Ryan’s Poetry Archives
.Hallucinogenic Lover
You
are
here.
so
very
far,
from
every
thing
that
is
real.
you
are mine, (mine)
rather
imagin(e) a tory…
[ d
a
n
c
e upon
this city,
in symbiosis.
(our bodies)
ours
is the tale of
legend. ]
(wake up.)mylady,
before the sunlight
swallows you
whole.
- -
my breath drew bombs
that
upon your chest, fell through the
cracks,and crevices,
and slowly made it’s way to your heart.
From there, they lay, and cocoon,
until oneday they
explode,
into butterflies and lift you higher and higher
away from me,
into the sky.
(where
dreams wait
for
night to
grab a hold
of unsuspecting
travelers)
A New Tie
in the last moments before the
ground, the pianist contemplated
astrology
and the polar bears, and
what were to happen
if the ice caps
were to melt, sending the
planet hurtling towards the sun
, and instant evaporation.
(the icarus effect he named it)
also, he concluded
that einstein was a monster
and cummings was a fraud
(“oh he just makes up random
shit as he goes along and expects
us to rave on about it like he’s
a fucking genius!”)
and the best poets have yet to be
born, but scribe inside
embryo’s and carve on the walls
of their mother’s womb/tomb.
to cut a long story short,
he drank the asphalt
(or did he drunk it, considering
this is past tense?)
until pieces
of his body were stumbling around
the pavement, loaded as hell.
it was then he realized he forgot
to dress up for the occasion.
A Night Of Wine And Romancing
this black hole starves me,
rips flesh from bone
until all that hangs left
is wire and dust
in the shape of cobwebs
and trodden-down tapestry.
this lineage is that of liars
and murderers, wolves and
some who start church fires.
we were born on the railways
and sent to sea in the black
fog of midnight….
my love, my sweet love,
where are you? where have you gone?
i have been searching
all of my life for your gentle embrace
and here i stand, hugging nothing
but the thinnest of air,
thinking of you, whoever you are.
at three o’clock in the morning,
dealing with con artists and
cocaine smugglers,
third-world leaders. smoking
cigarettes, reaching for hooch;
i can no longer accept this.
i need you to appear to me so that
i may appear to you,
because all of these songs about
romance are becoming
too much for me to bare alone.
A Seed Trapped In the Cracks Of Ancient Roman Architecture. A Flower Will Bloom, The Vines Will Wrap Itself Around Stone, Lovingly.
Set apart by the seas which birthed us,
all wet-ravaged and senseless,
but we survived on good will and some luck I guess.
She was a hypochondriac
and I was a hypnotist, though I had long
since abandoned the profession
in search of words
and formulaic stanzas where I could tell her
that I would protect her from
all the bad in this world. I would tell her that we were immortal
and she would believe me.
So we would occasionally set sail
on broken arks, to kiss the horizon
and hug the open waters like we knew where we belonged;
for days, for months, for ever.
She was a flower and I was a scientist
in search for truth in this god forsaken world.
She sat upon architecture and
I admired her from afar. She would eventually die
while I defied and strive to bring her back
to a life much brighter then this.
My dear, I hear echoes of your voice trailing off in my thoughts
and my own voice sounds rather faint.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t occasionally
breath clouds of smog in cold November vapours
and trace your name inside of them with my fingers,
but thats okay, that’s alright.
One day I’ll be fine and though I can’t say for certain
maybe one day you will too.
After Me There Is Nothing
you are my destroyer,
my portal
to another world
i fear
one more wonderous
then this scrap of earthly
bounds
teathering
ones body
splintering through
time, i suppose.
you are my last
bullet
i sacrifice to the air
cleaving through
gravity’s
ancient, war-like push
until it finally succumbs
and falls before my feet.
liken this
to a song
lost
within the
churning waves
of it’s own dissonance,
like a sailor
gasping
for breath as
the tide
completely envelops him
beneath it’s
bosom.
i sink to the bottom
of this poem
as the bottom
of a bottle
where i have
yet to
find
you
but i still try.
And There Is No One Here For Me Either
loneliness
has left
me here.
alone,
ironically.
Art For The Kids
a day has passed since
the day a lady awoke to
a portrait on a soup can.
Re
in
vent
ing
the wheel are we?
Where was Andy Worhol
when Jesus came back to
town? He would
have shown him what for!
Instead, we now have
uninspired tragedies
and disappearing tissue paper.
Perhaps the next cultural
explosion will consist
of setting ourselves
on fire.
That would
be
cool.
At My Funeral
here i am
unraveling
in the
corner of
the room,
showing
myself
off to any
one who
cares to
see me
bleed,
twirling
like a string
like a
puppet,
like a swan
decaying,
i am up a
bove, i
am crumb
ling and
splin
tering
and you
cannot
stop me now,
for i will
die alone
between the
cross hairs
of winter.
at my funeral
you will
most likely
not be invited,
sorry to say.
Chemistry
I am the star blazing down hellfire, sanctioned from
above; you are the storm, ravaging the depths of the ocean.
Together we’re intoxicated in each other,
swirling and drowning and burning, living and dying
in our separate breaths.
We steal moments of isolation
we bang pots and pans to raise our attentions.
When you said to me that I was the only one on earth
you’d wish to carry your heart,
I faltered and it slipped from my hands;
when you picked it up, you gave it back to me,
we pressed on with the winds at our backs.
We are doomed to continue, mon chere. We are doomed.
Destined To Fade
I woke up this morning next
to a shotgun sleeping right beside me,
two shells left in it’s chamber.
The walls are cracking,
I fear they can all see me
if they really wanted to.
Looking outside
of my window, I can see them
and they know it,
I know they’re all in love
and I’m alone here
with two shells left,
tattered pieces of velvet
red, scattered across the creaky floor.
The radio has soul and funk
twenty four fucking hours of the night
and it sings to me
so I sing back, but in a dusty,
old voice.
I can never measure up
to the greats,
the way they speak poetry
to lips through their
tongues,
how their crowds scream
and wither about in unison.
I can never burn up in the sun,
it hates me far too much.
Electricity
dear god,
i ask of you:
what am i supposed
to do when everything begins
falling down?
when stars disintegrate from
the sky?
when structures
and monuments
crumble to ash?
when flowers wilt
and cry at the birth
of winter?
when angels take
off their wings
on the top floor
and hug the pavement
with their heavenly
embrace?
when an orchestra
plays a concert
of weepy voices?
do the strings crackle?
please tell me, why
these strings
crackle
where is the electricity
coming from?
why am i alone?
