by Darryl Price
You've been given some really cruel thoughts that are not your own.
You've been given some really stupid sets of rules which are impossible
to follow. You can learn to manage for yourself. Remember who you
were before they told you who you were. You've been trained
since birth to get upset by all manner of things which are
not true, at least no truer than the others. These people, they
are going to ask you for your life, it doesn't matter what
for, but let's say to protect certain behind the curtains money managers
from discovery, there is always a back room somewhere. You've been given
a box in a hotel. You've been given a watch. A diamond
ring. What you have not been given is the embrace you deserve,
that belongs to you, because it has been stolen by human beings
who make vampires look like good little shepherds. Remember who you were
when you liked yourself. That person's depending on you here to know
the difference between an implanted feeling and one's own real deepest feeling.
Go deeper. Deeper. Deeper. Find yourself. Right now you're a candle in
a row of candles, waiting to be used, thrown away and replaced,
all to illuminate the dinners of a very few hungry hungry hippos.
Unless you wake up from this medicated stupor and start to think
outside of TV-land. Unless you can remember how to dream something of
your own choosing. Unless you are willing to find out for yourself
what you believe in, who you are, and what makes you tick.
You've been given a plastic world to play in, but there's a
very real world where you come from and where you'll always belong
because it is home. Call it Rock. Call it love. Call it
nature. Call it soul. Anything you want, but use your own word
for it. Experience that force. Pronounce it with every breath. Let it
show you its meaning. Listen. Listen for the undeniable presence that flows
everywhere and nowhere, and then tell me who these people are who
feel like they own you. They say poetry is dead. It is
not dead, it is a dragon, it cannot die. They say war
is the only savior you'll ever need. What do you say? You've
been given a choice by the very nature of your being able
to think. The enemy is large. The enemy is conniving. The enemy
is manipulative. Just look at the greed in those eyes. The bite
in those smiles. The violence in those fingers. But all is not
lost because there is you. A someone like no other. A free
thinker. This is your invitation to the consciousness. This is your chance
to take off the helmet of hate and fear. They've been feeding
you beautiful lies laced with poisonous attitudes, but that's all over now,
if you want it. You have to want it. You have to
be it. No one else can do it for you. It can
get lonely. It's not easy. But it feels good to be alive,
to be out of their device, to volunteer for life on your
own terms. Bright and fair. Bright and fair. Oh, and, one more
thing, it never ends, this fight to keep off the caps of
despair. They'll march right up to you and clamp one on you
faster than you can run. Just use your good sense: "No, thanks."
by Darryl Price
Are we happy yet? Life without sorrow is not life. Try again. Are we happy yet? Killing yourself for pleasure after pleasure turns out to be the opposite
thing altogether, but you already knew that. Try some more. Are we happy yet? Love is not all you need, unless you turn everything and that includes
everyone everywhere into love. Are you willing? Why should I be the only one, when I'm not the only one? Are we happy yet? My choice is true hope
I hope for everyone here, but you'll say it's another con game made out of pictures of hands because you can't please them all. If it did I wouldn't be
doing it right. They want a back flipping poet who is always on their silly sides. I don't want to be anyone's golden vampire. Check it out. Are we happy
yet? We've given the children's keys to the kingdom to the cloud people to hold until we get back from the Crusades with our bloody survivor stories to
tell. Are we happy yet? I smile into the mirror of your eyes, but it doesn't work out at all that way for me. Are we happy yet? It's all good. Try turning it off
and on again. I mean you've given everything you've wanted to hide away to these unfeeling soul sucking machines and now you want their eternal thanks
tattooed forever on your bank statements like Christmas cards? No thanks. Are we happy yet? Oh the magnificent bombs didn't change a thing. Oh the carnival
ride is over. Oh there's a big shark in the river. Oh I think we just may have misread the tea leaf vibes after all. Oh there's a feeling we seem to be missing
in the backs of our minds. Oh I don't feel so good. But you said. Are we happy yet? Oh you don't love me anymore. I'll put my pants back on. Oh she
was the most beautiful woman I ever played hooky with. Oh you're kidnapping my laugh. Oh catch me if you can. Are. We. Happy. Yet? Oh give
me a home where the monkeys all roam and the sky is a bowl of freshly cut fruit. Put on a suit. Suit yourself. Zip it. Are we there yet? Oh life without
sorrow is just not the brown shoe lithium lick we need to extend our battery life. It never was. It can never be. Oh say can you see me through all those
sticking together branches? Oh surely we're getting very near the end, but possibly not. Oh please there's not much more time to figure it all out. Are we
happy? Oh. Life without sorrow will not help you develop your telepathic compassion. Sometimes a new approach is needed more than specific answers.
by Darryl Price
Well there must be something to say that doesn't suck.
That doesn't remind. That won't back down. Rewind. There must
be something to say that gets in touch. That keeps
the plan alive. Yeah look at all those drop outs.
Look at all those chickens. There must be something to
say that I had no idea was available to me,
to us. I like that kind of surprise, don't you?
There must be something to say that isn't just swimming
up in a hurry to say a stupid goodbye. I'm
sick of goodbyes. People use them like ass wipes. There
must be something to say that takes a lot more
than the expected public leap. There must be something to
say that is at peace with itself, but still not
quite dead yet. Uh Oh here come all the fledgling
psychologists with their empty butterfly nets spouting their lovelorn advice
on the unsuspecting world like over eager doggies looking for
another toss of the already soaking tennis ball. You get
it. Well there must be something else besides all the
fuzzy nonsense. There has got to be something to say
that isn't just the echo of some nostalgic longing for
the good old days. Screw the good old days. There's
nobody here but us now. Get with the program and
help me to find something to say that is more
honest than the infinite ache all around us. I mean
it. There must be something to say that the gods
can actually hear in spite of the stars. I didn't
say anything about your religion. Jesus, listen up. There's beauty
in the world that isn't applied through a tube. There's
truth in the world that isn't found in a book.
There's enough tears already to last us until the end
Of all time. Haven't we had enough? All I'm saying
is there must be something to say that can be
heard through all the constant babbling bullshit about nothing. Maybe
this isn't it. So? So what? I don't have to
explain my paintings to you. You probably wouldn't understand it
if I did. Feel what you feel. That's the closest
you'll get to an explanation. Just remember there must be
something to say that isn't just about falling asleep again.
There must be something to say that's like planting trees.
Something more than drivel. Would you like to come in?
All rights reserved.
You just never know where the idea for one of your poems is going to come from. I was driving on the free way when I saw a white van pass me on the left hand side, it then pulled in front of me, and on the back it said Drain Cleaning & Repair, but I couldn't read it all that clearly because of the sun, so I originally read it as Brain Cleaning & Repair. This made me laugh and so I kept it in my head by repeating it over and over again until I returned home. However when I was writing it, it quickly turned into a serious meditation on the young. You could call this Letters from An Old Poet to a younger generation and not be far off the mark. Synchronicity, baby.