Trawling the stream of consciousness.
How long will I stare at a blank page before I’m compelled to fill it with the overflow of an overactive imagination? It’s like some bizarre test of patience, a test of faith, that the gods of overstimulation by television and a city of millions will drop a complete poem in my lap as if by some artistic osmosis.
The fact remains that you only spill a perfect poetic vision by years of failing to do exactly that. If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, then my stream of consciousness is a stream populated by batshit flapping trout caught by psychopathic bears.
My repetition proves I aspire to be as insane as the artists I admire.
There’s a depth to the stream of consciousness that belies the name. It’s deep enough to bathe in the shockingly cold realization of what really can come out of your mind when you let the social constraints loose, like a snarling dog struggling against its leash for no reason other than to get away from you.
Maybe my depth perception isn’t what it once was; I have a hard time telling between shallow self-righteous verse and deep slices close to the bone of the skeletons that comprise my past. Maybe if it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me. Maybe depth is overrated and that’s how we have a mainstream dominated by its abolition, a celebration of the shallow, a festival of facades cleverly camouflaged as fun.
It’s fun to drink the period-accurate Flavor-Aid, especially if you get to drink it in the club.… (More) “Trawling the stream of consciousness.”