lighting a wet match i tossed my sin sticks and hurricanes into a sacrificial heap: am i free? i’ve given up singing the lies in liederkreis: am i free now? i’ve not doused my hair in chemicals for a brood of old months: shall i be free? i seldom leave the great indoors anymore a prisoner to myself, in shambles and shackles for better and worse an altar-less shrine for mourning and rue where you may toss your faulty matches and decimate your glass of spirits
The Pain And The Violet Sky The violet sky with pale grey clouds feels oppressive overhead. The trees on the horizon seem to linger with intent. I remember walking this same route 20 years ago. At two in the morning to score some smack. I imagined serial killers hiding in the trees. I ran as quickly as I could, to get back home, holding the gear tightly in my hand. At least then I knew the pain would go away as soon as I got home. Now, I know that the pain will never go away.
Seasoning Been watching a few of the Monarchs Pass through, Reminds me that life goes on... And puts me in mind of a Monarch I saw, About 52 years ago. What I saw in those days Looked different for sure; It was a time when my heart was young, Before any real darkness Had come... A time before I began To be seasoned, More learned, With more knowledge of pain. Since those days I have learned to know thirst, And have patience, And wait on the rain.
Serious Help My animals, my cat and dog have both been playing up today. My dog took a shit on the kitchen floor, even though I'd put her lead on. So she knew I was taking her out. She should know better than that, it's not like she's a puppy. She's 11 years bloody old. My cat hasn't eaten a thing all day, no matter what I have tried to tempt her with. Then I noticed the date. It's 4 months exactly since their ' mother ', my Missus died. I'm not suggesting that they can tell what date it is, but it's strange that they don't usually act this way. Looking back, reading this poem again, I realise that I am the one who is really suffering, and I am acting completely insane trying to involve our animals in this. I think I might need serious help, maybe I should try the vet.
One of those what does it all mean things The only dreams I ever remember are about women I have known nothing sexy just a lingering as though visited upon by spectres of younger selves Hours spent dazed spaced out conjuring old faces inserting lives into imagined spaces subconscious a cunning trickster my mind a willing victim Bizarre to think any of them would ever read this shit A budget Rob Gordon A Championship wanker A what does it all mean thing. #4 Living in pulp Means less holding up the mirror the few times I look see past my chin fat the blood thickens in my veins everything hollowed weighed down with impeding pain squinting at the reflected light auras and blurred sight vivid dreams of things once been new fad anxiety at walking through doors I no longer comprehend what I am looking for no longer understand the end.
THE INSANE GUY BELOW THE DECK the insane guy made a lot of sense standing below my deck but it won’t keep him from being picked up by the cops before nightfall he’d didn’t seem like a threat so he’ll probably end up in the mental hospital which I hope doesn’t make him go completely nuts Talking to my mom when she isn't there a strong gust of wind mom like your spirit and I'm so tired seems like the gold on my cross has gone pale and I wish you were here mom the world needs turning and laughter isn't making a sound I guess I'll talk to the nite lite as if it were a lullaby and I could sleep I remember swimming with Cally at White Clay her paw underwater stretched out to paddle just like she was made for and I feel like I was made for nothing just these words fuzzy in the poor lighting of my eyes and the traffic won't stop I can feel the noise in the bottom of my legs remember how they would run mom? seems like I'm just all out of breath I need to get some air though it's sickly and coughing what stars are you wishing on what ray of sunshine set you free why am I in this fermented jar I should save these questions for God I guess you just remind me of Him I'll say goodbye now mom Goodbye!! my knees need the chapel floor and my lips need the sacrament like no thirst they've ever had before
The Fly I’m half shot at the bar. A tiny visitor lands on the rim Of my glass and makes me think. If you pull the wings of a fly, Then hold it to your ear, Can you hear it screaming? If it slips outta your hand, It could get stuck in your head And might make some changes In your brain. Then you might Get fly-ish and suddenly develop A taste for garbage and dog crap. Freak out the neighbors stickin’ Your head in the trash can and Lickin’ their schnauzer’s ass. You’d be jumpin’ off bar stools Thinkin’ you could fly, end up With a deathly fear of spiders, Tremble at the frog’s croak. It would just be a matter of time ‘Fore the big flyswatter gets ya And you go splat.
a sad song on the fourth of july the fireworks aren't as bright this year escaping death at the sight of every sniffle gets old after a few weeks, let alone months but it's a sad song on the fourth of july on the back porch with something strong on the rocks just you, a tomato plant gone wild and the fucking mosquitos these are the nights you used to sit in a cemetery and read shitty poems to the dead and seek advice you swear to this day you saw a shooting star in a beautiful woman's eye she left you for dead a few weeks later just poor communication that is all deep down you know death licked your lips that night and you were ready to give in another bite on the leg hindsight wins yet again --------------------------------------------------------------- enjoy your youth i always laugh when a younger woman calls me handsome i tell them to enjoy their youth this face is what happens when you are never given the chance eventually the conversation turns to money as all conversations seem to do we are nothing but prostitutes to whatever this earth has decided for us not everyone is ready to be called a whore
Hypnotized I go through every day as if I am a zombie, one of the living dead. In fact, that sums up exactly how I feel. Hypnotized, going through the motions. I have a big photo of Karen that I keep by my bed. Every few days I will wake up enough to start screaming, and crying, " How could you do this to me, babe ? How could you leave me to face this awful world alone ? " Then, thank God I go back into my trance, and nobody knows how I really feel, they all think that I'm doing well. But I know, and Karen's photo knows.
our indie goss I’ve had it on cassette I’ve had it on CD and now I’ve got an mp3 of it on my phone, and I’m telling you: whatever the format, it’s always the same: two minutes and five seconds into Ceremony by New Order, the volume jumps. I can’t figure out if it’s just the bass being twanged especially heavily or an actual recording blunder, but I swear, in any format I listen to, the volume always seems to jump then, even on the remaster. I don’t care if I’m wrong or mad. a part of me likes feeling like I own this observation, like it’s a secret between me and the band, and that’s ok: after all, isn’t that what all music should sound like? of course, if you dear reader have heard it too, then I guess we’re both in on the secret and that’s ok too: isn’t that what all writing should feel like? a cold pillow evening standing at the delivery doors out back. smoking a roll-up made up of the fag ends of other roll-ups, you whirl the stiff bastard of your left ankle until it finally cracks whereupon, right, whereupon some prick behind you feels the need to point out that “your shift only started about 10 minutes ago”. some prick that may or may not be your manager – if she isn’t yet, she will be soon enough with that attitude – and there’s a little ugly bird whose breed you’ll never wiki doing a sort of flat-footed tap dance on a low wall opposite. it looks like it should be smarter than that. like it’s pretending it’s happy. “well?” you hear. evidently she’s still standing behind you. she’ll be manager any second now. a scab slides off your left knee only to fall into your sock like a cornflake, wet on one side and no one asks the bird what it’s up to. the happier repressed they say everybody is in their own hell but really it’s usually a hell of someone else’s making: it’s a job or a boss or a landlord : a cage you were bequeathed. but if you’re truly in your own hell, like say from indulging a bad friend or by choosing to be miserable with a miserable partner then congratulations: you’re about as free as we can get. just keep your freedom the hell away from me.