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emily rogers

Emily Rogers is a 19-year-old poet and writer living in Arlington, Texas, and thinks of herself as a mad and laughing dissident inflamed with a beatnik spirit. She enjoys heavy metal music, coloring books, and fighting for personal freedom. she draws inspiration from d.a. levy & allen ginsberg. this is her first published work. brokenelevator@hotmail.com


prana, prana breath of solitude,
breath of oneness in a dual god,
prana breath of energy, breath of
creativity, prana electric
fireflies caught in a
black wave, prana breath of
pulse, prana my only pulse,
prana the brilliant pulse...
prana the hindu sexuality
the tibetan lust
buddhist tantric touching
prana the phallic overtones
in fingers eyes and words
prana breath of intimacy,
intimacy with divinity,
sex with deity,
prana making love with yr
ancient self-created god
& god laughs and exhales
prana to feed you
again and again prana and again
prana the carbon dioxide of the holy
that becomes the oxygen of the mundane
prana the divine filth that becomes
the seed of intense mortality
making sacred, to bring us all home
prana the breath of prana
the breath of prana
the breath of prana


in heaven in hell

no one remembered to tell me and now
i really dont know
if i can repeat
the actions of my past
...they should have told me that i would need this feeling again
i would have held it closer, with
clawing arms
not like i didnt try, but it was so far
away out of my grasp
there's no love in my head ­ my mind
            my body
there's nobody home
no love left at all
& the skin i'm in
doesn't fit and never sits right
won't contain the beast
it was designed to contain
maybe i should be a lesbian ­ my shrink says ­
i say i used to like cock
& i
want to get out of this hole of flesh anyway
want to escape this blinding
brilliant laser eye of god
sweeping over me and altering things
ruining things
there's no rule against throwing the blame off my shoulders...
so much weight there already
i might be reduced to ashes before the night is over
pulverized by the pressure of feeling
the pressure of love
the love i don't have and don't know where to find anymore
the love i stopped looking for and can only peer at through the glass
my memories vague and pretentious
i long for dreamerie obscure and escaping
where i can stew in false hopes forever
precious boiling point
don't tell me i dont know about heaven and hell
fuck you
i am in heaven in hell all the time
fuck you

why the soul takes a hero

...write so many poems about ginsberg
it's a laugh i know
want so bad to find a replacement christ
a hero
someone i can see in the mirror, a divine totem
want so bad to identify
with revolution, the minds
that spawned a generation of
cultish ideas & weirdness & eccentricity
& the future is in their eyes....eyes like burning coals,
over a hundred years burning
and i look up at night
with revel and respect
where my place is among them,
burning coal minds, the throne of god
if my soul even smolders.
desperate to find a way to meet myself,
divine spark within
and laziness is belial
the awful worm
words fear coming
run away from scared pen in scarred hands
                scared hands
my soul winds away
my soul winds and wastes away
& in the end
i wonder if the punishment will be just
& i wonder how much a motive
has to do with it
wonder if some people
just born to be degenerate
wonder if the illusions i
i say that i see
are illusions after all
question even the sanctity of mind, must question
where sanctity would dare to tread,
my mind the polluted wasteland of filth and excrement,
a still white ring of distortion­
question even the haloes over hallowed ground
this skull
this skull
is that all?
seems to be ­ stuck here in this
tormented contentment...  hearing eliot call,
and it's ash wednesday,
telling me the greater torment ­
the greater torment ­
i suppose god's greatest torment ­
driven insane by the bleat of his followers
a madman in the sky raining
manna and water
and i wonder what will come of this life i'm living
if i will have the strength to rise out of
this hole called reality
if i am not the madman in the sky after all
wild godmind within
so anxious to reclaim the lust that was mine
so anxious to eviscerate the innards of history
the innards of personal history mad and suffering
the innards of personal history mad and weeping
willing to tear it all to shreds,
just at this moment ­ for anything -
have to alleviate
tell me why i am wrong.
mental responsibility ­ personal integrity ­
i dont give a shit for anything except reclaiming the wholeness of love
love being the only truly edifying experience
love being the only enlightener
i may become enlightened in the mundane glow
i may come to find that the mundane is the only life i'll ever know
and i may come to find that everything i have to say is bunk
and i'm not the messiah,
but as long as i'm shooting for love
i'll welcome it all in,
even in my darkest and terrible hour
even in the terrible hour.


ripoff on a theme

allen i'm with you in rockland
where you have taught me how to write
allen i'm here in this hellhole
with my orange tinted eyes
i've got nothing to say but a flesh implication ­
i'm losing my right to be asexual,
losing my divinity here,
               where i am going mad and not in Rockland ­
these are the last breaths of my artistic life -
i am damning myself
i am damned by heaven
i am lost in this...unfamiliarity of thought
i wanted to say something about life and
feeling unhuman -
i fear i'm failing ­
allen i lost rockland a long time ago
allen the only eternity is the one we don't want
allen i'm sorry to write these poems to you
in such a masturbatory fashion-
in rockland i find my uselessness
at the bottom of the mine
and i've stopped digging here -
this is the last great requiem i will write to you, allen
this the last revelation
singing songs for my own absurdity ­
what will i learn from this?
         failed word association
         failed asphyxiation
eventually something will come to me i know
the last and great burden of the human race
a purpose...



I haven't been reading very much lately,
mr. ginsberg, and i find that i am
suffering for the lack of it
does that surprise you in any way?
you see-of course, you know-
it's getting harder to focus on the words
on the page...
i feel as though i were about to explode
you know?
like a bullet in iraq
like a bullet in kuwait, a bullet in afghanistan,
a bullet in some other nation where people are busy
blowing the fuck out of each other
like a bullet in america
like a bullet in ol' Dubya's back
like a bullet in my own
rotting skull
or like a testicle
to the point of expulsion ­
you would understand, i'm sure.
tell me, mr. ginsberg, where am i going to get the courage
to read again?
not in school ­
there's nothing to be found in the school system anyway
the school system that doesn't accommodate learning disorders
the school system that won't let you read The Color Purple
because of it's own homophobia
the school system that won't let a guy get an education
because his dad committed suicide,
as though that made a difference in whether or not that guy
is going to need a college degree
to make enough money
to live with himself....
no, allen
no, sir
i ain't got no faith in education
ain't got no faith in the gubberment
ain't got no faith in capitalism
ain't got no faith in religion
i ain't got nothin'
not even the ability to read ­
and dubya says,
but i'd like to take this moment to introduce you
to my inner child...

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