Elephant
there is a big
fucking elephant
in the middle
of the room,
tromping out a
grand overture
on the piano
as we
all get settled,
while sipping
down martini’s
out of a spotted
crystal glass.
soon it moves on
to sherry
until suddenly
the bottle of
rotgut wine
has disappeared too.
it wears a tuxedo
with a small bow tie
and pulls out
a fresh pack of
cigarettes
out of it’s front
left pocket,
takes one out
and lights it up;
puffs a few puffs;
inhales, exhales;
that sort of jazz.
it offers one to every
lady in the room
and soon it’s pack
is empty
so are the bottles
strewn around it’s feet
and the piano is tired
so it’s put to rest
and it passes out underneath
while the rest of us,
all leave the room silently.
the party is over
the night has ended
the morning will
peek out at us from behind
the stars soon.
whatever.
Fucked
the weight of the world
feels heavy on my chest
and i can feel the stars exploding
like cigarettes tossed
aside in the rain.
this empty hole to the left
of my heart
casts a shadow
across my barren flesh
and i said to him
“i know, man and it hurts.
love can tear you apart limb from limb
with no remorse, laughing.”
while thinking the
same about myself.
and she said to me
“poets are too breakable”,
such wisdom from someone
so young.
dear god, this feels like a song
played on repeat
forever more. this
stings like poison in my
gut, for the wine has vacated
the premises long ago.
where have all the women gone?
why did they leave without
a kiss goodnight?
my garden is nurtured in pestilence,
the flowers it grows mocks
me in the springtime.
Poem About Apologies
somewhere in the distance
a piano is struck, there are songs
to be sung into a burning campfire
acoustic children clap and dance,
wind chime sonnatas resonate
through the howling gusts of
jubilation and togetherness;
and i am here, in the thick of
darkness, losing my sanity
to the hum and churn,
to the push and pull, the every
routine shoved down my throat,
lost in my voice. I spit
agreement and swallow my pride
for another day.
in times like these, emotions are
pitiful at best. screaming
until your lungs hit the ground
in desperation leave
you nowhere but out of breath.
so what then?
what should i be feeling?
somebody tell me because
i do not understand.
i can no longer walk through
days, searching for
my lost soul amongst
the silent glares of others.
and their laughter.
oh god, their laughter…
i’m sorry for pissing on your parade.
i’m sorry.
Gawd Damn
hypo-allergic
volatile
misogynistic
guardrail
fuckup.
instantaneous
garageband
world tour
bodyrape.
cyclical
revolving
licenceplate
machete.
your
insanity
is written
in CAPITOLS
and lower
cases.
understanding
in a car crash
is always so
hard to come
by.
Habitation In Manhattan
This love of a carnivorous rose,
twisting in the palm of my 3am hand,
slowly blooming, ain’t it something?
When i fly into this city, transplanting my
body with some well tailored business man.
handsome and sturdy; cocksure, we’re the
perfect mismatch.
Winter blows harsh upon the wall street terrace,
there is the usual thundering of bodies
at 7am, throwing their mothers at each other,
using their skin as warmth, in preparation
for the next great depression.
On the other side, there are the poets,
in the gutters and the slums, madly withering away,
in a frantic scramble to write the “immortal poem”,
whose mothers have already left them,
for some well tailored business man,
in the summer of Manhattan 1989. Their
lovers are nowhere to be found, as if they never
existed, as if they left these men, these sad
lonely motherfucks, starving to death for their art.
(My ear bleeds into the Atlantic.
New York is sinking, beneath my feet! streetcars
are no longer operable, as a great wave
of ingenuity threatens to devour this land.)
I Look Towards The Heavens And Think…
“God, Almighty,
prancing like a fucking
martyr across
tundra in search of
a spare cigarette.
If Salinger was right
then I am doomed
upon my tiny cross for eternity
for my inexcusable reluctance
to witness beauty
in this world. Instead,” my mind
lingers, I apologize, “I find
myself each day confronting
my own personal damnation.
Filled with a bevy of
sluts and pistols and
pills to excuse of natural
hellish behavior. I
am in a desert, stranded
inside the mechanical confines
of a metropolis, bristling
with ignorance and blindness
and love, which I love
but am afraid
to confront, or
rather, acknowledge.
It’s complicated business,
going insane,
absolutely mental (choosing the proper suit, the perfect locations, food, drink, comforts, etc.)
yet still, completely rational.
I fear ego has
consumed me.
Bless my poor soul, haphazardly,
as irrational as
this poem
and maybe I
will die in my sleep tonight,
but, alas
I am
never that lucky.”
Karma
this pen is worthless and
flawed and failed
at one am in the
middle of an early summer
thunderstorm
i don’t know
what to do or
what to think
or how to act
so of course
i load up a shotgun
with shells filled
with liquor
and turn on some
music in case
anyone were to hear me
then i’ll drink
drink drink drunk
drink the night into
morning or
until i figure i’m
sorry for turning
out this way in the end
maybe if i’m
lucky i’ll vomit for
good measure
then light up a
cigarette and convince
you that it could
be a lot worse
but you won’t
believe me like
you believed me last
time and even
less than the time
you believed me
before that
so at this point
i’ve given up
convincing you and
have focused on
convincing myself
because its mostly
easier
i’m probably wrong, i
usually am but
its okay if i forget
because sometimes
its the best part,
forgetting about
how things will
turn out
or how things
already did turn
out
sometimes its not
alright to be
forgotten, but
hey, i figure its
karma
y’know?
Kelly’s Poem
hey, kid. Its a
tough place
there at the
bottom
of
the
barrel,
licking the wood stained wine,
drunk before
noonlight, fishing
for ambulances,
in the frozen lakes
of the city.
It gets cold out here
in the death of
autumn, and there is
always the threat
of shaky foliage.
I could
tell you about how the colours
blend together in
a magnificent, toxic swirl.
but i’d rather tell
you about the heartbeats,
the thousands upon thousands
of heartbeats, ive counted
in between
our sentences…
and how five hours has never felt so far away
Kind Of Like Insomnia
Though I keep my eyes closed,
I have doubt in my ability to fall asleep tonight.
Take apart my head, piece
by piece, thought by thought and
lay down the evidence,
scattered all around the bed.
Say goodbye to warmth
and stability. Say goodbye to love.
Say goodbye to you
and to I tonight. The truth is that I have been spending
my nights with a mistress
with a name I cannot disclose.
Each night I am reminded
that I am not alone. We have never met
in person, but my every fear
is known to this being; my mind
is turned on, leaked like a faucet.
The water of my
insecurities drip into speakers, amplified until
it explodes.
My breathing, once rhythmic and calm,
evolves ferociously
as I am reminded of myself in
speeds unsafe,
terrible and discordant.
You may ask why I cannot reveal the identity of
this person. To which I will reply:
“It is neither a question of gender, nor love.
This is not a consensual act of passion,
but an experience of life of which I cannot escape.
This person will never unveil his or her physical form
because my imagination will never allow myself to witness
such terror. To this I believe I am being controlled
by a demon of my own creation, a person who
in reality does not truly exist, but thrives within my soul.
Built like a machine, from bone to rust, with magnificent
pillars that reach towards the confines of infinite space.
