This is the World’s Smallest Violin Playing “My Heart Bleeds for Ya”
Written by John Erianne on September 25, 2007 – 7:09 pm -Some months ago, I received a submission from this guy in prison. All of the poems were handwritten. No return envelope. Normally, I’d just toss the poems without reply. However, because I get a lot of submissions and letters from prisoners, I just assumed the guy had never read my guidelines and was just ignorant about the whole business of submitting manuscripts. He was obviously a beginner. His poetry obviously bad. I took pity on him and wrote him back (using my own envelope and stamp — aren’t I nice?). I explained to him a number of realities and gave him a piece of advice that he’d do well to follow if he were to continue to submit poetry to literary journals. I also informed him that I wouldn’t be so nice to him in the future should he ignore what I’d told him and submit to me again. I would toss his work without reply and would not indulge him.
So, over the summer while I was undergoing my treatments for cancer, the submissions piled-up. I was in no physical condition to bother with them and am only now reading and replying to them. Among the submissions that came in over the summer was — you guessed it — from that self-same individual. He completely disregarded what I told him and was absolutely insistant that I deal with him on his terms and disregard my own. Needless to say I am not happy. I considered simply tossing his efforts, but then I thought, before I do that, why not post his nonsense on this blog and let others read it. Fuck, if the man wants attention and comments … let him have what he wants. So, without further ado, here’s Douglas Frey:
John,
I have enclosed 5 poems of varying lengths. This one is separate and the others 4 are in a second envelope . . . My work is handwritten because I am incarcerated . . . All of my poems are actually individual chapters taken out of my diary . . . I do my journal in poetry . . . it remains the only way I can deal with the wreckage of my past . . . I do not share my work with many people but the ones that have read it are usually shaken . . . Though the content is dark and sad and hard-hitting . . . hopefully . . . the way it’s presented meets with your approval . . . I should tell you . . . maybe you care, maybe you don’t . . . but I only write when I’m inside. Never when I’m free . . . and I only write on things I’ve personally experience . . . Addiction, Abuse, death, betrayal, pain, ect . . . Those words cost me pieces of my heart and soul . . . their finished form and the pictures they paint are what reminds me of what I could of been and what I have become . . . please repect this work . . . it’s real and it’s what keeps me sane . . .
With Honor, Respect, and Code
Douglas Frey
(Good Lord! At this point I’m checking the locks on my door. But it’s not over yet. Let’s read this poem he sent.)
What I Do/Just Rewards
Oh you miserable fucking parasites . . .
– to think I ever felt the need to attach my
lonely soul to your transparent, shallow, and
foolish company.
You thieves of children’s hearts and minds . . .
You wretched defilers of your own sons, daughters,
brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers.
You creepers of my nightmares . . .
– stalkers of my dreams . . .
You nuturers of my deepest, darkest fears . . .
You worthless bottom-feeders all . . .
For you to have the audacity . . .
–to actually believe that you could ever even
attempt to aspire to this . . .
–my brilliantly genius life of wickedly successful
crime.
With your flat, lifeless, ignorant eyes . . .
Your glass jaw . . . always slack . . .
–and that simiam-like, neanderthal slouch of yours . . .
genetically incorporated with your grotesquely
twisted spine.
You knuckle-draggers. . .
Fuck you and all those like you . . . Forever . . .
I hereby banish you and your kind . . . eternally –
to those timeless, hour-rate, crypt-like rooms that
house tweaker elite so comfortably,
while they ride that needle over and over again
into that Hellish vortex of insanity . . .
To the addicts hopeless existence of forever
trading fragments of their tortured souls –
in return for only temporary relief from their
pain . . .
To those pitiful, empty shells they’ll become –
long before they’re done running.
To chasing that elusive dragon . . .
Seeking only to capture the rapture of that
first-time moment of bliss they’ll only ever
experience again in that moment just before
they finally clompletely shatter.
To the zombie king and queens . . .
Ruling . . . ironfisted . . .
–over their multi-dimentional kingdoms and
their legions of dope-spun, loyal, vacant-eyed,
empty-souled window-scratchers . . .
