The Fury

Seaweed

My Funeral by Eric Sparks

The only price of admission is one tab of acid dropped lightly onto your tongue. As you walk through the door, you'll be handed a basket that contains damn near all kinds of drugs. It is required that you all dress in bright colors and that everyone wear shorts, not pants. In addition, extra drugs will be awarded to those who wear sunglasses, hats, and/or masks.

During the first hour, while the drugs wait to kick in, my friends will build a fire that roars into the sky and lights up the dark night with flames the height of a telephone wire. At this point in the evening, my guests shall smoke spliffs, drink beer, and play games of every sort. And I promise the necessary supplies will be politely supplied to build the world's largest pillow fort.

Once the drugs have kicked in and everyone's properly twisted, the speeches will begin. Tell the world of my origins; describe my losses and wins; tell them how much I loved my kin. And then tell my stories of glory; my class was the warrior elite. Remind them I took drugs, but only quietly, then describe how strong my hugs were and how I only responded to love. Do your best to do me justice; I only put my trust in you.

Once the speeches are finished, it will be time for dinner, and they''ll serve my favorite meal. You'll eat bacon filled waffles with ice cream on top and won't stop until you've had your fill. The night will end with a giant, Eric-shaped bomb, some cheers, and a sharp explosion. And if you forget everything else, remember me in that moment.

Fine, I'll Do It Pt. 2 (Just a Poem about a Dream) by Eric Sparks

I once took a walk through the forest
and as I was stepping over logs, I saw
a small frog who was jumping along,
I probably would have let him be if he
hadn't reminded me of a certain writer that
I always wanted to be. So I followed him along
as he croaked a mournful song until we
reached his destination. It was a fallen space station
that was only filled with books. I took one look
through the titles and I became slightly bothered;
the names that I saw were only my favorite authors.

Sartre Jr. Goes to the Doctor by Eric Sparks

I remember how my finger tips felt when they took my finger prints,
alien. And I wouldn't linger another minute if they had said that I was finished.
Help. All I wanted was to leave that clinic; my self had been abolished and diminished. Hell.
I stiffened up, went rigid, when they told me not to fidget. Bells. I heard them tolling
in the distance. I asked the doctor why and he told me it was Christmas. Christmas already?
But I hadn't made my wishlist. Well, that wasn't my fault; Santa never listened. My presents went missing.

In Case I Wasn't Clear by Eric Sparks

Last night, the moon was stunning. It was bright, but not full.
Instead, it was the shape of a crescent except that here,
where I am, it did not look like a bear claw or a "C" like it always did at home.
Last night, the moon appeared as a smile or a "U" as if he was saying,
"You are more important than me."

Thou Art True by Eric Sparks

In the same way that dead puppies are true,
which is to say that shit does happen and Freud
could spend eternity researching the shit
that happened to happen to you.
And I do miss you, in the same way I miss rusty nails in my foot,
which always remind us that life could be worse, but I would swim
bare-ass naked through a pool of those nails before I dealt with you again.
So on a happier note, I will probably never hear your cat-killing
voice again and you will never read this.

A Poem for Charles Bukowski by Eric Sparks

Just because I struggle
for every word,
doesn’t mean that I cannot write.
I just know how important,
the perfect poem is.

And on some days
the words tumble out of me,
with little to no effort, and I step back
and read what I hardly thought.

Other times,
it is all just shit,
so I close my computer
and my notepad, for I know that
day’s battle is already lost.

But generally, I think.
I think so hard that after I’m done,
all that is left
of my ragged brain is beautiful,
and I put that on the paper,
as best I can,
and call myself complete.

Take This Here (he says) by Eric Sparks

It’s flavored happy.
And then try this fruit,
it reminds me of sweaters.

(i think) Oh shit,
I love this, its
just like,
when mom
would hug me…

Take a bite of this apple, (he pleads)
Chew and then swallow,
Feel the clouds on your tongue,
And the sun in your stomach.

(he asks) Does it remind you of winter,
of warmth by the fire,
or maybe of spring,
of waking up clean?

No, (i say) its better than that,
This pear tastes like my favorite shoes,
like her cuddles, or mud puddles
like breaking the rules.

(he grins) Try the berries now,
(he says) relax in the sun,
don't they feel like a nap?

Close (he orders) your mind,
and sleep your stress
away.

He’s right, (I sigh), I feel,
like I want. I'm lost in a thunderstorm;
he's the one holding my hand.

Careful, (he laughs) I know,
how you feel, (he warns) but while this fruit
tastes like love,
its laced with the numb.

A Recognition Undervalued by Eric Sparks

I want to make you love him.

But I probably can’t.
I mean, these words never did work
quite as well on you
as they did on everyone else.

But anyways, he doesn’t get high;
and will only drink in moderation.
He hates his homework
and he does it anyways. Besides,
you shouldn't overlook how hard
he tries to try his best.

I know he’s not an artist;
He’s not Picasso, Neruda,
or Warhol. He’s not
Marley or Lennon
or Socrates.
Fuck, he’s not even me. But
lets not lie to ourselves;
we all know that’s probably
for the best.

So he’s not the greatest speaker;
remember that there are far worse things to lack
than the innate ability to mumble an intriguing conversation.

He’ll do what he supposed to,
bring home bacon and milk.
He was raised to believe that would make you happy.
How can you blame him for that?

Don’t misunderstand me:
don’t compromise your societal values,
don’t stray from your personal morals,
just consider you might not be so different,
I mean, most people aren’t.