My darker half resides inside of a makeshift purgatory.”
I do not believe in god, however I believe in faith.
Faith derived from hope. Hope
such as the will to arise the next day
when sunlight bleeds through cracks (old war wounds)
of my consciousness.
I do believe that I will not sleep tonight.
This is my religion.
King For A Day
somehow its like i’ve begun
talking about mascara in
these poems like i’m referring
to crumbling world war two
monuments in war torn
germany or something. it is
almost as if every time i
see a pretty lady on
the street i fall apart,
erode slowly in front of them
passing by like
cupid’s arrows missing
me again
and again. i think i’m
pathetic and i make bad decisions,
i think i’ve popped too many
pills today because it’s
midnight and all
i can see are rainbows
and starlight. this town
has opened up its gaping
jaw and tried to swallow me whole
but i’m jumping from tangents
and landing softly in
the wonderful future’s embrace.
Lay Waste To The Gallows
lets see if we can do this again,
lets write about love like we mean it
like its not cold and heartless
and brittle, like
a flower
wilting and dying in midst of
spring, all while this winter’s
deathly chill threatens to wrap its
bone-like fingers across my
spine for another year.
lets talk about love like we actually
think it exists. the both of us
we can do this, we can make it happen.
together we can expel the demons
from our past, shake off skeletons
and start fresh, like a blank canvas
and i’m painting you the
most beautiful picture of architecture in the world.
and i’m drawing us beside it.
lets talk about distance,
that old friend,
how it mocks me so
and reminds me on a daily basis
where i stand in this world
and where i spin.
because the world is always spinning,
spinning, and i’m not
always there to slow it down
and neither are you. sometimes
you’re over there,
which might as well be
atop a frozen glacier of
a mountain top, or waiting for me
at the bottom of the sea,
arms stretched open
mocking embrace
forcing me to believe in something
thats rarely ever there.
maybe thats it,
maybe love is like a religion
something we believe in, have faith in,
wish to be true.
tell me, darling, are you true?
because i need to know.
i cannot spend any more time
wasting away without food
or sleep, or sex, or cigarettes
and definitely alcohol…
i need to know before this fire
consumes me and i am not whole again.
i need to know before i lay waste
to the gallows and drown all public nooses
in a brave attempt to show you i care.
i need to know for my own sanity,
because i love you.
Let My Heart Sink Towards The Great Leviathan
sometimes the way the wind breathes into my lungs
reminds me of you and when i speak in protest towards it
i hear your voice echo through, but that doesn’t matter anymore
i’ve left that ship burning in the sea. i’ve torn the pages out
and exposed to the world the words of my diary
in the form of love letters and terrible poems lacking in inspiration
but the words i’ve felt still burn holes into my skin, i’m afraid.
i remember waiting patiently for your grand arrival
and when you showed up, i lay forth a bouquet of lilies,
but dear, that wasn’t enough to stop the inevitable
and flirting with distances always brings the worst out of me.
i am a sketch of a man
a lost soul doomed to walk this earth alone
because there is no god in the sky and this land aches with trepidation.
the ocean has dried up,
you can see the boats
lay waste at the very bottom where anchors were dropped and
souls have vanished. ten thousand men lost, ravaged with apprehension
and an unforgiving sky laughing and mocking them.
i hate this winter with every fiber of my being, it sucks the life out of me
leaves me, an empty husk, a forgotten vessel, punctured and frozen
in time. so this boat dreams from a hill afar of a place but of what, i do not know.
i am an army at siege, a battalion at war, i sling guttersongs from the railways
and conform to the very things i abhor. i drink myself into a stupor
and i’ve admitted to popping my share of pills and exorcise my demons
through nicotine and cheap thrills like forgetting about your past
and imagining that the future is a beautiful place, when really it’s
no different then today, my love. it is no different then today.
so then where am i? or more importantly, who am i? it seems over this
last year i’ve discarded my identity to forge myself a new one
one where you were but a memory in a past life, but of course you
weren’t having that. so i’m stuck in limbo, waiting for an out
where my forms of happiness don’t stem from the pain i feel inside.
where my laughter and love are truly genuine,
because i’ve forgotten how to love, i think, i don’t even remember what that is
without your name etched onto it’s back and a picture of you
stapled across my chest.
oh you, oh you, you’ve set me free and chained me to this earth
so i write this for you, because i will never unlove you
and i will never forget you. i’m sorry if i don’t make any sense,
but i’m not at fault for that.
Like Hell
(for c.gosine)
you are:
like
the rising tide
destroying
the shoreline
and subsequently
hugging the
mainline
drowning it’s villagers;
like
the moon slowly
hurtling towards
this planet,
raped by gravity
as if it were an
asteroid;
like
a machinegun
licking the flesh
of young soldiers
as they storm
the beaches of
normandy;
like
a black hole
vaccuming
space debris
into it’s
empty stomach;
like
the credits of a
film casting the
audience into
a frenzy of tears;
like
a pawn being
sacrificed
for the sake
of protecting
the queen;
like
a poet too weary
to starve himself
so he reduces his
art to
philanthropy;
like
all the world’s
cigarettes being
put out
simultaneously;
like hell;
you will be the end of me.
Lots of Fucks but None Worth Talking About
fuck this all, i am scum
and there is not a note
of solitude that could save
me while i sit here and burn.
i am alone and senile,
i am the end of the cigarette
you discard after a long day
of smoking
and drinking and realizing
that the entirety of this
world has gone to the shitters.
we’re all mad! we’re all fucking mad!
and i am the worst of them all,
thinking about dirty thoughts
while i turn on the radio
and laugh in disgust at the heart-sick
love-raped ones while secretly admiring
them for their beauty and their courage.
both of which i lack
so what the fuck?
where is my headpiece to lay
me to rest after i spend
another day by myself
waiting for the sun to lower,
waiting for the sun to rise
and when the sun doesn’t come
i whither away in despair of our
gray days and our
outlandish thoughts of tomorrow.
perhaps i’m through
with thinking about tomorrow
because today is bad enough as it
is, i find.
fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.
i am alone and pathetic,
i am sad and hungry,
starving. a starving goddamn
architect of fucking
catastrophe. i, pitiful
mongrel like the dogs on the streets
who lower their heads
for the simplicity
of some fucking company.
i think i’m bitter. do you think i am bitter?
i can’t possibly be bitter.
is this karma? is this fate?
if so, then fuck it.
Music
music is something irreplaceable. it is the vibration
of goodwill and salvation to ears, lonely and neglected.
it is the apple, crunched and morsel giving sustenance
to a much needed summer’s day.
it is the life and blood of company, a party sustained
through the beat and pulse of sound, the shaking of rhythm
across one’s bosom. sweat pored down into a mosh pit
will drown us all and we will welcome it with open arms
for we are slaves to the sound;
artists with music as our ever-elusive muse.
