Riverside, CA    1992 -   
pseudo-poet, scapegoat, barfly

lost laureate of yet another lost generation
pseudo-poet, scapegoat, barfly

lost laureate of yet another lost generation
EJ Aghassi
EJ Aghassi
9 hours ago      8 hours ago

you tell me that it's hard
and the news falls soft
on deafened ears &
a hardened heart
brimming with fears

I know you will be missing
something, you don't have
to utter a word, no sound
needs to be made
the silence resounds
our essence will stay

I won't tell you it's hard
rivers flow, no second-
thought, clouds will
neutralize the day, rain
falls drop by drop,
the wolf hunts
and kills its prey

I'll smile on the garden
where you planted
plenty pretty flowers
the same tender
hands that tended
to me in our hours
the way we swayed
the way you towered
over me and myself
shaking beside me,
I will remember you

the light in the women's
bathroom stays on, always
24 hours a day

why is it never
safe to be a woman?

  Reposted by EJ Aghassi  ·  Jun 10

Morning, a glass door, flashes
Gold names off the new city,
Whose white shelves and domes travel
The slow sky all day.
I land to stay here;
And the windows flock open
And the curtains fly out like doves
And a past dries in a wind.

Now let me lie down, under
A wide-branched indifference,
Shovel-faces like pennies
Down the back of the mind,
Find voices coined to
An argot of motor-horns,
And let the cluttered-up houses
Keep their thick lives to themselves.

For this ignorance of me
Seems a kind of innocence.
Fast enough I shall wound it:
Let me breathe till then
Its milk-aired Eden,
Till my own life impound it-
Slow-falling; grey-veil-hung; a theft,
A style of dying only.

  Reposted by EJ Aghassi  ·  May 25
le comps
le comps
May 24      May 26

They say she’s
the real deal. But she’s an un
-reasonable soul, really,
attempting to cultivate con
amidst all this crazy sway.

She’s seeking some softer
-er sound than silence,
some more sober space
than now, her
self, between the bound(ary)
lines. She’ll be just
fine, as soon as this breeze
blows through and you
and he and she all just stop
yapping, sapping her

What’s real isn’t
what’s true. Open up

the sky; cloudcry her
a song. Scribe something
in stars, or stairs leading
else, or a slice of sigh
-lence she can hold
in both hands. Stand
next to her in the rain.
Play around the ruff
-led edges of a phrase.
Throw in
some commas, a hyphen,
a hyper pen ready to fly.

Ask her
every question
under this tangerine sun,

Thank you for the time

& thanks for the epiphany

keep up whatever it is

you feel like you're doing

perhaps "hiatus poetry" is a better title

I'll be back, eventually

I grow to despise all
which bring tears to my eyes

it's happened too many times now

I want nothing but your nonexistence
no happiness or sadness

just nothingness

I want apathy, I want disinterest
I want permanently handicapped empathy

I'll get there eventually

I'm losing faith that there's such
thing as hope, or faith for that matter

it's all drab around here, really

I try to pacify my bitterness
but my bitterness pacifies me

I'm taunted by the irony

I've lost count of the times
I've been made to feel so foolish

I'm getting used to being embarrassed

All you well-to-do women
with whatever is in your head

Keep respectable distance

your energy is better spent
on one who won't slowly with time

unravel at your feet

I can agree there's a lot to
hate about those who you pity

the ones who feel as I do

you see them vulnerable and
you feel in control and powerful

it disgusts you that you had no choice

you'll soon loathe as I do
and your niceness will be tarnished

I'll loathe all even more

I feel no sensations other than
some exhausted discontent

it becomes your true companion

I welcome it all at this point
there's no point to finding a point

maliciousness just exists, I guess

you or I are no exception
I know I'm feeling quite awful

I want to share my suffering

but it's for me and only me
my one and only property

my holy suffering

I'll carry it with me

I cannot be one with this world
I won't adhere to what it requires
It shall be forced to my own will,
or I will exile myself willingly

with my suffering,
in pursuit of the only thing
I am truly entitled to

so it goes.

the bitterness is debilitating
and normally i'd fix that
with my writing but it's
writing that is making me
more bitter about it all

it isn't easy being a fraud
desperate for a place
longing for a practice
a hobby or whatever else

i look upon approving audience
when i dream, when i dream
i am accepted as a poet
separate from paralyzing falsities

but when i write i'm just a number
a broad categorization of where
my "art" is aimed
i sound like so many others that
sound so much like myself

will i ever transcend my
limitations? will there ever be
depth to what i have to share?

i don't change lives i just change minds

when i write i'm just a number

someone's losing faith in himself
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