This poem will suck.

This poem will suck, this piece of prose, incomplete and incoherent.

This poem will not have any cute witticisms.

This poem will not pander to the masses.

It wont be weird, well maybe a little.

Hopefully this poem will strike a note, like a hammer striking space.

Sinter the primordial ooooze and distill a basic tenant, of life the universe and everything.

I hope that I can dive into the gestalt wrestle with the gods of archetypes, steal the secret words from Eno and make you think.

Question the things around you, take a ride on the magic wooohooo bus, and blow your mind while being fucked by the deity of your choice.

This poem will suck.

These words will not make sense when listened to, but I hope they will slap you at three am grab your privates and make you wonder things, like ….

Why are these rights self-evident?

Who are they?

Could sanity actually be a degree of conviction?

Then question the fundamental this-ness of that.

Think about the world around you.

Form relationships between religion, education, art, and popularity.

Realize that if there ever was a point, it was probably pointless to begin with.

Wonder at the theory that the more you try to be original, the more you look like everyone else trying to be original.

Make allegories to nature and life.

Use haikus that fart on 3,7,5 yet transcend multidimensional platitudes.

I guess I should start the actual poem, instead of dancing around it like a prick tease who’s just too beautiful to walk away from, “ I really want to, really I do, but I’m just not sure”.

But this poem will suck, so I will stop here.