Nine to Five Plus Overtime (But No Benefits)
there’s no room for error,
but there must have been
a misplacing of syntax or something
because we ended up
in the wrong place
and you’re talking to me like i’m some
body else who knows what
they’re doing.
and there we go again,
dropping more pianos out off top floor balconies
for sport, us dogs.
us sick, strange mongrels.
where were you when all of this
went down the goddamn rabbit hole?
and we followed suit,
but casual because it’s friday
and i swear to god this whole
adventure is unionized
right down to goddamn mid-day tea time.
yeah? take your crumpets
and your rice cakes
and your alternative life choices
and burn in hell for not
being like me, for not
being an individual,
for not believing in yourself.
i hate you for losing faith and agreeing with the system.
has humanity handed in a resume
in the workforce? because we’re taking
applications before this entire operation sinks.
fucking recession.
One Thousand Tiny Landmines Trapped in the Synapse
i am here again, picking out notes of silence
marveling in crescendos of nothing.
the walls play me a tune to pass by the time
and oh, how it swirls around me,
the sounds of an organ heart being pounded
in c minor:
it can be likened
to falling from a
cliff, embracing
the open waters
with outstretched
arms.
and then
i don’t know where she was
but i was there, lying on
the sidewalk waiting for the
night to release some stars
instead of the streetlights above me.
it wasn’t a sign i was looking for,
rather a compass,
a map of fire.
something to lead me to her
even when the first snow falls
and travel becomes strenuous,
cites around me
begin to dance.
i’m so far away, even the
monuments mock me.
there are
one thousand tiny landmines
trapped in the
synapse
and i swear to god,
they are all ready
to explode,
whether it be the breath of the next cigarette
or the echo of her
voice, cutting through
winter’s shivering majesty.
they are the signs of a body breaking down:
to the beat of nothing,
to the frost on the walls,
to the echo of a voice,
to another day without you.
Outpatient
(for a. marko)
In the corner
there is a man, drunker than I
playing a piano ever
so sweetly, and I can’t
help but notice his finesse.
Even intoxicated he
changes time signatures
and tempo’s, with precision
only years of experience earns you.
He abruptly gets up from his seat,
walks over to me
and buys me a round.
He laments about old times.
The night
is cold, so cold I’m afraid
to step outside the bar,
in fear of some
great catastrophe,
the thundering of horsemen
warning me of impending doom,
anything that breathes.
I opt to stay inside
to stay warm, where the
people are friendly, the women,
fuckable, living like a rockstar,
indeed.
My true love enters the room,
she doesn’t know it yet
but she will be my savior.
the way she looks,
radiant skin,
supple breasts
and eyes of a goddess.
Her long legs illuminate the
dimly lit room,
it is as if she, her light,
eclipses the darkness,
like God, I am now devoted
to her. Like God, I will forever
be indebted to her. My savior
will destroy me with all of her might,
and I will love her for it.
Like the man before her,
she comes to my table
and buys me a round,
I take it graciously, while I
breathe her in.
She takes me,
farther away from everything I
have ever imagined,
my head spins in a euphoric daze
as she takes up residence
at the piano.
She wants me to fuck her
to the sounds of Beethoven,
Shostakovitch, Mozart.
She has class, and demands it
of me. I oblige.
The night has disappeared
and took her with it.
I, the unworthy thing
I am alone.
forever.
Pendulum
a petal falls
from a rose in
dust city,
at midnight.
ten thousand miles
away a
battalion of riot
police drop
their weapons and
pick up violins.
from here
i can hear their
strings echo,
resonate through
these brick walls.
last night
i asked the most
beautiful woman
in the world
to dance with
me atop this city’s
architecture,
to let me hold her
hand and never let go,
to protect her until
the early handshake
of dawn’s good morning.
she declined, of course
and i still don’t know
who needed protecting more
her or i.
pirates, says i
i am burning like a cigarette,
like a gunship stranded
in the sinking
ocean
i touch the bottom
of the sea
like an
old
friend
i miss you
Poem About a Hooker
there is a key,
and a lock,
both inside
your chest,
wrapped around
your heart.
i’ll rip open your
body, just
to taste the salt
of your love,
carefully hidden
from the rest of the
world.
Poems
fall in love
write poems
beautiful poems
terrible poems
but the inspiration is there
to succeed and fail
and fall out of love
eventually
they say complacency
is the death of a poet
but the truth
is i have never felt
more alive then
when i
am setting myself on fire
for you
love is an emergency
it requires urgent medical attention
lest a body becomes lost
in another body
and is unable
to be retrieved
the only sure thing
about love is
that you fall
in the worst case scenario
you write a poem
like this one
its not my fault however
the inspiration was there.
Pompeii
this city is exploding.
in this city, we are all alone with everyone
all faceless, chromatic
sophisticated.
we don’t speak of much
and its good that way.
people these days don’t have much to say,
its all the same, its all
spat from identical mouths
with tone-deaf machinegun tounges.
its always about success
luxury, glass-half-full shit.
and love
oh, how they moan about love,
those poets.
they talk about broken hearts
as if their hearts are made of durable plywood
rather then hearts torn, flesh
ripped apart and discarded
into gutters, tossed into oceans
adorning a bouquet of roses.
instead, their wooden hearts
are turned into song and dance
splintering acorss frequencies.
this city is ravenous.
this city is unity.
the ambient lights flicker above,
it is the closest thing we have to stars.
they devour us, our hopes and dreams,
like white blood cells
because we all have the disease.
Revolution Noose
i speak these words frantically,
like i’m losing grip of
them, like they will leave me forever
if i don’t recite them properly
and poetically.
whose to say these words
mean anything
written on a piece of scrap to anyone?
especially you?
tied
to a string to keep
me from
losing them,
i dangle them from time
to time to remember
what exactly they meant to me.
i’m prone to forgetting
why it is
i can be such a mess
sometimes.
Satellite
It’s dangerous business
walking down the street
at two p.m., when the sun is
burning your shadow into the pavement
until this city is immortalized in
stone, every day. This is especially
true when the hounds are
about and around, ready to
ravage your skin and the vixens
are there to make you melt
inside your own makeshift purgatory.
And here I am,
unlucky and bastard-like,
as I am always meant
to be; staring
down the sun until
I am blinded; breathing
in my very own musk of arrogance
and self loathing.
The muggier it gets, the more vicious
my temperment becomes
as I’m shouting
obseneties at the sky
as if I’ll instantly recieve a call
from the upstairs, explaining to me
how everything became very,
so very fucked.
I light a cigarette
and let the ash consume my lungs,
let the smoke envelop my
body while passing by people on the street.
“They’ll never know how
to write themselves an immortal poem” I scoff.
They’ll never know happiness
in complete insanity….
Yeah, that’s it.
As I walk down the street.
