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anetra clark
anetra clark lives in kalamazoo, mich. a writer/musician, she is heavily influenced by beat literature, surrealism, independent movies, punk and jazz. she has played the drums since age three, and plays with the local kalamazoo punk band buddhachrist.

Works on this page:
the rogue saints
subterranean rats
winter midnight
breakfast metaphysics


The Rogue Saints

We bring to you mad and true-ourselves
We have bit down and tasted the salty groan of rage, chewed on its mass
And felt our aching jaws quiver with the painstaking task of ingestion
Yet in some sort of masochistic rapture, enjoyed every minute of it
We've felt fury rumbling- deep down inside
Building to explode in a satisfying orgasmic releasing seratonin overload
We have descended into the scalding bowels of hell as prisoners of love
Turned inside out with tender organs exposed
And had our still beating hearts plucked from their casings and devoured
Like tasty Parisian Hors-d'oeuvre's
We have kissed the swollen lips of utopia
And immersed inside the comforting waves of bliss
Intoxicated with life
Injected with fire
Seduced by words and akin to music
We have found and surrendered to a state of unequaled contentment
Where the sun's rays drip honey all golden
A place of liquid rainbows, candy clouds, asphalt spiders
Soft blue fog, and bohemian angels
Wonderful cataclysmic mental work sheds
And cherry winged swans
We crave the meat of existence
We are slaves of experience
Junkies on the surreal holy streets of our own consciousness


We want truth, truth in words

Stripped of its sugar coated flesh bare boned raw and throbbing
Words of passion-no smoke blown up the perpetual asshole of sentiment

Words: rotted and diseased words that molest yr tongue and
Opens yr minds eye.
Deep words digging in the moist metaphysical earth, mining for truth
Bitter red words
Sticky yellow words
Words that rip out the fatty tissues of an argument
Cold words
Words that make yr heart swell and yr genitals bloom
Secret juicy tepid words THE SHIT YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM
Speak them without fear of retribution
Words on which to cut yr teeth
No filler
Just nakedness
Rotgut absolute

Subterranean Rats

Somewhere In the absence of time I light a cigarette
And wake up calm and clear, it's a wave like presence man
The kind that will drown you and your kind
Filling up every greasy cavity you have

When you gorge yourself on the intellectual viscera of others
You ultimately starve in the end

Once I wanted to be a photographer
Pipe dreams of the past
Now I can catch still frames in my mind and
Put them away for safe keeping

And when all is said and done
And you see what you're really ingesting ...
Dripping at the end of your fork is rotten meat
In a gravy of Ectoplasm and Sage

Bon appetite

So many creatures pass before me in their sickly wake
And I can smell their conformity
A stench so thick and heavy
It's a presence all its own

I walk along the sandy streets, once lined in buildings and lights
But now just an occasional dry breeze and dust
From city streets slick with black rain
Drenching the concrete jungle with nature's saliva

To the desolate brown parched expanse
Where scarabs scuttle, piss, and die

People are like fleshy puppets, born dead
Reality's womb is colder, smaller, and less likely to let you go
Of course there are ways to escape but very few choose that route

They choose a stagnant, lifeless, group experience
Where the winter snow rots like milk and curdles
What individuality has not already frozen over

I am free to go! I am fearless!
I suck the snake oil out if the marrow
Leaving everything else for the uninformed
Thick circles of flies buzzing around the blood in the oatmeal
Pooling into black or drinking the bile of your fear on the rocks
With a twist of lime

I like the way it all slides off my tongue and piles up at the bottom
Of my self created abyss
Soon I can bathe in it and float my rubber duck across its acidy terrain

It's a crazy beat, it's a dull roar, and I don't give a fuck if it's pretty!

I am the subterranean rat with its bloody tail in its paws!

My path is the muddy one
I don't sleep for sleep is the cousin of death
Heaven is the absence of hell
And hell is the absence of hope

Drink it up
Spit it out
Punctuate it with a smokers cough and
Ride it out!

Winter Midnight

Words to prose, shrieks to gasps
Air-breathing-rapturous laughs
Chords brimming with secret ingredients
Telling the story of time and emotion
Entranced, eyes closed
Shut out to the world
But tuned in to the sound
Rustling images scurry through the mind
It's the fluid river of a spacious orchestra performing
Tickled strings, thunder sun drums, and hard horns
Silver-tongued prose poets
Rimbaud hustlers and Baudelaire addicts
All under a sky fat with pinprick stars
Discover yourself! Break molds!
Ease down inside your mind -
Floating on a cloud of invincibility
Air light and blanket night
When it speaks to you
And it will ...

Breakfast Metaphysics

I can get my kicks, sit back light a cigarette and ponder the inner recesses of my
mind-contemplating ultimate reality as a deep pond of time its surface so congealed with
uncertainty some can no longer see their reflections.

I can put on some sweltering amphetamine bebop and groove to crushing mad
decibels while stepping outside the orderly confines of the senses sucking out juicy
segments of oranges and ontology.

I can drink cup after demon cup of heavy sugared mad black coffee digging the
idealistic classifications of "what is ..."

I am not grounded in reality stuck in the gluey quicksand of being - which
threatens to suck in some and hold them complacent to the regular Joe Shmoe John Doe
Suzie Q Public's mortgage mentality.

I am not afraid to walk the plank of reason with the immanent possibility of doing
a swan dive into the salty ocean of madness.

I am hip to the fact that consciousness is NOT all Epistemic bullshit.

I want to wander ...

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