To that all-knowing look of expected pleasure
and pain . . .
held just for me to see . . .
deep with the hype’s always wanton eyes,
as that battery-acid-cocktail , , ,
prepared just for them, withso much loving
care, by an ever-faithful friend . . .
–works it’s final magic.
To those deceptively beautiful, seductive, stickly,
mean streets . . . temptinly paved in gold –
flanked on both sides by pretty trees that
only breath cyanide.
To the corrosive insanity of addiction’s barely
living dead . . .
And to the lonely crackhead’s always screaming
child . . . lying cold and still upon a filthy bed . . .
–with only mommy’s syringes for toys.
To the bleak and hopeless life of only and early,
violent death . . .
–suffered by the ghetto’s little girls and boys.
All of them dying for just a little more of that
unattainable forgiveness of yours.
To those slow-witted, yet perfectly deceitful
wives
who make such a righteous living,
forvever fucking you, and yours . . .
over on the side. . .
Showing all your so-called friends,
every inch of what lies
hidden just beneath their hooker’s armored hide.
To endless, well-deserved, shame and pain . . .
Held in trust . . . just for you.
but the huntress and her pride.
And to that agonizingly slow and painful death
that will be unknowingly paid by you, for your
concubines treachery.
Yess.
Follow me . . . foolish one.
Please, let me be your guide.
I wish all this upon you.
And just in case there actually is one,
I put in a prayer to God.
I even asked the sisters of the coven if
for me they’d cast a spell . . .
condemning you for forever and a day . . .
to a lifetime full of never anything more . . . or less
than always — empty promises . . .
and eternally broken dreams . . .
– just sharp enough for you to slash you own
traitorous wrists.
To a never-ending string of unsuccessful petty crimes . . .
To a life of truly loving only two-faced friends –
who will never, ever, love you back . . .
To those stunningly gorgeous, demonic sirens . . .
–and those seductive songs they’ll only ever
sing for you.
To their colorful, intricately drawn and beautifully
applied “Born to lose” tattoos . . .
prominantly displayed by them with pride,
in secret places, for all but you to see.
To your soul . . . sleeping in a cold, dark place . . .
–for every, single, one, of a thousand eternities.
To hand-blown goblets . . .
Made for you upon the other side of midnight
from always warm, blood-red crystal . . .
Forever kept full to their brims with only harsh
judgements . . .
their rims heavily salted, per your request . . .
with your lifetime’s mean rewards.
To the insane company of your new best friends . . .
the view of concrete and steel . . .
or velvet and mahoghony . . .
that will be all of what’s your just reward
until the end of your days . . .
and . . . hopefully, then some.
To my one remaining pleasant thought . . .
That in the end you’ll realize
that all of what I’ve preached to you is sadly
coming true . . .
Motherfucker . . . now you know.
This ain’t no fuckin’ hobby . . .
–this is what I do.
What I do/Just rewards
Rain — 6/8/2007
(Oh my. Oh dear. What can I possibly say to that? I am stunned. Blown-away. Truly. Fuck me. What did I do to deserve this honor? It’s like watching a car wreck, you know. As grotesque as it is you can’t take your eyes off it. Do I dare read more? What do you think, dear readers from the ever-faithful peanut gallery . . . shall we venture on? Very well then.)
I open the second envelope:
John,
as I stated in my other letter (with the long poem) I am incarcerated so I am limited in the formats I can send . . . I do check my e-mail regularly . . . it is [unreadable] and I check my voicemail also . . . [unpublishable]
Timeless, Within the Falling Rain, and Instinct have been on poetry.com. (enter Frey, Douglas to get to them) Instinct was published in a book titled “Eternal Portraits” I don’t really know how many other poems of mine are on that site . . . A friend of mine like to put the short ones up there . . . I have a few fundred finished works . . . as I said . . . they are my diary . . . It’s actually in a book form . . . I titled the thing as a whole “Fallen Rain.” I go by Rain as a nick-name and it was written when I have been “fallen” Though a few people have shown interest in the work as a whole . . . I have declined . . . if it goes out . . . it will go out in it’s dark, wicked, and unvarnished form, or not at all . . . I’d just be happy if someone would comment on them to me and possibly put them where someone could be touch by them . . .