Senorita
beneath the shadowed underbelly
of love lies darkness
in the
valley,
where the stars
fled underneath
where the sky
is less unforgiving.
sometimes i
look up and
whisper silently, upwards,
screaming
with my mouth closed,
seeing with my eyes shut
shooting with the chamber empty.
by the time i point
the gun to myself
its spent.
Seppuku
i have seen sparks
flutter from your tongue
when you kiss
with saliva.
an electric bath;
your kiss is that of a demon.
enthralling;
i beg for suicide in your lips.
Setting off Fireworks on the Railways
you bring the last of the bottle
to the final parade and the glass
is cracking, but that’s okay.
the night is black as film and
our songs aren’t quite magical,
but the fire in the sky makes
everything seem just that much
more pretty; especially when
the snow threatens to cover
so much more of this city.
i can’t even stand it
i can’t even stand it
now the last train left and i’m
standing here, in the cold
and the pain and my heart’s
welled with tears, cause you
left me a message sayin’
“i’m not coming home tonight”
and i don’t know where you
are, that was 2 months ago
and my luck has run out
i don’t know what to do,
someone save me a corner
of a lonely foxhole tonight.
it’s four am and I’m still waiting here
amidst the empty crates
and the wintry chill.
I guess my body will stand in
this spot for the rest of my days.
and I start singing love songs
to pass by the time
until the sun rears its head
and the walls start to shine
with the hum of the radiator cooling
down my soul.
i can’t even stand it
i can’t even stand it
but here i am again, why am i alone?
will someone find me, tonight?
i don’t even know.
but i am aware of the passing tides
and the churchbell rings, but
i pay it no mind, ’cause I can see
the first train pulling in the station.
Short Poem
art therapy is such a sham(e). i’ve seen far too many
minds lost in a quest to be found in the stroke of a
brush, the utterance of a word.
it’s like playing chess with
swords or dancing on fire; somebody wins
and it usually isn’t you.
but here i am, screaming at a blank page again
while my words ring like gunshots bleeding the
night into sunlight, until the stars fall
from the sky, into the ground; into the earth.
is this right?
I don’t know.
Sketch of a Man (Unfinished)
pt. 1
Man:
I will keep these conversations locked inside of my heart, I promise.. And they will follow me, wherever I travel. I will hold in my hands a confession of sorts, written with every ounce of courage I possess and I will soldier on without you, I guess. No. I will. Forever, without you. And I can live with that. I can live, knowing that the grass will remain green; the sky will remain blue; that the stars will always twinkle above me and I will continuously mistake planes for new constellations. One day I will grab the moon from out of the sky and place it in my pocket, every now and again, wishing upon it for good luck. All While I stumble around, drunkenly searching for an out.
Poet:
“Oh citizens, I bring forth to you my plight,
as a young broken hearted fool.
As human as my DNA has crafted me, through no fault of my own.
I am a sketch of a man, still
searching for what I’ve lost as a boy.
Take pity on my wounded soul
and offer me safe harbour for the night.
My heart rings like a dial tone
it screams like a firefly,
It begs for mercy, in the middle of twilight.“
pt. 2
Man:
It seems that the fireworks have gone off late this year and as I look up, I see nothing but emptiness. I find I do have my head in the clouds too much, if only I could keep them some place far away from this frigid wasteland, this corpse of a continent. If I wake up tomorrow a different person, would it all be the same?
Poet:
“As you point the gun at my chest
I see your last words as a passing interest,
I see that hole you place in me as a metaphor.
Is it wrong to say that after all this time,
you still burn? That I cannot light a single cigarette
without thinking of you? But it’s
impossible to stop, it’s far too addicting.
Take that
however you may.
pt. 3
Man:
Imagine me with a guitar and the world as my stage. I was once nineteen, but that seems so long ago.
Some Kind of Poet
and the gunman cackles wildly, thrashing about
and spitting demands at his audience
he takes requests y’know? he does a little
song and dance.
he’s held the building hostage for quite a few hours now
the police are outside, but he pays them no mind.
he revels in the thought of being in the spotlight
as the moon casts the only glare of light
through the third floor window.
brandishing his gun,
he takes a small book out of his back pocket,
looking directly into his audience,
he asks with a smile
“do you like poetry?
i write my own. i’m pretty good, i think.
there’s this one poem i’ve
been trying to perfect. there’s just
something about it’s syntax i
cannot comprehend. i see this
comma staring at me, mocking me,
taunting me. i just want to take my
gun and SHOOT IT. SHOOT IT. SHOOT IT. SHOOT IT.
until it begs for mercy and forgiveness
but it knows i need it,
that sneaky bastard.”
its three am, some of the hostages have fallen asleep
to the sounds of the clock ticking
on the wall. others lay awake, frightful,
a few of them are already dead.
the gunman is reciting his work of poems
and i swear to god, if i make it
out of this alive, i am going to buy
a copy of his book.
he’s quite good.
Songs About Losing
a fire is started to light
your soul as chords are strummed
and notes/strings of
your heart are plucked
again and again and again and again and again and again
to create a melody
you will undoubtedly
sing along to
because you’ve got such a beautiful
voice and i long
for any possible chance
to hear it
like that time we
were underground
in that subway
and the walls echoed
your tune
like a church choir
during it’s most devout and
intense moment of
prayer
it was almost like
you could see it before
your very eyes
and if you were to ask me now
i probably couldn’t even
tell you what song
you were singing
but it doesn’t matter now
the song didn’t matter
all that mattered was
you
your voice
your ringing
how clean and innocent you sound
despite all of the
cigarettes we consume and the things that we have seen
but that kind of
thing never seems
to affect you like it does me
my voice trembles
and quakes in comparison to yours
even still after all these years
some days i can barely whisper
when your words continuously
get caught in my throat
and waking up every morning
still feels like saying goodbye to you
or rather you saying goodbye to me
while i feebly mumble something
in return
although every now and again
whenever i perk my ears
i can still faintly hear your siren call
but this time i choose not to follow it
i can’t risk losing
another ship.
Speaking in January Tongues
these days, not even cigarettes can keep me warm
as the frost settles in and finds itself
a new home, a new host all around me.
there is a thundering down the street.
a young man is convinced he is a poet,
so he stumbles across the alleyways searching
for an audience of passers-by
or perhaps the unlucky few silently
waiting for the cross-town transfer.
he screams “my heart is an open pharoses tomb,
looted and scavenged, picked apart
by vultures, the walls,
desecrated by fiends!
my mind has been eviscerated
and hangs down like a noose,
eventually falling down and filling
the open spaces of my heart, once pure.
can somebody see me, gestating
and luminous?
can anybody feel this ravenous
hunger of wolves? or am i alone and
starving to death?”
i watch him atop his tiny cross,
spewing his hopes on his
customers like they’re paying him
to see him open and fragile.
i watch him with beauty and admiration
twinkling in my eyes, for i am
alone and dying
while he is embracing
the dimming sun.
i think i have failed, please take this poem as my gratitude.
