Daniel Hazelhoff : writer, poet, rapper

(Epileptic Lights Of Life)
To whom have left life
In death or in rhythm,
To those raped In taxicabs,
Bleeding under the blinking neon lights,
That disguise all,
From The Battling eyes of Barking Beasts
Beating, bating, debating
Brussels or Berlin.
To heads lost to themselves
Lost under opium or starving mind.
To Chimes of prophets forgotten and forlorn
In the eternal face of memory,
In the infernal loss of carnal touch, and righteous winds of blues, or Jazz.
To the worn out mother and priest,
And unfortunate milkman.
To heathens survived, brooding in the unforgivable light.
Plight, brother,
To that that is ale
To she who is alone
To he that heeds no warning of loss,
Or suffering.
Fool you, I.
In the curves of the wake of the last one in the cold train,
Leaving forever lost.
To the friend that needs me nor you no more,
To the partner that left us as whore,
Epileptic lights of life.
Fiend,
Fathers on Benzedrine and bad habit,
Mothers on money and lust for life,
Uncles on whores and bartenders,
Aunts with liars and thieves,
Thieves with thirst for the night,
On trains,
Speaking German and Dutch and Italian.
Speaking French and not understanding,
Speaking romance, and love not giving a fuck,
Seekers of cock and pussy,
Seekers of death and life,
Seekers of I
Seekers of you,
Seekers of naught.
In the forbidden alley ways of youth,
With needles and paint and trifled hair,
In the derelict charm of fun and debt,
With lost thong and necks laced, heaves never to be found again,
In the desert of the self,
Where dust and water lack prevails
Epileptic Lights Of Life.
To be holy,
To be free,
To be impossible in our own nature,
To be beast and man,
To be priest and pedophile,
To be lawyer, seeker of truth, and liar,
To be president and CEO,
To be atheist anarchist punk,
Dancing in the amphetamine machinery of fat white men,
To be hippie spreading love getting nowhere,
But to insanity and deprived mind.
To be death.
Let us rest world,
For the many are weary,
Blinded by these
Epileptic Lights of life,
where
Determinists persist their foul taste of truth.
Art thou worth farce with thine art?
Is art anything but lies, reflections of an irrelevant self or some ethereal collective consciousness?
Are the rats and the cockroaches any less real,
Than how we shape and form deniable plausibility, and thus so we let the rich reek,
And the poor steep low,
Selling our time and our dignity to get some crust.
The scared eyes in the unforgivable dusk, of women and men and broken wet back.
Must we proceed?
Must we succeed?
When to do so is slavery,
Is hurt,
Is self-deprecation,
Loyalty to a nation, woman or man,
That doesn’t give a flying fuck if you ram your head against the wall,
Seeking courage,
Avoiding withdrawal.
Seamless wenches of fought wars with nothing won.
Sons and daughters left alone in the filthy wind,
Next to churches,
And charities,
And lies.
Crushing California into crematorium dust,
Living liquid dusks
And unforgivable solid mornings,
Lucid dreaming about rape and fantastical pleasures,
Nightmares of wakes, tides risen, drowning in the Valencian sun,
Ripped gut cumming, finding beauty in the hideous, in the dark chambers of the mind.
Sat in lemon trees where the thorns teach us of futures and present,
When the past is nothing more than a vague memory,
Wisps of childhood and innocence, and farce.
Blinded by these
Epileptic lights of life.