eat nothing but teeth. keep thoughts locked deep beneath, doe eyes stained with lack of sleep, and wait for the inertia creep, of the angel-headed, ones-you-dreaded, loser fucks because they said-it, wasn’t over, six-leaf clover. keep these thoughts from spilling over. take them back, and close the door, touch yourself on the cement floor. burnt-bulb flash, get paid in cash. your body, a used-car that you crashed, into the center divider, at heart, you’re a fighter. so draw in your fists, with your weak-morning wrists, step back to the street. i eat nothing but teeth.

kriskidd

everybody is sleeping with the caged animals. give me religious relevancy. bruised lips, bottle sips. sobriety broken before three in the afternoon. do you know what i’m saying? give me a black-out tendency. too pretty to die. too fucking crazy to keep breathing. and everybody is fucking with the caged animals. this is every day of my life. jaw broken, soft spoken. give me sexual deviancy. give me a little bit more. for a little bit less. do you know what i’m saying? think twice, same price. i’m right, you’re wrong. and everybody is killing the caged animals. give.it.to.me.

kriskidd

Many people hear voices when no one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up in rooms where they stare at the walls all day. Others are called writers and they do pretty much the same thing.

Meg Chittenden

You are a victim of the rules you live by

I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of ‘em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and to all living creatures.

Jack Kerouac (The Dharma Bums)

There are four questions of value in life… What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for, and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. Only love.

Johnny Depp

Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The trouble-makers. The round heads in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules, and they have no respect for the status-quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify, or vilify them. But the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do.

Jack Kerouac

Writing sustains me. But wouldn’t it be more accurate to say that it sustains this kind of life? Which does not, of course, mean that my life is any better when I don’t write. On the contrary, at such times it is far worse, wholly unbearable, and inevitably ends in madness. This is, of course, only on the assumption that I am a writer even when I don’t write – which is indeed the case; and a non-writing writer is, in fact, a monster courting insanity.

Franz Kafka (The Basic Kafka)

Until the philosophy which holds one race superior and another inferior is finally and permanently discredited and abandoned, everywhere is war and until there are no longer first-class and second-class citizens of any nation, until the color of a man’s skin is of no more significance than the color of his eyes. And until the basic human rights are equally guaranteed to all without regard to race, there is war. And until that day, the dream of lasting peace, world citizenship, rule of international morality, will remain but a fleeting illusion to be pursued, but never attained… now everywhere is war.

Haille Sellassie/Bob Marley

~I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz. (Howl)

~Fortunately art is a community effort - a small but select community living in a spiritualized world endeavoring to interpret the wars and the solitudes of the flesh.

~Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It’s that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that’s what the poet does.

Allen Ginsberg