Sunday Morning, After Mass
sunday morning, after mass
republica’s eyes are never shut,
justice’s ears are always keen
to the sound of impending
nothingness.
but… what does it all mean,
when men are starving
on the streets,
for the sake of punk fucking rock?
when the meals come from
the rotting corpses of their
victims, bound and gagged with mittens.
loose ends are tied up as quickly as they are unraveled
like the time, the church
collided with the sevenfortyseven,
there was fire, but, not a single
nun was harmed -
though, god doesnt take sides,
if that’s what your thinking.
that game was rigged from the beginning,
with contributions to the congrigation,
your tax dollars at work.
but then, the absoloutely unthinkable happened,
the clouds parted, and scrawled into the chest
of the earth: art.
darkness fans toward me,
and I am doom.
Text Generica
In between cigarettes
and poems
there is nothing.
Occasionally
there is enlightenment,
but that
will pass,
as it always does.
Along with every
distraction
that, for a moment,
allows me to
forget the way
my heart
longs for
you.
The Air Is Getting Thinner Here
Time never slows, three trumpets
sing a mournful tune of
chalk outlines.We burn them
and muffle their sounds
to waste away all of the evidence.
The cars never slow,
the sun and the moon still play
hide and seek, only occasionally
catching one another.
Flowers still bloom and die
while trees wilt and decay
and are eventually reborn
because time never slows.
There are still some of us
who shout poetry from rooftops
at nothing, maybe and audience
of bursting stars under the
expanse of an infinate night sky.
Those are the ones who refuse
to grow old, thought they eventually
die as well.
I suppose it is the nature of things
and make no mistake
there is a cross hair on everything:
on stainglass windowpains in stone cathedrals
on timeclock IVs on the third floor of a hospital
on the time signature of our stacatto hearts.
You can’t stop time. It will always
bend and break and flow like
lava across our lives.
When it is all said and done, i’m sure
i’d rather drown in it,
because with each passing day
the air is getting thinner down here
and i’ve got plenty
of memories that have yet to
be created.
This is why we bleed seconds and minutes and hours and days and months and years
from our dripping, lovesick pens.
The Ballad of R.G.
for every broken hearted architect
there is a cathedral in 1832 france
being built,
standing erect
and beautiful, while there
are souls burning
inside. in fact, i would wager
to say that
we are all our own
architects building beauty
out of ruin, though
ruin tends to follow us wherever it is
we travel.
there is rain in the desert,
sand castles dissolve and wash away.
my love washes away with it
my lover has yet to
appear.
there are machine guns lined up on the streets
and i, with my back against the wall
stand blindfolded.
somebody built this scene. an architect, i bet.
The Great Depression
jagged stalagmites of the sun
are falling into the ocean,
burning the ice caps
drowning the
christians
making an overall
fucking mess of the place.
so you better watch out, before
your love ends up in the burning river, baby.
throw all those bibles you’ve never read,
and those diaries you’ve never locked,
and those love letters you wish you had written,
and those pennies you wish you had kept
in there and
let it all wash away,
to some far off land
where you wish you could be.
(but you could never really get there)
kiddo, you had better hope that your voice
is beautiful enough to sing acapella,
and maybe, just maybe they’ll
faintly hear you
and call out a search party.
But by then you’ll probibly be gone..
but hey, at least they’ll know.
The Simplest
Introductions.
Handshakes.
Up, down,
understanding.
Long nights.
Money changes hands.
upstairs, downstairs,
drug cartel in the bunker,
whorehouse in the
attic, poltergeists
in the living
room.
Typewriter on
the nightstand,
next to lines of cocaine,
condom wrappers,
cigarettes.
Politician poet.
Blindfolds.
On, off,
basement fuck.
Money changes hands.
Suitcases.
Open, close,
for the good of the republic,
for the sake
of
punk
rock.
Blindfolds, off.
Take the stairs down and the
elevator out.
Fall asleep in the back
of a taxi cab.
“Won’t wake up
for hours”
he said.
Them
Maybe I’m fucked up
or so I’ve been told
to myself, by myself,
by everyone else
who isn’t me, who is
everyone but me.
Am I the lucky one?
Trapped in my room
like a cell, away from
them where I can’t
hurt them. All of
them. Them. I should
apologize, for maybe I
am the asshole in the
play, not a martyr,
but another random
suicide drinking rye
straight out of a
broken glass, talking
to you like i know you
like I’ve lived a life
other then my own.
I’d like to think that they’re
lucky, I’d also like
to think my life
is one big Modest Mouse song.
To quote Issac Brock:
“Everything that’s keeping me
together is falling apart.
I’ve got this thing that I consider
my only art: fucking people over”.
This Cannot Be
there is a woman in my throat,
manipulating my every word,
so when i speak, i can only speak of her.
we find it’s better this way.
there is a woman in my mind
controlling my every thought,
so when i dream, i dream of her.
she has discovered home
in my body;
my lungs breathe her smell,
my heart is ticking to the beat
of her conductions.
I have lost all control of myself,
my insides have become
ravished in hunger,
and i am force fed stories of love,
that i do not believe to exist
in a time such as now,
where love has ceased to exist
for centuries.
…
each day, these streets turn into mountains
that are erupting, and drowning
these fools, also confused by love.
as if we have all gathered information
to meet at this single location
so that we may all die, the same
un answered death.
…
eons ago
i could
have weaved
you stories
about tragedy
but i know that
this
is not. this
comes
with old age
and too many
cigarettes,
a flickering soul
that is about to
be put
out.
…
i do not know why this woman sticks around
inside of a contaminated body.
perhaps one day i will ask her.
This Is My Manifesto
This is my manifesto.
It screams and whispers
and dances in a whirl
of adjectives, verbs, nouns
exclamation marks
period
It withers and contorts
in alignment
until it breaks through
literary constructs,
frontlines, schoolyards, countries, bedrooms.
It is informal in
a suit and tie
and casual.
It is the numbers and
seconds of a clock,
the minutes of hourly wage.
It is a crumbling
city monument,
a rose in bloom; petals which
adorn a large
black casket.
These words
are a lit cigarette
laughing in the face of
God flicking ash on
proscribed values.
They are the embodiment of the
lost idea of “I”.
The passages, tunnels
high ways, four-way intersections
of history.
They are a leak in the Bastille,
a hole to crawl through
in isolation,
when you are truely free.
These letters I combine form
the greatest world war.
They are dirt covered, water-logged
trenches, a ten minute
dogfight across the North Pacific
a soldier, a general,
a dictator, a cause,
a hand grenade held far too long.
Each and every word I write
is my own and never yours,
the loudest revolution
held with thunder in
my fists.
They are my protest
against all you claim as your own.
My heart, my guts
my vomit.
They are broken hearts and dream-filled realities
when the world lifts you by the throat
and slaps karma across your chest.