D
yes . . . I know I sent one more then stated . . .
oh well . . . get over it!!!
(I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve certainly been touched. In fact, I think it’s safe to say I’ll never read poetry the same way again. Anyway, on to the poems.)
Said the Spider to the Fly
This is my house . . .
–this thing . . . my web.
It gives me life . . .
–this fine steel thread.
Sitting here, I always watch . . .
–seeing all that is not seen.
Some say my solemn patience is a virtue.
But . . .
What is it they mean?
Every day, the human drama is unfolding
all around me.
You’ll never know –
exactly what it is that you have done.
I see and feel with untold sadness –
Those vibrations carelessly left behind . . .
–caught within this web of chance that
I have spun.
Unchanged I sit . . .
–through your timeless generations.
Bearing witness to such hate –
as your disease destroys creation.
So . . . as, alone, I sit again . . .
–within my domain . . .
Silently, I’ll watch my life’s reflection —
painted in the tear within your eye.
I’ll always learn so much from others pain
Said the spider to the fly . . .
Instinct
If the reflection of a sorrowful moon is seen
deep within that destiny that’s been lost forever
within a bird’s blind eye . . .
and as I stand by and watch the cat get it’s meal . . .
I ask myself . . .
Why can’t I not eat my enemy?
Or . . .
Why can’t I save him from being so?
I can’t because it’s just not done.
The law of nature’s caught –
within what life’s spider’s spun.
So . . . siliently I wait . . .
as . . . inevitably, the predator eats it’s living meal . . .
To have pity breaks the chain.
It matters not to what we feel.
(At this point, I will spare you a poem entitled, “My Sadness.” It is the only poem not handwritten, but the printing is damn near microscopic. I’d go blind attempting to transcribe it.)
Timeless
Tortured soul twisted . . .
Electrified wrath . . .
A millenium spent searching . . .
I’ve walked along this thorny path
Virtuous flesh . . .
dark desires unknown . . .
The mistake I once made –
through theh bloodletting shown . . .
I’ve heard the hearts of the innocent ones.
This is my dark list . . .
From it, I cannot run . . .
Moving through time . . .
Within this dark circle with holds us all.
Creature of the night . . .
Come unto this dark one’s call.
My destiny has been forever sown –
into the everlasting darkness, too few have
ever known
With such focussed sadness –
I’m searching for an answer . . .
The timeless mystery of my birth . . .
Is it destiny of chance?
And what’s it really worth?
Within the Falling Rain
–pure, insane genius you shall find,
soon you’ll know I’m not your kind.
As I walk on alone . . .
–you’ll be left behind.
I can see with pristine clarity,
all the things that you cannot.
–giving life to an illusion,
that once was only thought.
It seems that we are sometimes trapped,
in a wicked maze of sin.
Forever we play this game of chance,
that we can never win.
Moving on with no direction . . .
–I’m like a fish without a fin.
I pray again for some connection,
for I know not where I’ve been.
Tomorrow I’ll be touched once more,
with a black and subtle pain . . .
–by that time that’s once more calling,
from within the falling rain.
So, okay . . . there you have it — the poetic stylings of Douglas Frey. What do you think, dear readers? Are you touched? Feel free (very free) to comment honestly. I encourage it. This guy is crying out for attention. Let’s give him some.
September 26th, 2007 at 11:06 am
I pity you John, I truly, deeply pity you.
Here’s some e-chocolate and a big cup of Espresso.
Wow, this guy completely reminds me of some moron I know on the internet called ‘Dreamingofvamps2005′, some freaking redneck-hag who thought she was talented by comitting copyright infringement.
Basically; writing Anne Rice fan-fiction and other junk she considered to be ‘poetry’.
Quizilla’s loaded with shitty emo poetry, so I reckon that the drivel this guy puked out fits in right there under the label of ‘attention-depraved emo kid.’
October 3rd, 2007 at 6:01 pm
ROTFLH
This guy sucks!!!
You sure he isn’t in prison for his writing? Could be somebody read it and died.