To the Artist's Page 
To our home page
To Kurt Lee's previous piece
To Kurt Lee's next piece
death of two poets
i had made it my obsession to create a new form of expression with letters and words, and within four years of madness, two shattered hearts, and a lake of whiskey later, it had been created, a new method of expression, still in my mind and awaiting use. in my grief stricken poverty and murky insanity, in the america, a giant casino of spending, earning, false love, and false art, all based on propitiation of wealth, my obsession ran deep, deeper than any ocean, wider than any small universe full of rotating stones, as passionate as the great symphonies, as pathetic as the most minimal of poems, and as elegiac as the most deprived bohemian lives. each night i would wander for hours, lost in drunkenness, music, the sights and changing nights visions, blood trickling out of my brain and saturating my spirit that danced from the fireflies' hides, the only lights illuminating my thick darkness. most living writers disgusted me, writing the most easily accepted and understood drivel they could muster to be understood by the tiny population of people in america who still read instead of sitting blunted and chiseled in their phony lives peering at flashy colors on their televisions, creating bad pieces of art reflecting only their phony and tiny caches in life, their measly pigeonholes and identities each day they breathed their rot smelling breath into, hoping for that vulgar happy ending they had been promised. most literary publications disgusted me as well. the same old erotic love misery garbage begging to be made into movies for hollywood production that sickened me, unoriginal styles, rehashes of old styles, pop culture writing, and worse yet, a barricade of literary snobbery wider and fatter than the worst of the impressionists critics damning and mocking all brave new attempts with sheer jealousy and middle class angst at not being able to create anything but the mediocre kisses on the cheek for empty mediocre people, who didn't know which way was up anyway, unless they were told. a river of literary snobbery as deep as the river styx, extending from the most obscure pulp publications, to the most read internet webzines, a thick muck of literary snobbery, a sickening mire, that spat on itself, creating bad cynical writing and congratulating itself on the destruction of a another generation of talents. regardless, i sent my new style of writing to several publications, getting published a few times, getting insulted a few more times for my attempts at creating something that wasn't infectious fame movie waste opera garbage. one webzine used one of my newly styled poems as a model of what they did not want to see in writing sent to them. another zine published an excerpt of a writing in a mentionables category, saying i had potential, probably because my pulp hadn't gotten bleached and whitened enough by television fame longing, it still contained flights of fancy, dreams, nonsense, a whole plethora of strange and impossible images, piss on warhol's grave, fart on bukowski's. i still had no money, and didn't care as long as i had enough for booze and books. i wandered the street sleeping wherever i wanted, drunk as the moon, the repulsive nonchalant moon, that seemed brighter and brighter the more my hands shivered as i scribbled my new style down on the page, determined to create, refusing arduously to write the same old shit that writers must write if they want to crack through the bottom of the barrel. i am a wicked cruel man, i fought on the street, i fought everyone, i was bloodied and beaten, knocked out cold and left for dead, not giving a shit for a life that didn't want me, my refusal and humiliation ran almost as deep as my obsession and passion for creating something new that questioned everything, and refused to kiss the feet of a manmade western religion.*
my style had greatly affected a certain vampire whose tastes were half as depraved as mine, he had a job and a steady girlfriend, whom he would lie to about his poetry, the style he pilfered from me i thought i was giving him as a mentor. his girlfriend compliments him, he lies to his drunken fame dj rapper friends about me doing readings of his bad likenesses of poetry written in my broken style that i had engineered through years of reading, drinking, self immolation, and gradual recline into insanity. after he had sent me a picture of himself wearing vampire fangs in his work uniform, leering at me, i having nothing better to do than read, write, and poison myself, stole a car and drove to his tiny miserable hometown not much different than mine, swilling down cheap wine, a west virginian town dotted with repulsive flourescent pimples, fast food restraunts, shopping malls, the typical eye searing trash one sees in the average bleeding and listless american town drenched in the flickering electric lights of any number of beeping and screaming appliances. my eyes ran black with hatred as i sat outside his run down drug house in the stolen car, sucking at the bottle, chainsmoking, listening to ligeti on the cd player. all my anger rejection and humiliation, my fury and hatred of society and the happy smiling rich americans that shelled out their tiny paychecks for glistening pop culture bitumen to display on their mantles like fifth place bowling trophies, my hatred of false artists and liars, people who created art for no other reason to appear as an artist to their bland and deluded peers. caught up in my own hatred, the spell was broken as his girlfriend pulled into his driveway and walked into the house holding a suitcase.
i waited for the requiem to come to a finish, and i finished my wine, the words of villon playing fastly in my head and sound like fettered autumnal trees, as i marauded across the street with large pigeon toed strides, my face as bitter as a victorian nun's, up his wooden staircase, and slipping into the house, which reeked of pot, cigarettes, insense, vomit, and cunt. women hating as i am, the stench infuriated me. i always hate the stench of hip hop pop mtv generation parties, i took off my shoes and in my hole socks tiptoed up the stairs. i walked to the cracked doorway emitting sounds of his voice bantering in some dull recorded sexual drone of bad witty cracks. i peered in with my black and cracked orbit eyes. he was handcuffed spread eagle on the bed in that classic sadomasochistic pose, a blindfold over his eyes, while his girlfriend teased his cock with a number of objects which he would guess what she was using. i watched them awhile, hypnotized, until a silence overtook my ears, and all i could hear, were their lungs, inhaling, exhaling, and their muffled voices, laughing, as if i were underwater, listening to shouts from above. i stepped out of my body and into the room wrapping my hand around his girlfriend's mouth and sliding my bony finger into the arch of her soft necks, empowered by booze, fury and hatred, yanked her jugular veins open and collapsed her trachea with one swift yank, splashing the warm blood over his blubbery torso chained on the bed like a pig in a slaughterhouse, i carried her thrashing body silently into the hall and dropped her into a pile of dirty clothes so she could finish her death struggle. he cooed and sighed when the warm blood splattered on him, "paint?" he asks with a giggle.
i walk back into the room, my skin burns coated in hot crisco distilled blood oil foulness from a lifetime wasted devouring bad tasting american junkfood.
