Instead of some opinion post, here's a poem from the collection "Mars Jazz" by BW Derge, it is entitled "Extracted" which is a sardonic piecce about creating a mental escape to save one's self from psychological trauma stemming from the physical plane.
Quick Updates before the Mental Escape Poem
This will be one of my more personal blog posts, which I have only really done previously with the first post on this site and then for a year in review post for 2024. But frankly, I have been struggling to come up with an idea for this “opinion post” as I have been following a strict schedule for over a year now:
- Poetry posts (but due to the high volume of poems posted in the early stages of the blog, these have been temporarily stalled because of the untitled mini-series about Steve.)
- Mix Playlists – low effort posts of music mixtapes I put a lot of work into. Because Spotify sucks, I share these via Amazon Music.
- Fiction posts and non-fiction posts – these consist of short stories and excerpts from the sci-fi fantasy novels I write. (Because Steve was over-populating these posts, that is why I moved it to the poetry slot.)
- Podcast and Jam Posts – If no Jam Notes Podcast episode is ready for publishing, I’ll publish a raw improvised music piece with drums and guitar.
- And lastly, the opinion posts. Like this one. The only type of post I will use any type of A.I. tools to write. These posts are best performing ones, especially the critique of Pulp Fiction, the posts about South Park vs. the Simpsons, and then anything about either Fiona Apple or Tool’s Maynard James Keenan.
And here we are now. I guess I just want to keep the schedule going and I am a little too drained to come up with something.
And since I haven’t posted a poem on here for a while, that is what I want to do now. How about a poem from Mars Jazz?
This is one of my personal favorites, although depending on how you read it, might seem a little bleak at parts, but it comes from a good place. The poem is but a tad sardonic. Enjoy-
A Poem by BW Derge called “Extracted”
Removed from some night,
It must have been a good place-
I don’t know where to begin
Or what to say
But I can say
These fingers can’t help
But type the thumping thoughts
Of forgotten time
And on and on the westward wind dies
Flowing vibration sensations
Of lost ghostly time
Remember me, nothing-
Remember the house
Where monsters lurk…
Whatever that means the moon rises
And the words jumble
And can’t keep up with the rapid Pompeii
Typing before me-
Eruption blast from the volcano at last
And down flow the lava poetry
Conquering the flesh
And preserving all in ash
Like a phantom being-
Removed from some noon
That there must have been a good place-
Where about happened
To that sweet place in mind?
That sweet ability to displace ego
And enable the eyes
To see through it all-
Listen to the echoes of self-importance
Disarray delusions of the mind-
Drink some more alcohol and forget
About the cracking hearts upstairs-
Don’t give in to the temptation of cliché,
And form a façade of grace-
Nevermind the remembrance of nothing,
Sweet eagle of lust,
The drumbeat smacks on
Until the skull cracks at noon-
Pour the whisky until you see it rise
To the top of the aurora of misery-
I don’t know how I came to be this way,
But I am and that is all I have.
I am a drunk pothead recluse father,
A working-class atheist
Figment of my imagination-
Where was I again?
Do you really believe the silly things
Your mind tells you?
I could write I am a murderer
And that doesn’t make it true-
If you believe any of this
Over-defined jargon,
You can’t prove a fucking thing-
I am what the silly beast lizard of my spirit
Tells me to be...
I am a horny selfish little fiend
Who can’t stop drinking Jupiter’s wine-
Despite it is well known
That the bourbon from Saturn
Is easier on the liver…
There was so much else more
That this brain meant to say
When it began typing away…
Replaced the soggy ego hole with love
To only find that few others
Had done the same
And while they have let their mud fester
And as they ferment in disillusion-
As they absorb money lifelessly
Not noticing that their existence is slipping
Away as they chase pink rabbit dreams around
A city market relapsing around heroin stocks-
As they tip toe around the meaninglessness
Of our wasted experience-
As cynicism has become
A drink more desirable than cold beer-
Grotesque masks shroud
The filthy cruel spirit within shit of what’s
Unseen; Removed from some Tuesday night
Somewhere, I’m sure it was a good space…
Nevermind what it was supposed to be,
We are here now, get used to it-
And avoiding those typical things
We type when the page demands
A better stanza….
Benign symbolic messages speak to me
Underneath the pompous reality of yesterday-
Here the fingers keep striking the keys
In a way not even I can understand,
Pound and pound away to communicate
The crazy electric solemnity
Of my intense fire mind-
Trying to capture what is going on
Around in there
Is like firefly hunting in July-
You may catch it for a second or so
But soon the little critter slips away from
Goddamn it!
And there are so many
Little blinking lights going on and off
Quickly all around
And one may be easy to catch
If you hunt it down and track it-
But as you track that single lightning bug,
Thousands fly, blinking freely around you-
Flee away from some night off in yesterday,
You know it must have been a great place.
And from the top of the stair
Comes a thumping marching down-
Suddenly someone cares so much
As to scream from the distance of anonymity-
Stomp those floorboards of the house
Where the brown liquid dragons lurk-
And words jumble as if anyone gives a fuck
About this beaten jargon, hopeless-
Avoid those words, you know the ones
Because somewhere
There must have been a good place-
The melting pipe leaks a sound
That sounds like heavy breathing
From a scorned wife-
Refuse to write those same words down,
Just remove yourself
From this awful twisted space-
Take a breath, fuck it.
Just try to calm down and take it easy-
Just take a sweet breath
And calmly lay down
And forget the world, I am nothing-
Forgive me, lovely fingertips,
I ran out of things to say
Even though I know you love
To type and pound away-
But I have removed myself
From some night
Removed from some noon-
Removed from some Tuesday-
Some night off in yesterday-
Because somewhere
There must have been a good place-
Remove yourself
From this awful, twisted space
by BW Derge
all rights reserved 2024 ©
Poem was originally written in 2014, published 2 years later in the collection MARS JAZZ
