#doc marek

i get asked a lot of questions about this & that concerning writing and art. first off, they don't know nothin' (even me) but they all think they do, (even me) and they all say rules will guide you but they'll only bind you & blind you from what art really is: freedom. and so the only thing you should really do is tell the truth and try real hard not to try too hard at all and disregard everything you hear people tell you - all the ways you could make your art better and all the things you could do to improve, all the shit people spew but can't bear to hear, even this.

Morail=willowwantsloki Matesprite=unknow Kissmesis=doc marek auspice=unknow

1.my name is jean2.im from costa rica3.i fucking love coffee 4.i love girls with long hair an peixe cut5.i can speak french,Italian,Spanish and english

stand up tall & sit straight & tuck your shirt in & wear a belt & keep your mouth clean, don’t say words like fuck piss shit damn bitch and especially don’t call any woman a cunt, and definitely don’t say it around your mom, use the right fork and spoon for the right dish, don’t drink your champagne too fast, in fact don’t mix beer & liquor, say please and thank you and excuse me and make sure you open all of the doors your woman may come in contact with and carry her things for her and reach to the top shelf for the elderly women at the grocery store and don’t flip anyone off when they cut you off on the street, don’t lie, give to the poor, tell someone you love them every day, smile at a stranger but don’t act like you wouldn’t stare at a man getting his head cut off in a guillotine the same way you did when you saw two people kissing in public for the first time and for the first time your mother didn’t cover your eyes with the same hand that touched your father’s cock the night before.

black birds on barbed wire usher in requiems for fallen soldiers from the front lines, like pallbearers & ring bearers covering candles with the night. i speak not of them that are free but of them that are bonded, and not those in fatigues but those who are fatigued by an onslaught of fickle dreams known to me and some others as tangible perceptions of reality. we/they've been thrown in dungeons & burned at the stake for fucks sake, left to write poetry in the caves of depression, letting rip currents & tides take us out to sandbars too far to swim back from and my therapist calls it faith. well, hope is a sliver stuck in my trigger finger and a bees stinger i'm too proud to remove, look at my war wounds, yeah, from life and being hit in the face with advertisements about what i should buy and what i should think and who should be made to crawl or be born or be dead, like the weight most pull, we're as weak as they say but give any peasant an inch & he'll think he's a ruler and give any one of us breath in our lungs & we'll think we're g-d.

i never invite him, so i never know when he's going to stop by and visit "everything you love is going to die" he says, taking a long drag off his cigar "write a poem about that" fuck you, i tell him he don't know shit about love or poetry but my hand grabs a pen and starts writing words as my brain spins into a manic episode and there's angels screaming at the tops of their lungs yes, yes, the very tops of them and he's possessing me like some kind of demon and the only way to quench him is to do what he says to write what he says and so thats what i do every time and every time, i get something like this.

Handwritten Series No. 13 Read this a few times over. It means a lot to not only myself but many others I'm sure. Thanks, Doc