Every year at Christmas
The tree goes by the wall
I drag the damn thing from downstairs
And I tug it down the hall
The lights go up with tinsel
The ornaments and star
Then I go downstairs and knock one back
Behind my little two tap bar
I've done it now for forty years
Each year, the tree and lights
The tinsel and the ornaments
To brighten up the nights
The cards I get go on the wall
No baking do I do
I go downstairs and have a drink
Sometimes I might have two
The kids, not here, they have their lives
I get a call on Christmas Day
It's far to far to come out here
And there's just no room to stay
The boys have hockey, the girls as well
So they won't be coming soon
They play their first game at three
So I get their phone call right at noon
I put my little Cornish hen
In the oven for my meal
I've got some frozen veggies
And a Christmas Cracker for the "feel"
I sit alone at Christmas
I watch the telly, have a beer
It's not the same with out you
It's not Christmas, you're not here
Still every year the tree comes out
I put it where you'd say
We'd move it at least fifteen times
Until it found a place to stay
I drag the decorations out
I've not yet bought something new
I'm here alone at Christmas
With my memories spent with you.
fury clings to the wrinkled
folds between each of his fingers
the smell of nicotine
after a cigarette binge
he makes fists with
a violent grace
and every time
he grasps a cigarette
ash somehow falls before he lights it
(imagine what he could do to your hand)
his finest quality is his death wish
when his mouth's not
kept busy smoking
from the edge of his gums
out his chapped lips
bitter against soft
soft against bitter
i hope one day
the feel of fire
on your skin
the look of
are no longer
my hands are cold
even in the summer months
and i could
ice your burns
when you grow tired
come play with ice
you can hold my hand
We writers are insane.
All of us.
We revel in our own sad mess
While picking green grapes
Off the wallpaper,
Smecking away like mad
At the wondrous juices
Of the imaginary, judicial
We, like Hemingway,
Take our scotch in the morning
And our gin at night
And try with brutal, lashing effort
To make it through
We have put ourselves in shoes
We will never be able to walk in.
We must walk miles as
AIDS sufferers, as
Brutalizers of women.
We must deal with their pain
As if it were housed in our own entity of being.
J.D. Salinger wrote that
His literary son, Holden,
Wore a “people-shooting” hat and
Made it damn clear that he suffered from wild
And erratic fits of overwhelming depression.
Writing from a bunker
Far from his wife, kids and home,
His stories sparked murder in the hearts
Of already oppressed men
With “people-shooting” hats of their own.
We must toil with language;
Put it in the corner,
Love it, hate it,
Shift it an slave daily with it.
We must lose hours upon hours upon
Days of sleep
Before we find ourselves
Dangerously asleep at the wheel in front of us
In order to make the slightest change in our regular ways.
Our handwriting only becomes sloppier
And our words,
Kaysen, alone in a psych ward
With women who slept around and
Tried to maul each other,
To try to release the the demon
Boiling the very blood inside her veins.
But demons do not disappear easily
Neither do the tortuous memories.
They attempt to label me
With words of the disturbed.
Floods my synapses and neurons.
Happily urinates on my serotonin levels.
I bring myself to write
The effigy of the psycho
Day by dad
As my pen scratches paper
And the doctors expect razor to scratch skin
Though it never has
And never will.
Writers are psychos.
We all are.
We remain the mad, psychotic, literate monsters
Who worm our ways
Into your head.
We nestle beside your dreams and fantasies,
Waiting to strike
And tear them apart or,
If you’re lucky,
Build them up.
A woman writer named Sylvia
Once put her head in the oven
Because the writer-demons were driving her to madness
And they wouldn’t leave her be.
Handling us is a torture
Only the most eloquent and experienced reader
i. i have convinced myself i look the most beautiful with bruises and
hair that has not been brushed.
ii. sensitivity is my virtue. i wear it on my eyelashes and cry it all
off so i look like a raccoon waiting to be abandoned.
iii. i think if you opened me up inside you would find
books with dog-eared pages and
iv. if i fall in love with you, hold me down with cords
v. i’m wearing lipstick too much, because all i can think of
lately is your fingers in my mouth and the
cliffs i need to jump off
Of cold air
and gloomy clouds
Such darkness on it
It let go the rain
Like the girl I see
Seating next her paper
Ripping the pages
out of melancholy
Down her face
Night castling a paradise
And seeking refuge with dreaming.
I saw the girl
Writing in pain
Howling because of
And all her hopes drained
I saw the girl
Staring back at me in the mirror.
Calm tranquility is me
Still searching for that ecstasy
Oh how I know summer will bring it within
Saving me from a life of sin
Euphoric behaviour euphoric eyes
Look real deep and you'll find no lies
A true spirit is thy way of motion
To save myself from unneeded commotion
The breath in is equal to the breath out of air
Can't you see I long for a heartfelt stare
Now I've been through my drugs to which I'm now at psychedelics
Cause I feel they are useful like the most highs relics
Searching for a soul with the same outlook on life
Avoiding all that anti-pineal gland strife
Third eye visions which are beautiful and true
Real sight of life just for you
Going to upload my poems onto this site I've just found
Hopefully someone will notice my ongoing sound
Peace from me who loves to hug trees
And has beautiful creatures landing on me like the buzzy little bees
Deep meditation is where I find myself a lot
Must of all started when I saw Buddha and smoked a lot of pot
Hopefully I will be with a cat tonight
Dimension keepers which they are with their sight
Crossing your path means they saving you from bad
Cause they know what will make you happy and what will make you sad
Why can't I speak when I have so much to tell?
Why can't I write when I have so much in mind?
Why can't I sing when there's...music in my heart?
Why can't I dance when there's rythme in the air?
Too many words left unspoken
Too many things left undone
Why can't it be and why can't I?
For all I know this pain deep inside
Took the gladness from my heart.
Is this the pain of missing you?
Is this the reason behind it all?
Hear the agony of my heart
Longing for you and for your touch
Feeling your lips, feeling your face
Missing your chatting and too many sweet fights...
When will the waiting ever be over?
For as long as were apart I can never be whole
Oh! My Dearest Love
I just want you to know
That my heart is aching because
"I'M MISSING YOU!"..