You choke, you always choke.
choke.breathe.choke.
At times, the words
escape me,
but I always find them
the consonants and
vowels I breathe.
If God forged mountains with his touch
then I forge poetry with my pen.
This is my manifesto.
Though, They Have Catchy Songs
This is what it means,
to take your heart and
cash in big, for everything
you’ve believed it to be worth.
This is circumnavigating
endless scrolls of text,
attempting to find meaning
in words that aren’t yours.
This is being shot into space,
burning up in constellations
that look so pretty from the
sidewalk, where you
sleep off the coldest December.
You say, that this is poetry
in such a blurring, dizzying
motion, that it makes you
sick, just to read it.
I feel the same.
This is me, trembling
before you, insolent bastard.
Transforming, into some
deathly servant of poetic
conformity. All, shiny,
robotic, and fake…
Just like this world.
tihskcuf(shitfuck)
there’s a ticking sound
coming from
my chest and it
doesn’t ever shut up.
never.
and my mouth
is open, hanging agape
like hooks and barbed
wire upon some old
cathedral doors.
and i’m talking
again, (you fool)
and i’m saying things
again
and again
as i always do.
who is the murderer here?
who is the victim
and where is the
crime
being portrayed on
late night
television?
because i’ve
got seasons tickets
to watching the flowers
grow and wilt and die
all over the fuck
on your body, pal.
and i paid a lot.
and i’m collecting.
Together, We Ignight
“i am the gasoline heart”
i thought to myself as i was
talking to her “and you are the
spark” i whispered faintly
underneath my breath.
“together, we ignight.”
put two and two together
and fuse them by the wrists
until you can properly
see that the answer resembles
something mishapen and
untrue, like when i said
that i would never write another
poem like this again,
but i lied, just to appease
the darker side
of my calloused pen.
and i was sure that these words
would never strike a broken match
and that my head was safe
from the brick walls that were being
built around me, but
i find that these things never change
and i’ve decided that you
will never leave my mind again
until i have wrapped my arms
around your waist and lifted you into
the air, smiling.
i remember when i smiled at the sight of you
and i still remember how your voice would
trickle down the back of my neck,
grabbing me; softening me.
these are things that i refuse to let go it seems.
these are things i refuse to escape me
one more time.
Twenty Years and Drunk Off the World
o lord,
we’re here
again, having
revoultion
sex like change
and empowerment
are going
the way of
the dinosaurs.
with a bang,
get it?
and afterwards
we smoke victory
cigarettes and lament
about times
once passed,
in a haze of smoke
and sweat
and laughter.
audible sigh.
you turn
to me and say
“it’s alright, babe,
we’re gonna
be alright”
I take a drag and
say “yeah
you’re right.
you’re always right.”
…
pitter-patter of
rain outside,
but we’ve already
passed out
among sheets
of paper and
books of poetry,
while
somewhere far away,
another bullet
has stolen what isn’t ours.
Universal Love
kill me,
kill me now please, i beg you.
end me,
end me with all of your might.
destroy me,
destroy me with passion and resolve.
evicerate me,
evicerate me with your cunning knives of pleasure.
entomb me,
entomb me inside a chamber of my own making.
fuck me,
fuck me, for i am a lowly, worthless bastard.
love me,
love me, because i am nothing without you.
Unmailed Postcards
i lay barren,
i guess
and crazy.
don’t you too,
all the way
over
there?
Untitled
I’m alone again.
I’m sure there are words in my possession
which I can use to embellish that
statement, make
them all bold and poetic. However, no excessive
ramblings of winter and trees
and stars and
you
will ever amount to
more then the mere
recognition that
I’m alone again.
I wonder,…
Have I always been alone?
Dogs suffer from
insomnia
trying to answer
that
question.
I pity those
hounds,
as they pity
winter,
trees,
stars,
you
and
me.
Wish
“sound the trumpets, thrice
this war is over, fair maidens
your lovers have returned
unscathed.”
this is the end of an old era
and deep into the
brink of hell, will i fish for
gold in these new times of joy
What Does It Mean To Drown?
With broken wings
And a dream catcher
You’re falling down
Can your heart breathe..?
Keep doing what you do
I’ll refrain from noticing..
Keep distance between us
like an old friend.
The kind who depends on us
like we depend on silences
and ticking clocks
to mend the days
where anchors align our stomachs.
Where tides slip
and ebb
and disappear..
Some days I think you disappear, y’know.
Some days I think I think I’ve lost you.
Floorboards shifting
Vices and voids, both ignored.
It’s heavy on these eyes
all the things that could not last.
I wasn’t there to catch you,
from the habits you’ve drawn yourself in.
The pastels of cocaine white,
coloured in condoms
and still, you are nowhere to be found.
prescriptions not prescribed
injections with unknown origins.
you came into my bed
to feel and be felt.
sunshine bursting through the blinds
I awake only to find
an empty space, a lack of words
you left me for the last time.
Who Is That Stranger?
i have chipped my head
on the sidewalk
i have shot down that
bastard mockingbird
and now i am
lying here
on studded pavement
looking at the world race
and crash and
crumble infront of
my eyes
this is me falling apart
slowly, molecule by
molecule
not knowing when to stop
not knowing
when i’ll ever see
you again
this is me prone
on the bathroom floor
with the ceiling lights
beside me
and the faucet
in a tizzy
and
a riot ensuing in
the following room.
i am broken
i would believe
for a moment
i don’t care for you
but i know for
a damn fact
that i lie.
Who Watches Me Tonight? 3 Parts
a.)
thank you for i have been blessed
with this ever growing need to lie through my teeth and play
with my poker face even after i’ve discarded all of my chips.
and maybe this isn’t as bad as it seems, but each day my
heart gets heavier, as if i’ve injested lead and gunpowder
residue, oft hoping to go out with a bang.
yesterday i saw the prettiest thing:
three angels walked onto the rooftop of a very tall building, holding trumpets
and song, they gave us all a grand performance while the people below
begged them to come down
and save them.
after the angels stopped we all shed a tear in awe.
they discarded their feathery wings and came down
to hug us all… each and every
single one of us.
our sadness is a pitiful thing,
we waste away like dogs,
unable to suffer, unable to howl.
i pity them, as i pity myself
and i pity the world
and those angels, who
saved no one but themselves
from the burning streets
and the hellish confines of “i”.
b.)
tell me, lover
who watches me tonight?
when i’ve finally left my body
for the final time, when words
are never colourful enough for
my pallet; who will paint my
exit? do you realize
that i have looked towards the sky, searching for a sea
of stars to sail my vessel, unflinchingly
willing to break through the atmosphere
and float on towards this next life,
only to have found nothing?
c)
tonight i sit atop a mound of ash
with nothing but a broken, acousitic guitar
and a half a pack of cigarettes
and i will sing songs about hope and change
because that seems to be the trend
these days. In my open hands,
beneath the veneer of skin
lies dormant, a legacy of screaming,
of time stopping
of alcohol poisoning the mind
and the heart
while subsequently missing
the liver.
i don’t know, i kiss the bottle
for good luck and strum
but it’s too much for me to handle.
