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Soul Ink Poetry Cartel

long lost friend come
home to me at least a pome
for loneliness



Pomes from the Darkness
Oldies - AM 1993
The No Name Tavern
Q and A with Terribly Interesting Wisconsinites
Highly Twisted Artistic Opinions
Ooohh... Pretty Pictures
Meet Mr. Onion-head
For the Love of God Write to Us!
The Dungeon
Read This Or Else!

Space Background 2


madness exists in all of us -
do not fear it.
sanctity dwells as well
in our innermost being.

steep yourself in madness,
let the spores swell and burst
they will blossom
and thank you for it.

madness is a drug
we all need
we must never
withdraw from it.



she is grace, unretouched
she is light
she is love.
she is soft and warm,
she is rock and sand
she is
what she never thought
she could be.

she has shattered
the rose-colored mirror
and sees beyond to the gray
that is truth and life.
she sees it is okay
to be something different
than ideal...
she is beauty
walking on,
no longer crawling.
breathing, not gasping
loving, not pretending
becoming not denying
she is -
she is glory.

glory, finally,
she is.



the sweep of snow
celebrates itself
and i cower from it.

the meat of winter
is salt
and i thirst
for elixers that do not
yet exist.

the sweep of snow
mocks me
i enter it
i stumble blindly
through the white
with no broom.



escalator to the sun:
drained body rests on a stained
linoleum floor,
has not the energy to despair.
keg of beer next to him
stands a monument to last night's
chaos, the mushroom is shrinking
inside him but yet
magnified eyes creep about the room,
stopping on the shadows that loom -
quiver, shadows move.
a dawn of realization blooms
in his gut, eyes rise

escalator to the sun:
body stasis, eyes fluid,
waterfall rises
to a window blind
bright light fractured
ladder steps of yellow hair pull him
out of his body, melt through
atmospheric window -
all creaky sensations cease,
riding the escalator to the sun
he stares in wonder that he is alive.
warmth, light, permeating hollow body
wafting, drifting, forward upward creeping

escalator to the sun:
ethereal form drifts
through the prison bars -
floating on to new doors of perception.




- where have all the good words gone?
- the thick ones, dripping with meaning.
- the pregnant ones, delivering thoughts -
- i am left alone with hollow words...

lunacy as i search for inspiration,
perspiration soaks me in futility.

- my pen is mute
- i am drowning
in my own impotent soup
of dashed creativity.

slash the silence -
rage with violence -
I ache to break free
from this horrible silence!

repent / wait
learn to relent
and suffer the trial
of uninspired.

GJK / ddr

Every Waking Moment

Every waking moment I dream and drift
searching for a gift I can give
the world.

Every waking moment I spend all my thrift
buying precious time to hold on to,
buying serene scenes of life.

Every waking moment I lend all I have
to friends that are ghosts, I boast
of owning nothing man-made.

Every waking moment I send all that I am
outside myself, I set my self free
to the winds.

Every waking moment I dream and drift
searching for a day that will never end,
a day of pure bliss.

I know I will never find this...
I know the days I sift
are all the same, full of toil and pain,
full of heartache and disappointment,
full of hope and joy and peace and
irrepressible happiness...

Still I search for a gift I can give,
still I search for a deeper meaning
to the life I live...

Still I search for that perfect bliss
every waking moment.



i've got coffee grounds
grinding in my veins.
i've got tea bags
soaked and swelled with pain.
i've got calenders full
of days gone by in vain,
the windowpane of my life
is streaked and chipped
and dipped in obscuring paint.

there are holes in my life-quilt,
there are patterns of self-abuse
i can't seem to lose.

i've got coffee grounds
grinding in my veins.
i've got tea bags
wet with my own stains.
i've got trashcans full
of empty beer bottles,
amphetamine residue
and spent prescriptions...
i've got a mind to break
the windowpane and all
its ugliness.

there are revolutions in my history,
wars against myself
i always seem to lose.

i've got coffee grounds
grinding in my veins,
maybe today i'll purge
the anxious urge to self-destruct
and spend some time mending
this tattered quilt.


Smoking Utopia

"Are we gettin' somethin' outta this
all-encompassing trip?" Vedder asks.

Forgive yourself to live -
Do things you think will gratify
Satisfy, grow, learn, unlearn,
Play harmonica,
Draw pictures of plants,
be man woman live.
Smoke grass
Be a vegan

Be known, and know.

Modestly we play our roles
Built for us
By the culture -
We prevent from rotting
By persistent recompense -
Repay debts not ours,
Pay for wars enlarged by
Unmoving aristocracies.

Create your own kind world
And share with those who care
The utopia you smoke
As you eat and beat drums
At dawn on the lake's edge.



cloud-white lace blanket
descends upon
the mist-shrouded earth,
the mighty lake
peers up and seethes
against the shore
spraying on the rocks
launching molecules skyward,
attempting to meet their
sky-bound kin;
cloud-mists congregating,
attempting to drop upon
their brothers
in the lake.



the two of us we are
a binary star -
visibly seperate
yet desperately dependant
and connected.

gravity is the law
that creates the awesome
phenomenon that we are -
combustion the force
that drives the light of our love
into the cosmos.

like a binary star
the two of us are
a beacon of love
in a chaotic universe -
a beacon of peace
in a swirl of decadence.

hydrogen fuels
the reaction of our
dual spheres,
hydrogen fuels the fire
that has shined for eons
and will shine for eons more.

the death of one
will be the death of the other
the two of us we are
a binary star.



and defiled
naked in the street.
glass shards underfoot.

stoic glare in green eyes
purple light of streetlamp
glows pale skin
vampirish grin
the focal point
of this cartoon sin.

orgy of senses
loss of all defences
naked in the street
raging on concrete
with bloodied feet.

riddle of fate,
blood red pool spreading
cells naked
in the street.



This is not an ivory tower.
This is a tower for the masses,
a tower for ditch-diggers and mechanics,
waitresses and truck drivers, blues musicians
and self-made artisans.
This is a tower of heroes.