Jeff Can Blog

My “Paradise Lost” With The Revisionist History Of American Luxury

Jeff Klepper

The endless poems I have written concern us little with the reality we got

I find myself consumed with what others consider real and not–

Could I be too imposing? Too radical? Too fanatical? Or simply stuck in the habit of decomposing

Again the human state is often too fragile for the complexities of the universe that are often too imposing

The dead leaflets warning of the saving needed to be done on this planet don’t seem to matter

When the cure for boredom is much less based on dead paper and reliant upon live matter

We as a generational façade dependent upon our newfound government structured god

Are just as reliant as the moon is on gravity and the priest is on archaic scripted fraud

This is all about art, and the Christ like figure we will never meet, the Devil is my muse

We can write all about how holy we are, but we are envious of the hoofed shoes

It is much easier to play the advocate that we identify with the most

Because who would want to be in the company with a perfect host?

Where is the fun in living in the clouds with a pompous humanist?

A sadomasochistic self-hating prospector illusionist.

That is who we want to spend eternity with?

The man who brought us Jesus of Nazareth?

I will go with the red-mooned beast this time around.

I rather be in a of bed fire than be in the kingdom of the “found”.

Correspond
Jeff Klepper

Switch off the light that blinds the lie
Salute the soldier sent off to die
Caress the cheek of the love you will not know
Pray to your deity that is not so—

Filter the thought as if you could see
Transmit the thought as if you could be
Express discontent with more than a gun
Ignore the neglect the social class war will never be won

Limit the threat by closing ones mind
Truth in simplicity, may be the hardest to find

Singing To The Looseness; Lucifer and Art
Jeff Klepper

The sight of the lessened heroes shakes our confidence
Now a statue sits in place of human resilience
No, never speak to the dirty tactics we used
For malpractice is a symptom of the confused
Core feelings, sore ceilings, and artistic expression gone
Those are just existential rumblings from generations about to dawn

Oh, fear, I must concur, I should have seen
The droplets of blood on the fingertips of being
So insignificant, yet elegance could not explain
The brokenness of our hearts and in our DNA

So is the trouble with burning out too young
As with many things in life, the world is stung
Shocking, melodic we are, slightly neurotic—
Capping the oceans of time; swollen and hypnotic

But concern us not with god’s lesser-known revivals
And keep reading those asinine outdated bibles

Capture misinterpretation for all it is worth
For gaining sight does not require a religious rebirth