poets in hell

What might as well be my manifesto – inspired by the incredible song “Poets in Hell” by poet/musician Marc Montfleury. Watch the debut performance of the piece here.

we are the luckiest unlucky ones – came into the world as wolves and never stopped howling. i can pretend this is not what i am.. collapse into contentment’s feathered lap, let her stroke my hair, let her sing me to sleep.. but what she doesn’t know is that in my mind i’m always on my knees in front of madness– flicking the flames with my tongue..

all the poets in hell
did they really do wrong
or was it just a way to remember, ooh – the memories.

that’s what i can’t let go.. those are the shadows i want to press myself into, feel beneath my fingers, crush between my lips, that’s.. what this is about.

i am perpetually existing in pyres of my past –

but don’t forget to sweep up your embers
no real direction but straight..

i’m – pointed – north. but the compass arrow isn’t dancing delicately in the palm of my hand, the arrow is now jutting out of my chest, shredding innards, rattling against bones. every movement, is this. every feeling, becomes this. and i’m bleeding the sacred elixir every voyager drank, every conquistador, every seeker, every madman, every animal – and it’s dripping from our mouths but we always want more.

yeah i’m a poet in hell
i keep watching the flames
it’s not my fault i burn to remember
all i have left is my faith

and i swear this cross on my back was once a pair of wings and all these holes in my hands really mean it’s just beginning – cuz my pen is the spear in my side and i’d be lying if i said it makes it easier to write these lines because.. it doesn’t. but that’s why we listen. that’s why we watch..

we’re on display – sifting through our embers, howling through hollows, peeling back skin, recommitting to ritual one last time, one last time, one last time – to remember. to hold it in our blistered palms – again.

and we like this torture. we like twisting in the singe of the sun under magnified glass, we like plucking off the limbs. twitching like an insect.. my god, if it was possible for me to live a normal life.. i still wouldn’t do it..

cuz i’m a poet in hell
born with the lazarus heart
it’s not my fault i burn to remember
all i have left is this ache..

and did you really expect a poet – to behave?

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