I throw down my orchestra
and stare at the ground.
my breathing is heavy like a landslide,
the gun is by my side, but it’s empty.
please forgive me, i am a fool.
the dawn will break tomorrow.
the sky will dampen and evaporate
the end will never begin.
and i will repeat myself until
i’ve run out of words to say.
goodnight.
Why Poetry Works In Theory
I don’t
really enjoy the
plastic singing cardboard
cutouts and
velour sheep-skin
fairytales of our time,
beyond all.
These rules have all
been set in place
by pioneers of
establishments
and hula-hoop ringlets,
selling ear candy
that gets you so
high, you forget how
much it hurts on the
fucking ground.
We bandy about in
brandy, all of us
and we psychoanalyze
ourselves in swivel
chairs to
pass by the days that take so
long to make their way
through us, completely.
We’re addicted to
24 hour coffee spots
and dehydrated, plastic
spastic, frantic
packets of lo-fat,
carbohydrate,
sugar extracted, self-inflicted egoism.
We spend our every
waking moment determining
every past event
in our lives,
blaming our bad luck and lack of faith
on karma, failed relationships
and nine to fives,
but not the alcohol or cigarettes.
No, never the alcohol and cigarettes.
Eventually we all burn
away in history, I guess.
I guess,
we’re just fucking martyrs,
singing the big-city,
blues.
Winter
It’s true, your body has seen better days,
though those
seem to be the days
where I haven’t been around,
but that isn’t fault of my own.
Only in times like these
is when I feel we are all
disappearing in the blinding,
frostbitten nightmare,
that is winter. Where our souls
flicker and dissolve as quickly as the daylight, and
the nights are colder still.
Without our souls, how are we
to keep warm?
This year has robbed my family blind.
We have all lost
hope in ourselves,
and I had lost hope in everything else.
This world has dizzied itself in a frantic
attempt to shake
me up and open my eyes, but when my
eyelids raised,
there was only the barren wasteland of dysfuntion,
and unhappiness, that was my heart.
And it got colder, still.
There was
only snow, and the stench of death
to keep me awake.
You then appeared like a flash of light,
emblazoned this place
bright enough for me to properly see, and
you were all I could see.
But winter has grasped its claws around you
and I am flickering patheticaly, trying my
damndest to keep you warm.
There is a tree on a hill, and all of its leaves have left it,
I can’t hide in its branches anymore, and neither can you.
The weather is steadily getting worse,
and I pray I can hold you close enough
to keep you heated until the summer.
With A Breath Of Smoke
The world is smoldering
the heavens lay gently
beneath my worn feet
and I am still walking.
My diary has been exposed
in the form of tears and
distant cries for help,
but I’m fine with that.
I’m also fine with these
words and what they do
to me, what they turn
me into: hugging tearful,
rage-soaked syllables
in the middle of three am;
softly carving lines of
poetry into my arms with ink
trying to fine meaning in
such a romantic fashion.
And yet everything continues
to burn like a forgotten
cigarette during a drunken
meeting between
mournful third-world
leaders.
This place remains ugly
and callous;
young hearts are trampled
upon and discarded
with the passing winds
Sinners, I guess. Religious
zealots, Nazis, Saints,
they’re all the same: they
all believe in God.
I don’t, but maybe
that’s because I’m too
afraid it will send me to hell.
Words
when i think of you, i think of walls bending.
i think of angels falling
falling from the sky
tripping on clouds
landing on the decks of
sinking pirate ships
the ocean feeding
swallowing
begging for more.
i think of distance
as if it is all i have ever known
like the distance
a paper aeroplane can travel
before it inevitably
crashes into a city
bringing along doom and war
as love burns up in it’s
wreckage.
when i think of you, i think of an orchestra
committing suicide
i think of a pianist hanging himself from
a wire plucked from
his grand piano
a violinist slitting her throat
with her bow
and explosion of silence.
when i think of you, i think of
doves flying admist an
early morning glow
i think of flowers blooming
wilting, then
being reborn
i think of architecture
i think of cigarettes
i think of the systematic self-destruction
of a human body
i think of elevators
rising and falling
i think of punk rock love songs
i think of genies singing too loudly
to hear my wishes.
instant karma? i don’t know.
what i can tell you is
when i think of you
i think of words. i’ll figure
out their meanings later.
Out Of Work Actor
my typewriter is black
and new, but dull
and scratched
and worn.
it sings to me and i sing
back. our singing
becomes shouting
and screaming
and we both lose.
this is the kind
of love affair i’m used to.
kind of like a machine,
sitting on a bench
in a park, surrounded
by orchids and lillies
and other types of
organic beauty. the
machine just stares
and smokes and
eats bricks like crazy.
i find myself doing
something quite
similar from time to time
to times when
walls begin to swallow
me, just like the blue
daylight and the black,
black night.
and then the numbers
of minutes and seconds
and hours and days and
weeks..
become something far
more cunning and ruthless,
like pandas flying warplanes
over a french harbor in
world war two.
sometimes, this can become
a movement, a dance if
you will. the blaring refusal
to remain stoic, dripping
with paranoid glances
towards the hourglass.
sometimes, this can become
desperation, clawing out
words, scraping out
poetics as if my body has
become a factory instead of a mutiny.
for now, this is longing
ever lasting, ever searching,
ever wishing for an ever after.
and don’t get me started
on the heart.
we could end up being here
for a lot longer
then we had planned.
Your Suicide Kills Everyone.
you’re sinking in your discontent
or perhaps freefalling into madness.
the kind of no-sleep frenzy
which leaves the body
dislocated with / from the
sound of the whole world breathing.
its not entirely the cold
place you’ve believed it to be,
but it is winter, so its hard
to believe anything.
stuck in your room with your
music past 100, calculating
the loss of every second
plus your hatred for everyone
minus the only one you cared about:
starving, stark-raving,
writing post-card poetry again.
what if i were to tell you
that the morning wakes to
the alarm of trumpets and violins
playing the tune of your
beating heart? would
that be enough to keep you from
setting yourself on fire again?
but to you, the night arrives with
the closing wings of a dying white dove
and the morning awakens
with tremors.
you, you are so lost
and i, i cannot help you anymore.
i cannot continue to bleed this pen
in vein, hoping that someday
the right words will drip out intravenously
and protect you from this complex gyre
of calamities, snowfalls, trenches, shell shock… etc.
the dawn of this new year
has already burnt the sky and
it will be another 11 months before
all the charred pieces will land on earth.
so keep moving, keep dancing
or these words will too, be in vein.
your suicide kills everyone.
- R.o.A
