I am the great Alter,
bring me your sufferings
and sacrifice your cock.
Unhook me from these power lines
& nail my hands to your hips.
I’ll be your portable guru.
That is from a poem I wrote a long, long time ago. I wrote a lot of poems in my lifetime and I was just going over some of them and realized that they all totally suck. Most are gibberish and make little sense to me now, but I was sure into feeling the feelings at the time I wrote them. I think that was the problem with them. I wasn’t writing about anything specific. I was mostly just angry, hurt, in love/in hate, betrayed or stuck inside a dark hole of some kind of injustice. Things were just flying around in my mind like random chaos.
One thing’s for sure, re-reading a lot of my writings is that I sure had a twisted, brutal sense of repressed sexual vehemence. It’s as if I could be reading the diary of a potential serial killer, or other such disturbed person. It is interesting how different I am now. I am the same in a lot of ways. I am still disturbed. I just don’t want to kill anyone anymore. And I don’t blame myself for indulging in a Mad Max fantasy – I’ve lived through some horrific experiences. I think it’s perfectly healthy to want to conquer victimhood and come out shining like a rose. I just find it interesting that now as I’m nearing 40, I no longer feel the same. My thoughts seem a lot more connected in context, and my feelings are easier to recognize. I guess I’ve reached a better place with age.
I was thinking a lot about this stuff because I was cruising around in the Bukowski.net forum on a thread about whether being a writer could be suggested as a career path. I think like any creative endeavor, it takes passion and guts, sacrifice and undying determination. And that determination doesn’t necessarily have to come from confidence in your work either. You can just be a crazy son of a bitch with an obsessive disorder. That’s what seems to be working for me.