A Long Poem by Ben Thonett

Note: This is an Introduction.
 <br />
This emptiness room,
Fill with stuff and books.
And sweet literature
I will never devour.
Clean my mistakes
with ink.
Rising from the flow.
 <br />
Note; This is the poem.
 <br />
Ring around these pricks
Pool senseless pleasures or
pressures in my depth.
Diving in sin and limb
of tourniquet.
Spitting out against the
grain; like clockwork.
My eyes look down
in horror,
Yours with content.
Our filth, this disgust,
Digesting skin and
My draft empties any
Always being forced too soon,
From noon to nacht, from
nacht to morn failing
me and your body.
I am included in you.
You state the obvious.
You generalise.
You are sick.
You are disturbed.
You feel.
You are me.
For a moment; eyes can see
through glass and soul
tinted roses.
Oh, the viral, over suffering,
under liberal deeds,
perfect stereotype; like every
messiah, forgiving and
forgetting my own morals.
Its bad, its pathetic.
It is a nuisance, séancing
into letterboxes. Letters like
”n” enter because of
form and science.
I hold great ”n”.
My ”n” used to play to the
mini masses, spiralling
into delivery that no other
”n” could post.
I still hold nothing.
I still strive for happiness.
I know it is west,
Hidden from me like love or a
moth to a flame: It won’t
survive out of water.
Let it sleep and bleed and
drain, turning to emotions,
Feelings; nothing.
Not a sound stirring in this
ring. Empty. Hollow, monkey
vessel or ”s”.
Teaching, again for nothing.
I accept this sound, round!
Mother fucker’s cry to
scratch, to burn their
confidential confidence.
Driving and driving,
Driving to driving.
From continent to continent.
Content with contempt
and driving towards.
Propelled by ego, boldly
searching for happiness.
And Godot and Buddha
say it is here and I
say it is here and
Ginsberg says it is
nowhere and Buddha
says it is nothing.
I say you are weak
and suggestive. I say
you are connected
by default.
Too much ”n” created me.
My father created me and
am subjective to ”n” and
bias to ”n”. ”N” holds me
and I hold ”n”.
This pen with disgust and
I wear it with pain.
I wear it with a mirror
and a comprehensibly infinite
amount of eyes looking.
Why are they looking.
Why are they looking at me.
A proud moment in real
time, not relative nor
linear. No monk, no you
and no me. A switch to
turn me unnoticed
and objective. I would be
subject, Jesus of Germ’s
would be literation and
it would go on, off as
I please.
I listen to no monk.
These roses utter
third degree burns.
I am sorry.
Nothing; I am sorry.
Nothing; I am. Sorry.
Nothing is not.
Nothing is not.
Nothing; isn’t.
Sorry, oh sorry word.
It’s really a sorry word.
Sorry world; it’s really
a sorry world.
Oh world, it’s really
a sorry world filled with
”n”. It must be hard.
And vibration must be
like mass for you.
For you, for you, for
Ben, for ”you”, for the
general population.
Cheap dreams cure my
logic and health.
Merely mental masturbation.
Natural and healthy
for pleasure and LSD,
sex and ecstasy.
Look at my blue Biro,
Ben’s ball point pen.
Placing pressure on a
white, satin, not a grain
out of place.
Placed imperfectly, going
up and down.
Bound by springs;
Coiling. Around holes.
Balanced rules are placed.
Massaging deeply, in my mind.
Pressing down a point, making
and creating.
These strokes long and
longer. Building.
Faster rhythm.
Faster, rhyming.
Riddles, senseless pressure.
Comfy pleasure.
Comfy pressure.
Delicate muscles sore.
Thoughts passing and
images placed.
Haste, breathe vibrating.
White satin.
Binding around and around.
Ball; pressure; pen.
So, close to:
Rhythm, relax, rolling!
on to white.
Clean; and blue
I hold on and grips.
So close, sweat! almost drips.
Slipping. Into ink.
Thoughts. Almost drips, from.
Me and you and blue.
Full stops.
Still! placing droplets of pleasure
onto paper and ink.
Onto thoughts onto white satin.
Coiled and.
And turning.
And piercing.
And forgiving.
And remembering themes.
Thoughts of rhythm,
and sound and touch.
Singing in silence.
Form and touch.
Form and touch.
Rhythm rhyme,
form and touch.
Rhythm. Rhyme. Form and
Rhythm and rhyme and
form and touch, rhythm
and rhyme and form
and touch, rhythm and
rhyme and;
Feel release, and;
touch your.
Minds; touch; minds and;
pen moves.
Minds and electricity
or electricity.
Gadgets and cigarettes; smoke!
Listen! Breathe! and.
Piss, clean, fuck!
Write, green, blue, red
and blue red and purple.
So I split the advice
and sad sound by
smelling my own breath.
Confused with worthless-
ness and doubt.
Sex and security,
nits and louce.
The ex rears behind
trapped! I am trapped
under ice and
forgiveness for loving
Loathing; for some
transpacial orgy of light!
Darkness: turn down.
Leave this! and death!
Feeling and nothing.
You scream to the heavens.
Hoping, subjective hoping!
that there is a fix for
my or your objective
evil, I have never left
or write or to have
never made a mistake
in my spelling.
Leafed! Left able to
thoughts of history.
Memory. Remember.
What was it like.
Colourless and zips
down extraordinary
lengths to rise!
Reads, read and red.
Choosing topics to
watch dead!
Green with envy, and
green with pity.
Oh, your proud self:
Spilling no cups.
Blinking to measure
psychosis and going
beyond where no man
has gone before.
Your sick, disgusting
In, out, in, out.
Is that it.
Your time, your angel
and your delusion.
Your sex, self pity and
Your fore play,woman and
You sicken me:
Your union, union and
Self expression and
no soul.
Your letters, your pain.
Do you even feel Ben!
Whiter wither balance!
and cure sex; with cock!
Whiter wither balance.
Whiter wither balance.
There is no medicine
for a person.
A pox for the plague.
A gun! for the loop.
Round and round the
Simple memories.
With stars and night at
daytime in Bray, Cork,
mistakes and Bjork.
Foolishly loving; but still,
Far! clouds reaching.
Oh revolving merry-go-round:
dropping, lasting.
Waiting for results.
Fashion feeding frenzies
to dogs climbing ecstasy.
Barking and fear dead but
sex as it goes brings
foes and friendships.
Happens happens.
Yes! Yes.
Urika! scientists who smells,
who dresses, that wishes,
that has faces, that is.
Rings again thank you.
I.   I.   Eye.
Blessed creature; thank you.
Ben Thonett is 21 years old and lives in Dublin

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Filed under Ben Thonett, Poetry

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