View Full Version : Poetry

07-27-11, 03:09 PM

I’m in a cab
Spun, split, done
And over with
Spit teeth, grin and
Bare a soul born
In grit and dirty
Thoughts and intentions
Mention me,
The subtlety of man
Grand animals intent
On doom, death, destroy
Consume, Consume
Until the day you
Are presumed dead.

Up for days won’t
Explain, it pays but
Not well enough to pay
The doctor, doctor calls
Doctor kills
But life is long and
I long for it
In a frenzied rage of
Sex blood ambivalence
Spit and self
Destruction, discovery
Dismay, dismemberment
Remember me.

Heart beats through
My chest it
Drinks and uses til I
Can’t keep my eyes
Open now I’m dead
Oh wait no I
Just was sleeping
But I don’t sleep so
Must be dead
Check my pulse
My pupils
Guess I win you grim
****, you and your
Smirking inevitable
Can get bent
I live just to
Try to die again.

She likes it fast and
I have fasted
To this skin, this bone
Plastered across
Here and there before the sun
Is up and up and up
Then down.

And down and down
Keep going.



You’ve been gone a long time, I was beginning
To think we wouldn’t speak again.
Foolishly optimistic, maybe.
But it’s so good to hear your voice.

I ran away.
Felt trapped. Had to get out.
Ate well, was loved, got soft – Terrible.
How am I supposed to feel alive
Without fear, solitude, desperation
The thrill of unexpected, terrible misery
Disinterested, disintegrating, ashes, dust.
My chest hurts. Hands have been cold.

"You fit like a glove, lover.
We could build lives off on album covers and old movies
Steal a car, collapse a bridge
Block out the sun
Lay together in the smoking ruins of this place."

Maybe with all the screaming I can
Finally get some sleep.

I write eulogies for a living.
That’s a lie.
I write my eulogy instead of living.
The only aspiration I've ever had is to
Leave a generally attractive corpse in a box at a well-attended funeral
That a lot of pretty girls say terrible things about
And who miss me forever in a
Physically. debilitating. depression.
The only true love
Is the love that’s there when you’re not.

I’m either remembering or forgetting
I haven’t been in a moment since June and
The rent is getting a little high here.
I see my mother, we’re walking in the trees, I’m a child
And she tells me she’s dying.
She’s still alive. Maybe I died.
I see my lover, we’re walking down the street
And she tells me she’s dying
She’s still alive. I’m beginning to wonder if she ever lived.

Poe didn’t make it up here
He had better drugs.
I see a girl in the crosswalk, we make eyes
Long day looks and a lipstick cigarette
I think maybe her name is Eleanor
Maybe we’ll fall in love.
Here’s the bar. Again.
Here’s the office. Again.
I ask them to find something horrible
Could use some bad news, doc
The kind of bad that doesn’t get better.

The tests have come back.
My diagnosis? Chronic enlightenment.
Symptoms include: Awareness, honesty, disillusionment, perspective, knowledge.
Other symptoms include: Depersonalization, loss of contemplation, destruction, chaos and generalized shedding of convention,
personal identifiers and positive reinforcements.
My prognosis is grim. They can’t operate.
I say, “Another city, maybe? Another girl?
New clothes, new car,
I’ll be somebody else for a while. Worked before.”
Head shakes. Downward glances.
Clock, clipboard. Clock, clipboard.
It has spread to the heart. I’ve been told to
Make peace with God. Call loved ones.

Glad you picked up.
Not a lot of time left.
Let’s burn this entire city to the ground.



the wine has no taste
it's like trying to drink a photograph.
the wonders of this world have been lost on me.
idle conversation, an oversold suitcase
a crossword on a moving sidewalk
water on my face in an airport bathroom.

i don't look at the pillars
or the pictures or the parlors
just people. simple ****ing people.
monuments and objects of beauty and progress
like peas on my plate
i push them around, disinterested.
i never sleep.

i am unmoved in this arena
i don't feel you. them, either.
it will be the same drink
it will be the same girl, her name is
unimportant. she lives in the city
she has a and she loves but she doesn't and she once
i don't care.
your story is not new to me, sunshine
take your shirt off
i have a headache.
leave marks so dark she'll feel me for weeks.

i keep going
i don't know
no, i do know why.
somewhere, tucked away in this misery
a fresh water basin
a bauble on a coffee table
a sun setting through tall trees
something to make new again
to make all of this ****ing knowing knowing knowing
remake these hands to feel,
heart to be held
a serene moment. a revelation. a tap on the shoulder
rinse off all this dirt.
but all i find is
another false pretense, sick hearts, sad minds
i rub my eyes and
stretching miles and miles.
ashes and dust blown about between headstones
and good intentions, keepsakes, dead flowers, crosses
this is where i am. everywhere has been this place.
but it's not here. he's not here
so i am left to sit alone with his ghost.



Feet hit the ground
Break off the rear-view
Two thousands miles
Until I sleep.

Bury it.
Keep it in a tin box
Under a tree and forget.
Put it on a shelf
Tell people it came with the place.

Burn it down.
Under cover of night
Set fire to the bridge
So you can never go back
And you won’t be followed.

“They’ll never take me alive,”
She said.
We left before they woke.
It stayed with me
Like a family heirloom.

Start over.

07-27-11, 03:18 PM
Sam's Song

Sam doesn't know shes pretty
Think I'll keep it to myself.
Wears too much makeup
Dolled up in red dye, nicotine
Like some white trash matinee idol.
Sits on my desk, like a piano
Asks me to sit so
I sing a song for her.

I shouldn't, but I do
Run around with her, that is.
The worst of intentions every time
I see her, want to
Tear her to pieces.
Tell her secrets, leave her speechless
Break her heart and leave
But I don't.

Improper doesn't describe
The candor to which she is accustom
Filthy mouth, she must of
Left some of that red lipstick
On purpose.
Tabloid queen midst
Small town minds, dead ends and
Burnt out dreams
Sitting out like cars on cinder blocks.

All made up of album covers
And movies made before she was born.
The wrong kind of right that
Gets righter, but by that time
You can't find her.
Put each other on a shelf,
Tell ourselves:
"I wouldn't do this with her,"
"I wouldn't be like this with him."
Like a postcard in an antique store
Each a faded memory
Of how the other used to be.

I push her out a window,
She says she loves me.
Now that's the sort of woman
That deserves to be sung to.

07-27-11, 03:24 PM

i open my eyes.
wipe myself off on her bed sheet
a peck on the forehead
a hand placed gently on her lower back
soft skin, warm touch
i cant stay
i know, im sorry
next weekend, maybe
get some sleep
i stand, awkwardly feeling around in the dark for a shirt
socks, boxers, pants, phone, wallet, keys
the glow of an alarm clock over subtle curves
wild hair, sweat, discarded lingerie
hastily opened packages, contents used? and discarded
her back is to me.

stumble to her bathroom
light switch
the mirror.
this is the hardest part.
face is flushed, eyes red, lips damp
what a wicked ****ing creature
you are what you are.
she was delicious.
clean up, soap on hands, cool water on hot skin
put it all back on - like armor
like a costume.

step out
living room is a mess.
empty bottles, white powder on a magazine
walk past a book case
refrigerator covered in photos
calendar scribbled with names and times

i know nothing about this girl's life.
could not care less.
shoes on, coat on, rub eyes
back to her.

im going to go
i wish i could
of course I
ive got to go
yes ill see you next week
hastily leave her. out the door
i can breathe.

just leaving the bar, why
i dont know, im tired
for a little while, maybe
well that sounds lovely
ill be there soon
hallway to elevator, a girl is there
i smile