1985 -    16 followers
Born on the East Coast of the United States and the product of no less than seven broken homes, Arson Nick (Nicholas Fonteix) brings enough emotional baggage to the table to break the legs off.
Born on the East Coast of the United States and the product of no less than seven broken homes, Arson Nick (Nicholas Fonteix) brings enough emotional baggage to the table to break the legs off.
Arson Nick
Sep 26, 2013

With heavy sigh
A single leaf falls
The first I've caught in the act

It slides down my right shoulder
Kissing my skin with parched lips
'Save me,'
It whispers
I sing

A single, skittering chipmunk
Bounds across the soggy banks
Of Lake Fred
Unafraid and nearly near enough to touch
But keenly and instinctually aware
Of my innate barbarism
He keeps his distance

"Did you see that?"
I call to him
Pointing to the crumpled leaf beside me
"Summer is dying."

The chipmunk stops
Cranes its neck and twitches its whiskers in consideration
And replies
'Of course it is,
What else would it do?'

Arson Nick
Jun 20, 2013

Considering the context
I'd say it has something to do with self-reflection
Or Orwellian Dystopias
I just can't decide which...

What is certain
Is that it's not about love

Perhaps a Eulogy
Sung in the Key of abstraction
Perhaps a snare of low cunning
Sprung on the unwary
Perhaps a dissonant reconstruction of post-modern  proletarianism
Or other such big words

But certainly
Not about love

This poem
Is about the errant nature of nature
About pinning still fluttering butterflies to dry-wall
About scribbling half-drunk non-sense on the wall of a bathroom stall because it's the only way to keep yourself from screaming
This poem
Is about sleeping with the lights on
But it is not

About love

Arson Nick
Jun 19, 2013

I asked
"What does convoluted mean?"

She sighed.
"Don't be  a smart ass..."

Snare, snare

It isn't so much a joke
As it is a fun-house reflection
A warped mirror pointed at a fat kid with thick rimmed glasses
Silly teeth
And nervous hands

Is childhood a degenerative disease?"


It wasn't so much a question
As it was the act of turning over a stone in the garden
And finding the long forgotten grave of one "Thomas the Goldfish"
Clean picked bones
And angry sadness




And it wasn't so much an absence
As it was a shell-game with no marble
A sudden realization that all we are is meat
Clean picked bones
And nervous hands

Arson Nick
Jun 18, 2013

We exist within spheres
Bubbles of perception
Roughly circular ripples of both know knowns and known unkowns
And then there
Right at the edge of these spheres
Just outside the very last shred of our understanding of how the world works

Is how the world really works

I've seen it
Only briefly
And not because I'm smarter or more enlightened than anyone else
But rather because I do better drugs than most
And while my short term memory is fucked
I have managed to bring back an excerpt of my journal
And it reads:

"This world is a process of conflict
A construct begat by the clashing of two equal and opposite forces
One of the forces
Is called Fate
And the other
Is called Choice
And the sum of existence consists of everything that falls in between

And the really fucked up part
Is that we already know this

But life
Has affixed us with blinders that force us to see
So much so, in fact
That a sense of 'self'
Is considered hedonism in most circles

But the soul
Does not have a default setting
Is not an illusion
And despite what you may have been told
There is no compelling evidence to suggest that there isn't another world on the other side of my mirror

The are no empty spaces
Only effects that have yet to be caused
There are no reflections on lake shores
That is merely the image of God

Arson Nick
Jun 18, 2013

When I was young
My mother hung
A dying man above my door
Upon a nail
Upon a nail
And I don't know what he was for

Arson Nick
May 24, 2013

"Yes, Kasandra?"
"Why can't I feel you?"
"Because we are dead, my dear."


Arson Nick
May 3, 2013

We were soldiers
Armed with latest in stick-based assault weapons
We were masked bandits robbing trains
And riding off into the other corner of the backyard

We were firemen with jet-packs
We were knights of a false age that only existed in our naive concept of the non-present
We were fucking X-men

Then we grew out of that

Then we were skaters

Then we were punks
Then ramblers
Then students


(Can you imagine?)

And somewhere in the changing of name tags
We lost our ability to change
To become
To believe we could become

And now I'm afraid I'll be stuck as an adult for the rest of my life

To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment