So I rant…

[Originally posted elsewhere.]

Sitting among people makes me think, and it’s usually negative and cynical. Sometimes I get the feeling to rant about it, share my feelings, even if it is only with some_obscure_file.txt that will never be seen by the light of day. Then I get to thinking about 15 years ago when I started the F.U.C.K. text file series. they were always published without dates with the intent that the content would be relatively timeless. The goal there was to encourage authors (and remind myself) that we should be looking at the bigger pictures, stay broad, don’t get trapped in one little facet of an issue. all these years later, did they do any good? Did one person read them and not grow up to be a douchebag? Even now as i write this and post it on an obscure blog read by seven people, will it do any good? I guess these days I know that 99.99% of writing is white noise and lost in the background. Relying and instilling faith in search engines is pretty disturbing, but that is how people find most writing like this. Unfortunately for most authors, people don’t google “why society sucks” and if they do, tend not to find this type of material.

Poetry #51: reason

[This was originally published in F.U.C.K. poetry Issue #51. The publish date is approximate.]


	comfort leads to the path of love
	some sort of mirror reflecting essence
	illogical thought forming a bond
	we brand it with an 'L' word and don't care beyond
	simple satisfaction and shreds of happiness
	pursuit of a better mental state
	looking for more good than bad
	even that is reason
	almost logic of sorts

Poetry #50: enjoy

[This was originally published in F.U.C.K. poetry Issue #50. The publish date is approximate. It was originally written August 17, 1999.]


	longing, wishing, wrenching, cutting my guts out.
	to find the culmination of happiness
	a world of time spent pursuing
	dreams, beauty, love, art or anything else
	the eternal happy ending with tearful music playing
	slow motion kiss as the world explodes around you

Poetry #49: nowhere to go

[This was originally published in F.U.C.K. poetry Issue #49. The publish date is approximate. It was originally written August 15, 1999.]


	dark shadow of my pen, in wavering candle light
	lead me to a promised land, where words meet wit
	where unabashed i may say as i feel, write as i want
	a place where the clock doesn't hound me, chasing
	life's little unacceptable pleasures par for everyone
	music flows free in all its forms, backing my words
	as if to say i am a lyrical poet, but not
	rather, reprimand me for another misguided soul
	aching by. looking for a sea of tranquility
	to drown in, enjoy a jade shade of pain. bleak
	ending in resolution of a black sheet covered bed
	candle. incense. delirium. solitude. pen and paper

Poetry #45: little piece of my soul

[This was originally published in F.U.C.K. poetry Issue #45. The publish date is approximate.]


	little piece of my soul

	ridiculed out of place
	spit it back in his face

	remove that shred of pride
	by telling him that he lied
	
	revel in his heartfelt pain
	his feelings to you inane

	watch his life crumble to despair
	tell your friends he treated you unfair
	
	cold and cruel your eyes
	their look says one thing: despise

	abusing him your natural high
	how many ways you crucify

	take a little piece of my soul

Poetry #44: fight

[This was originally published in F.U.C.K. poetry Issue #44. The publish date is approximate.]


	kick back, turn down the time and focus
	thinking of a deeper relationship so far gone
	wondering and hoping to see it return
	state of happiness often unmatched   
	with bliss came strife, hand in hand 
	the worst of those times still more real than today's fantasy
	fighting lead to resolution lead to heaven
	each wanting to show our love could be as fierce as our hate
	times like those brought such clarity and comfort
	negated any ill will brought on before
	boldly cast it aside in favor of emotional balance and physical pleasure
	these days, i'd kill for those old fights...

Poetry #42: another bump

[This was originally published in F.U.C.K. poetry Issue #42. The publish date is approximate.]


eyes blind to the sun
i feel my faithless soul
pour forth from fingertips

if not the need to feel
flight from pain would be king
seven elements of strife i dare not define
a worthy partner may bring three
more lends to reconsider
crown of pain that blinds
unfeeling sympathy turned inward
familiar numbness quicker to take
drag back the solitude as it slithers away
reconstruct the shell few could break
her forgiven, myself reduced to shame
and with the passing wind
another bump in life, forgotten but felt

#579: Rest In Peace

[F.U.C.K. is an e-zine that I started on January 24, 1993 and ended on January 24, 2000. One concept is that articles should be timeless if possible, so they were not released with dates. This was the only file released with a date.]


They say that all good things must come to an end. If they were truly good, I doubt they would end.

To many, this file should not come as any surprise. With the last year came very few releases for the zine. Many say the quality of them had gone down as well, but that is a matter of personal taste.

I am well aware of the arguments for keeping the zine alive. It takes no effort to just leave it on the back burner and not kill it off. While true, I think it does a disservice to our readers. It gives them the illusion that it will one day come back and be an active publication. Mind you, based on submissions it easily could be. However, on the part of those running it, the inflow of new articles is still not enough to keep the interest.

I have been thinking for the past week or so on how to end this zine. A journal of sorts that has lasted most of my adult life. Seven years in the making. A sounding board to dozens of people who felt it was the best voice to carry their thoughts and feelings. The zine was being read worldwide before the first issue was posted to an Internet FTP site. Having that kind of readership at the time was a phenomenal tool to the handful of writers.

Rather than end this with a long rant, I think it more appropriate to end it on a short note. From here on out, F.U.C.K. is dead. While not impossible, it is quite improbable that it will be brought back to life. New rants and articles can be found on my new hobby, Attrition (www.attrition.org).

After this file is posted to the FUCK mail list (fuck@attrition.org), I will open the list for unmoderated discussion. That will leave the wouldbe writers a forum to share their ideas. I also encourage the writers who submitted files that were not published to resubmit them to other zines. Just because I didn’t get around to your file doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth reading. Further, FUCK Poetry Venture will continue on. Submissions to jericho@attrition.org, subscribe to the list by mailing majordomo@attrition.org with ‘subscribe fuckpoem’ in the body of the message.

It’s been a fun ride.

Disorder
aka Jericho

Jan 24, 1993 – Jan 24, 2000