Up the PCH
Low tide and you can smell the ocean water
And on wide turns the sun
Jumps right into your eyes
And the women in bikinis sit on the
Hood of their cars
With sunbaked skin
And golden hair and
And incandescent are
The ways in which the
Sun turns everything
A shade more gold
Gets easier than the last
And the hardest
Part is no longer the letting go
The hardest part
Now is mustering up
There is no shortage of writers. Not in these modern times. And you’ll find that they come in all shapes and sizes – from the good to the bad and, every so often, the great. Forget the bad. Life’s too short to waste your time on the bad; reading the work of a bad writer is like reading the gibberish of a five year old – it’s only amusing if you are really drunk or high on a lot of heavy drugs. And even then it’s better not to waste a good high on the work of a bad writer.
So bad writers aside, we are left with the task of sifting through what remains – the good and the great writers. Not a bad place to find yourself.
But let me tell you, the difference between the good writers and the great writers is substantial. It’s the difference between getting a dry handjob in the backseat of a car or cumming inside of a girls mouth in the comforts of a soft bed.
And here’s how you’ll be able to differentiate between the two, between the good and the great – all great writers are poets.
And not a poet in the sense that they can string together a few words that rhyme. But a poet in the sense of what Rimbaud saw as a poet,
“The poet makes himself a seer by a long, immense, and reasoned derangement of all the senses. All forms of love, suffering, and madness – he explores himself, he tries out all the poisons on himself and keeps only their quintessences.”
The poet is a philosopher, an alchemist, a truth seeker and hellraiser; the poet is the Great Destroyer. They clear away the old and wipe false structures from the Earth, leaving a fertile ground for new ideas to take root. The poet is at the heart of all revolutions because the poet is an instigator and agitator; the poet will destroy worlds and you will revel in their destruction. There will be chaos and in the chaos you’ll find your freedom – and the poet loves chaos, finds truth in chaos, because what other men call chaos the poet calls truth, because the poet knows, once you stop trying to superimpose a false structure upon the universe, once you stop trying to enslave men to a doctrine of GREED and HATRED and FEAR, then you’ll have your freedom. A Freedom that our forefathers sold away years ago for comfort and security.
And this is the difference between the good writers and the great writers. It’s the difference between men and Gods. And not all men are ready to be Gods. And not all writers are poets. Hell, not all poets are poets – most poets are only cheap con men, small time hustlers skilled with the word. (Or emotional idiots whining about their bleeding heart. Beware these bastards! All they want to do is cut open a vein (or maybe an artery, depending on their mood) and bleed all over you.)
No, these types of writers, these so-called writers, are a different breed than the poet. They’re the happy servants laboring away, regurgitating the propaganda of their masters; churning out piles of shit, swimming in oceans of shit, all original thought drowning in shit.
Jesus Christ, man, if all that concerns you is your next paycheck and pleasing your masters, can you at least abandon the word for someone else and acquire a skill that contributes something to society besides an ocean of excrement?
The best thing to do, I’ve found, when you meet one of these son of a bitches, is to punch them in their mouth and let them taste their own blood. All animals react strangely when they have a mouthful of their own blood to dwell on.
So be careful out there. The clock is ticking. The hours are growing short. You’ll know the great writers, and the true poets, by the reactions that they stir within you. You’ll have strange thoughts. And these thoughts will delight you. All of a sudden the world won’t appear so small. And the shackles that bound you – shackles where before you saw none – won’t be as oppressive.
“The sufferings are enormous, but one has to be tough, one has to be born a poet, and I’ve come to realize I’m a poet.”
And the poet is God.
Sitting up in bed
Running to the toilet
Crawling back into bed
Staring at the
Ceiling in the dark
With no job
And no girl
Not even a single cigarette
And I can feel
The old feelings rising up and
Getting the better of me
And the old thoughts are
Wrestling with the new ones
And they are winning
– A. Ramirez
I’m a wolf