“A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed--and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone! He attains the unknown, and if, demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them! So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnameable: other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen!”
-Arthur Rimbaud
I am a child of my artistic endeavors. A conduit. A channel through which the akashic communicates. My psychic depths draw further than I can even imagine, I am the poet maudit, a maddened poetic seer. My creative rituals are archaic, sacred. I binge on jazz and classical compositions, I burn nag champa and elizabeth taylor’s passion. I become a state of complete poetic reverence. Then as the ritual progresses my mind becomes pregnant, utterly pregnant with uncensored madhouse genius and I am a connoisseur of emotional chaos- a lack-of-drive bipolar maverick, born paper prophet. I prune my artistic hysteria on ancient passages and dead poets, kandel is the blueprint and nin my patron saint of romantic deviance. I am drug-store weaned, raised on attic-visions, a hedonist since 17. And now i’m a degenerate buddhist, sipping on sutras, born-again endangered beatnik nourished on greek tragedies. My life was once living cinema and now I live to document such things, my inner idealism, my anarchic inclinations, my analog artistry dripped raw- a visionary long forgotten. Yet I still exist despite it, only now I create in enigma, only now I exist impurely on paper- and whatever digital ephemera this appears on.
Go on. Figure me out. I am only fragments, I am only a living archive, a leashed animal, counter-cultural creative. A tragic misfit. An esoteric, stained glass mosaic. I am a mere compilation of all my former loves. And in the end the paper holds me hostage. And I can do nothing, nothing but bend to it. It’s dionysiac will. It’s a willing death. I rave the language of progeny and bend over. Shed the layers of conditioning and sit with me, maybe take a glimpse of my ravings and peer into my poetic pursuits. Maybe you will see similarities, or for you I can fulfill some kind of manic case study. Regardless, just sit with me. And surrender to the origins of my beautiful dharma bum nabokovian beatnik obscenities.