the writing of john scott ridgway and his mental demons -- gilford tuttle, white male christian, and johnny pain -- punk serial killer with a penchant for vegetible molestation.
complete CRUSADE OF PAIN now back at the psycho killer's shit list
Published on February 23, 2007 By Gilford Tuttle In Philosophy
AFTER ALL THE YEARS FREAKING OUT

ABOUT BEING DIDACTIC!!!

can't be another hitler
in those dark shades
that bleed away all the color
reduce these visions to black and white

I post-modern man all wary
staying away from drawing lines in the sand
or declaring anything permanent
for any length of time

refusing
to be a judge
in a court
of impossible standards

I oblivous stoic going thru my mundane day
MONKED AWAY from the masses
telling no one what I do
learning to listen
fishing for words
unknowingly illumating pages of my most sacred text

winning a little
finally
some days

in the bitter bloody war with ennui

no longer suspecting
there is more than is dreamt of in our philosophy

i am walking quietly along the waterline at the beach
behind out of nowhere
where there is no one
A SUCKER PUNCH !!!
BAM!!
RIGHT TEMPLE!!

STAGGERING

ain't
NOTHING
i can do
but
CLOSE MY EYES
accept the swoon

GO WITH THE FALL

i just seem to know
i CAN'T LOOK at MY ATTACKER
without dying

standing in the center
of an awesome crash
of lightening bolts
thousands
zig-zagging crazily down
out of the blue sky
striking
to manifest

a horrifying creature
of SAVAGE GRACE


a master traveler
looking out at me

A BEING FROM CREATION

KNOW
the rough beast's*
time has come round
at last at last
there was no slouch
this creature stood tall and proud



my body became as dead to those around me
my thoughts blown wondrously throughout time and space


My name disappears from my head

I sense
the creature
does this
to tell me
it too
is seeking a name



i sensed
i would
have died
had it wanted

from then on my Pain seemed carefully measured
as if the creature
were only hurting me enough to drive me
mad enough
for the undreamt mission



gone baby gone for days
lost from body and soul
a corpse never so alive
they great they called THE COSMIC STING a seizure

keep me strapped down and drugged out

takes days and days to fully identify the obviously fictional
in my charged and cautious and exuberant
dream of dreaming


crawling back up into myself
I find I am filled with sensations of the sacred
dreaming of cosmic order


I worry my cravings for peace
are the residuals of a bout with mad
something the new med.'s
will push out of my head in a few weeks

maybe some mentat* chain will break and I'll write
my happy sappy
got over the depression
post-treatment tract


fret what if I am going to crash
and wake up baffled
by how I was ever
stupid and deluded enough
to put my faith
back in this system

hope
is the last thing we expect
to find in a voting booth
we've been burned before
we're all scarred up
shot up and jailed and abused and wasted
and you name it baby


still
I sense
inside us
a mighty roar
that will make them shit themselves and run



call me crazy whatever

I have been preparing

for this moment

all of my life*


yr words
will never hurt me again

I'm ready
to fight you

stick for stick
stone for stone



or
just
forgive

you


with a kiss
on the cheek

and a

welcome to the show










*phil collins


*again, the sacred Dune, which I read over and over, all of them... though I have never had the time or scratch to buy the latest ones... sadly enough.


* this has to be the most quoted poem in the world. I love this poet, and he was out there. I named my dear now lost kitty bums Mr. Yeats after him. I want the time to read his elaborate theory of the universe, which Dr. Lindsay, the class clown extrodainaire/the liberal sceptic saintished one/ somewhat awe inspiringly told the class, "Well if you read it, it does seem to make sense." He seemed startled by his own words and moved on quickly.

Mostly He was so funny. I have notes. At UT I learned that no matter where a good student is, they will learn and the teachers will appear. Dr. lindsay liked to make it out like he lived in mortal fear of actually once and for all boring a student to death. Ho. English prof.'s... my dog, what better buds!!!

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