternly demand
that she didn't need a father figure to tell her what "truth" was
then the bum and the british woman went out for a drink
and then they fucked until 3am
never again did they talk about Virginia Woolf.

What is This Mess?

i don't know, he says
slipping one last time
trying to reach for something golden
but it wasn't there
but he continues to
argue about the afterlife
and books and music
and art and food
literature and existantialism
like it really matters
what one says in their darkest moments

most people cling to meaning
some people to youth
some people still;
believe that youth is meaningful
and that age is worthless
that life was better
in the young mind
that we used to inhabit

but when we cradle our filth
day after day
in words and in habits
and in our terrible deeds
and our manipulative mannerisms
it gives way to what we could have been
but will never be

Your Apocalypse

sometimes it's beautiful
when the sun hits the bay
just at the right time
with the right speed
with just the right amount
of arrogance and pity
on this beautiful city
that wreaks of shit
piss and cum

the reality of the beauty
is that it is being built
on the backs of
paxil and prozac
filled artists who are
in a desperate stroke of
their own will
are trying to
never be sad again

but not me
i've officially embraced
the unthinkable truth
the deep decay of my soul
that has been wrought
upon the earth
where i spit my curses
and my limited blessings
but believe the sarcastic
wit that is flung from my throat
as the critic wails
in passive relief
that the surrounding city blocks
would ultimately
swallow me up
in it's cervix

then there's this sexual
dialect that is wasting away
on the tongue that has ruined everything
but i don't speak lightly
of the damage
no, i believe in it
i relish in the desire
to cure this wickedness
with a shovel
and pure sweat
the books and their authors
say that it just can't be done
the shovel breaks
and the sweat dries itself
in the heat

then the toxins of my past
rise up in an angry mesh
of lust and fucking disgusting
filth in the form of a
one way dialogue with
the man who gave me
my first birth
that is now rendered
meaningless by the free gift
but yet you throw it in my face
with your declarations of false
humility in the face of the sweat
that never hit your brow
and the shovel that you've never picked up
and the curses that you have spit upon me
every day of my ecclesiastical
meaningless life

oh yes you have given it to me
but you can never take it away
you will never lift a finger
because your useless bones
now creak with the reality of your
age and the altruisms
that gave way when you gave them away

yes, you've got these words that you say
and we're all supposed to eat gladly
but you will meet the fucking grave
and no one will bat an eye
because all of the people
that you have massacred
with your pain
will have gladly
forgotten all about
you