The Clash of Crimson Ideas


A maelstrom of crazy ideas swirls in my head.

In a rage I’m trying to get them out in various ways.

The reason for this mishmash of images

Rotting in my brain

Is as hard to explain to anyone outside of myself

As it is to admit to myself what is happening.

I can’t let it go.

It’s going to eat me alive in its molten red maw.

I’ll be consumed by its intense conflagration.

I can feel the heat all the time.

In certain situations

When the color of red is so extreme,

When there’s almost too much of it in one room at once,

When 2 shades of crimson clash excitedly,

Like two opposing armies of radicals:

Communists and libertarian socialists,

(I know which one I am, but what are you?)

The heat I feel increases.

It does in each of these situations I’ve pointed out.

When I chew the gummi strawberries

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop.

I can’t stop talking – I want to narrate my whole life’s story.

If someone will listen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . maybe I will.

Like I said, ideas and thoughts riot in my head.

If I could get them to someone somehow,

They still wouldn’t know.

If I could get them to you somehow,

Maybe you would.

I could start my own religion with the ideology in my head.

That would get these things out to a multitude,

But, I don’t want so many to know,

And I’m not going to kill others so that they understand.

Early in the morning is when my mouth is a fountain.

When it should be sleep, I want it to be continued,

As if the world doesn’t exist.

Nothing is real outside of this room.

Nothing matters but the ideas exchanged,

For as I release what eats at me, I absorb thought,

Troubles, anecdotes, embarrassments, self-loathing comments

About enthusiastic encouragement, endless work and the wasting of time,

The hate and neglect of fools who know no better,

Who rip others’ hearts out and feed them to their Goddess of Flesh

For their next orgy, in which they will be thinking nothing

Of the people who matter,

Only of the sweaty hole before them and the principles of

Simple machines and how friction affects their work.

Nothing is 100 percent efficient.

I’ve tried to explain that this is what I like about people.

Especially you when you sling mud in your own direction.

Nothing is perfect, but some things are close.

I have not found many who are,

But I would not lie if I said something was. . . .

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