I'M Still Hearing the Voices

They say 'you've got it kid', but first you gotta rid yourself of all that fakery, the constructed rhyme like rye and flour primed to exit out the bakery, and you cannot, should not loaf, or doubt anything you ever wrote, it's progress- but what path to take? Should I break apart, the seeming apparition of life and love that is gained and lost in boxcars moving across the prairies in spiritual unison- What is to be done with this poet who I found hiding under a flithy sheepskin? And what of our Sanfrancisco flower blooming in scattered graveyards where the pounding Beat has died, and decomposed decisively around small parts of the world, inside the mutant hearts of shivering canadian poets who continue crave the corpse. Another voice would say: The hell with all these rat bastards! True art is what you stick with, hell or high water, so you can take criticism and flush it down the toilet, like the American Dream. You are your own God, because that son of a ***** left for good during The War, Thus, Thy choice in art is feuled by love, and love be feuled by truth, so open up thy lonely eyes, and see in thee the proof. There are so many voices, and each constrain my words to a vision of past greatness, and new poetry, shall be a combination, an alchemy of fire and ice, foreign and domestic, the self humming in unison with the universe, vibrating time and space, in pure emotion, organized choas, contained and made conscious, experienced, and purged from the self in verse.