"where did you go?"
i sit on the bed facing his erection, and place my cold hand upon it, and begin to stroke. he writhes and sighs, performing the typical it feels so good you make me so happy and fulfilled motion of self, my teeth grinding the whole time, puffing at a cigarette with my other hand. just as the semen began to spurt out of his cock, i slashed at its base with a tiny razor, nearly cutting the entire dong off, leaving it hanging by a string of flesh, semen drooling out of the bloody hole in his groin, he screams and chatters like a spider monkey, howling like a sexless child sitting in a pot of boiling water. i squeeze the severed cock and semen drools out of both ends. i mount his body, and with a crowbar, i crack open his ribcage while he shrieks and whimpers, and yank his heart out of his fat torso putting it in a ziploc baggie full of dogshit. i pocket it, and wander back into the street, climbing into the car which i speed towards a polluted lake i noticed coming in, where i dive in fully clothed, clouding the yellow water full of dead fish with the blood saturating my clothing. i emerge, crack open a new bottle, light a smoke, and drive drunkenly back to ohio, the entire night. i make it back to my frigid basement packed with books and filled notebooks. i lay on my couch, cover my eyes, and fall asleep to the sounds of the morning birds, a deep and resting dreamless sleep.
*
the other poet had contacted me on the internet, telling me he dug my writing. i ignored him at first, but boredom had caused me to instate a flaccid partnership with him. he was a dj. he made hiphop music with his niggaz, artsy shit, that stunk of my style, that he was using in the wrong way. he wrote long nonsensical rants fueled by cough syrup consumption and spoken in ghettiozed middle class white kid wants to be a nigger slang. he sent song after song to me, which i would listen to once or twice, tell him i liked it, then question him about his writing. he accuses me of "burnin" his style, which immediately blackens my mood to a near fury. i sit before my monitor shaving skin off my fingers with a tiny razor, blood drips like pizza grease onto the notebook sitting covered in footprints and mudstains at my feet. william blake, dante, burroughs, he says. i know i inspired him to write, because he had told me when he first messaged me, about me being an influence of his. i knew that i was not a dilettante, and the stoic false artist that created art for no other reason than to impress his druggie friends was an unpardonable crime to me. while he told me of himself going to inpatient and hoping to get xanax, i packed a few things for the trip. all dxm junkies eventually end up in inpatient, because the dxm erodes the seratonin in the brain and makes the user progressively miserable, depleting the happy chemical before it can grow back to a level that actually functions in the brain. i tell him I'm coming to visit him, to see him off, and that i will bring him a couple books to read and four hits of acid. i buy the acid from a crazy eyed dj friend of mine, a true junky, constantly incensed to madness and fury by his rampant and unchecked drug consumption. i too had done this for a time, then got bored of fur coat wearing drug dealers with their cell phones and hip slang, so i stuck to the wine. i drive all night to his house in a pretty little suburb in indiana, the whole time swilling down wine and whiskey, stopping once for a beer in a tiny truckstop full of dark and mysterious truckdrivers carrying with them anonymity and lusty eyes from truckstop to state to truckstop. i make it to his house and walk to the door, ringing the bell, he welcomes me in, passes me a bowl, we drink and talk of his wonderful talent and impending fame, his lackeys crowd fearfully around him hanging on his every word speaking in middle class white accents slang they think might be heard in the most niggardly of drug saturated slums. i nod and smile, and later that night when all his little gangstas have gone home to their mommies or hidden away in their friends couches, he consumes the acid, and begins to trip hard, grow confused and horny, acting strangely and terrified as i can imagine he is, his brain as dry as a fallen leaf. i suggest we go for a walk, to exit his house, as it might make him feel better. we walk up the railroad, talking to each other in tripnotic words, but my mind is far deeper, far bloodier and angrier than his, he tells me over and over how evil i look, how terrified he is of me. i tell him that its just the acid, and he should calm down, which he does. out of the darkness rolls a loud freight train moving slowly towards us. i tell him we should stand there until the last minute, because the train looks like heaven reaching down to claim us, and i will never let him die. the train comes closer and closer, and he begins to shiver when i peer at him and smirk, my hand reaching into my pocket, where i lay my hand on a pistol and fire a round into both of his legs. he collapses on the track howling in broken tremolo. i step off the railroad and lay in the grass, ten feet from the tracks. he screams for me to help, i drink wine and puff on a cigarette, feeling more at ease than i have for years. the train reaches him, bellowing like all of filthy industrial chew you up and spit you out america, dragging and flinging him around under it like a sack of laundry. i approach his dismembered husk and pry his smeared heart from his splintered ribs, dropping it in that same ziploc bag.
*
i walk deep into the woods, that smell sweetly of the coming spring. i pour gasoline over a pile of railroad tiers and light it afire, watching the flickering flames conducting the faust playing over my headphones. i stand up, taking my pants to my ankles, holding my erection over the flames, and inserting a toothpick in my cockhole. i take the hearts and forcibly impale them on my erection, holding it over the flame. pop! blister! and drip.
To the top of this page
