Bloody Narcissism

“Bloody Narcissism”

If the artist must suffer to make,
pain and loss and hate,
then I will suffer the most.
Blood and blood and bone.

I put my pinkie in a pencil sharpener
and twist it, twist, it twist, it twist it.
I am the holy Messiah flesh carpenter
so twisted, twisted, twisted, twisted.

I begin.

A new kind of passion pours out of my flesh
as I conquer the world.
I conquer the world.
I conquer the world.

A new kind of struggle as you fight to be,
but you’ll never escape.
You’ll never escape.
You’ll never escape.

I turn to what society calls perfection
and wilt it, wilt it, wilt it, wilt it.
My sacrifice brings a better resurrection.
Not wilted, wilted, wilted, wilted.

The muses are now mine;
My prison they’re confined.
They worship me sublime
because I am divine.
The wonders all align,
and watch me transcend time.
That chill upon your spine
is made by my design.

Now you know me.
Now you see me.
I am the one who showed you life!
I hear you screaming.
I see you fleeing,
because my truth cuts like a knife.

Bow before me.
Kneel before me.
I have done what others could not.
You will respect me.
You will respect me.
I have made myself a God!

You will respect me.
You will notice me!
You will apologize,
and say you’re sorry.
So respect me.
Respect me!
Please respect me.
Please just know me.
Please just . . . please.

So, I both like and hate this poem. The whole thing started out with the second stanza, which just appeared in my head without my bidding. I liked it, so I wrote it down. I then forgot about the whole thing for a few months! But, I have a new job and it’s not mentally stimulating, so I dragged this thing out and began to work on it (week while on the job). In some way, I got paid to write this.

I wanted this to be about a megalomaniac, and I was even going to title it, “Megalomania.” But that last stanza crept in, and I realized it wasn’t about a crazy artist with a God complex, just a down-on-his-luck artist on his last gimmick to be known and respected. He’s narcissistic to be sure, but aren’t we all?

I wanted to write something disjointed and kind of strange. Something unpleasant. Every time I thought of a stanza scheme, I’d do away with it and find another. I figured the speaker of this poem would do that, caught in his own self-importance and pain. He would jump around and think himself divine, and so I let him do that.

The problem is, he isn’t divine and neither is this poem. It’s unpleasant, but in too many ways. It’s just not all that fun to read.

Still, I put a few hours into it so here it is.

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