Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Trees, Wood, Pulp, Paper

I feel that irritation often: the one that bereaves you of weighty experiences, that constant poking from different sources, blooms from narratives, never ceases but fluctuates, drips from excited senses, devours focus, suffocates fascination, obsessive, rampant, urged by drunkenness, pacified by sleep, quelled by death



Saturday, March 22, 2014

Hell in the Real World

glowing coals
ash encrusted 
sinister tiles
burnt meat

people are scared
see the steam?

yes that there
evaporating piss
sizzles
and disappears

I know
balmy memories
dont sooth
in tense pain

try to live them
live again
delude yourself
play with the smoke

ignore the others
people always cry

your feet hurt?
yes I know
you never become
accustomed

remember that bbq
you had last summer?
maybe we
shouldnt
discuss it

go to sleep
if you can
the dead
can still dream












Monday, March 17, 2014

Hello

Hello fortunate one

A lucky one no doubt considering all those obscure tribes you learned about in school who cannot read or write

You feel it dont you Feel it in your blood Luck fortune external goods whatever you want to call it

Yet you lose a petty gamble vain gamble fortunate gamble and feel a sense of disappointment

Im feeling lucky Scratch scratch on the five dollar lotto No money gained Some lost Gray smut mocking Internal boo hoos but you keep a straight face

Swayed
  Yes
Life continues

And you forget 











 

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Perspectives from a Low Place



You can smell that grainy asphalt:
bits of black tar on your forehead
while you cry there, lying still
Thick mucus trickles like dammed
streams down to wavering lips, causing 
mini pools around congealed oil

It's a kind of dramatic episode:
an intense, bold climax
of a tragedy 

You know the flow of life 
and how these things work
Still, you feel a loss 

You hear the drone of polished
remarks, spoken to solidify
with good intentions 

He didn't know the one lying 
in that box made of cedar
How could he say those things - nice things?

Imagine if he told the truth?
Would it make you feel better?

An elderly woman mourns,
her blouse spotted with human rain
You see the spots from the ground

Words stop; eulogy complete
Box lowers into earthly orifice
You already miss the love you lost







Monday, February 24, 2014

Untitled

Walking down paths of nothingness,
a blossom springs forth -
new and exciting
in its extravagance

Love:
something new,
something pure;
something obscene
"How can love arise
within a life full
of debauchery?"

To this comment,
to this accusation,
I have no alibi;

My life now moves in
waves of episodes,
expressing intimate details
recently discovered

I am solid in my ignorance;
I am convinced by my fortune














Sunday, February 16, 2014

Spikes of Something Else

Happiness is something new,
something gained in little
bits and pieces in life

Misery is the default position:
it thrives in normal routines,
provoked by human interaction

If I prayed I would pray like this:
please god, wise god,
let me converse with noble people

Yet, here I am:
clicks and clacks of keys,
just a screen and me

I am happy

The sound brings soothing feelings,
rare in this age of popularity:
chased, lost,
gained, recovered

Once the sound stops, I am thrusted,
willfully and inevitably,
into the world of interactions

There, refuge is found
in the thoughts of others,
in times when popularity also mattered:
in times when the clicks and clacks
were unknown scratches on
thinly shaved trees

People thrive on popularity,
pitiful and profound

I yearn for the other thing -
that fleeting happiness



 


Thursday, January 16, 2014

Inner Confines



Writing:
the citadel's secrets made public
for all to see, mock, enjoy,
hate, and criticize right before my eyes - delving,
trying to discover any ounce or fragment that justifies

Inner notions; acts of importance -
a trace of importance:
I hope they don't haunt like
Dorian Gray's nightmare
in the mirror,
gazing back from glassy confines

No one wishes that upon themself

That's why the genius separates
and becomes locked, imprisoned
within the citadel of his thoughts
There, one rules:
powerful, utterly powerful;
too powerful for one to listen

Away he scribbles,
far from others; a
recluse in his profuse,
Plato beckons him to sunlight
but refusal refusal

Better off in naivety:
a stone fortress without mirrors
Only stone walls for manic securities