rose petals grazed your cheeks
and daisy chains were woven into your hair
and your lips were stained as red as cherrys
and you looked happy
but on the inside you were dying
you were crying so much inside of your head
but on the outside you smiled
your lips bright still
and you wanted to cry, to let it all out
but that would ruin the façade and the mascara you'd put on
because the world didn't see how broken
all they saw was the pretty girl with no troubles at all
and now you're gone, forever and ever
because the monsters in her head finally got her
When I was a boy
My life was erratic
Volcanoes in Antarctica
Jungles in LA
Shouts and anger; quiet farmstead
As I got older
My heart was erratic
Kisses in the hallway
Bruises on the cheek
Soft words and embraces; angry thoughts
Even older still
My mind was erratic
Screaming at the wall
More clever than ever
Lucid, powerful arguments; raving paranoid delusions
And here I am
I am erratic incarnate
A bundle of sluggish energy
A sonnet written for one girl and an excuse for another
A coil of madness tight around the bright spark of genius
A purely mechanical soul-filled destiny driven fate-less wonder
Do I laugh for the irony or madness?
If memory serves this was a special branch of the
Those boys came to town to play.
Weekend rabble loose on leave.
Ready set by the truckloads.
Bully mother fuckers in jungle boots.
Ready to blow a few months pay
And whip anyone's ass for looking the wrong way.
Rowdy and loud.
Long on swagger short on dick.
Eh mate got any sisters about?
Asked one blatherin putz as he stimbled about.
Every now and then one strayed from the pack
Drunk and disorderly. Four sheets to the wind.
Well... he kept close after that.
I was about 8 when I became aware that
The big loud men in kilts and fatigues were men
On a mission an ill wind.
but victims of power same as we.
God save our gracious king
God save our glorious king. God save the king
Send him victorious.
Happy and glorious.
Long to reign over us.
God save the king.
Those blokes were bigger than life. And not all bad either.
people always say "that was deep"-but what does deep mean, like blood coursing through veins?-could it be general pains or maybe even psychotic dreams-to be deep would be deep in thought, im assuming not literal-its like you're jones'n fora specific mental flow-almost like you lost track of what you had-psh...i guess that expression is true, you dont know what you've got till its's gone
but since were talking about the individual its definitely not impossible to find-i guess we can just throw a rope to the soul with a hope it gets caught-like fishing line we search for that rock bottom, because life is much sweeter when we crawl from our caverns-since we dig these ourselves we navigate them quickly-its the abundance that gets us, rather the dig deep-in our soul we search for this attribute that we have always admired-hoping to base our life around that fuel that fires us
Your life is just a work of art
A masterpiece painted
By some big brain
With double-folding sentience?
Do you ever consider
The beauty of the detail(s)?
What if that weird coincidence
That happened today
Really wasn't a coincidence at all?
What if there are no coincidences?
What if when we go to sleep
Our brainwaves change
Because our minds go elsewhere
And it's best we just forget
When we wake?
What if reincarnation is real
And just at a universal scale?
What if life didn't originate on Earth?
What if there's something huge about
That we don't yet understand?
What if everything is a computer simulation
And everything above the first dimension
Is just a folded-up illusion?
What if we're not the only ones out there?
What if one time
At some random point
Along your vision's axis
You stared right at a planet
That harbored life?
Or even a star system?
What if religion and science collapsed in
On each other?
And what does this whole Eye business
What if the multiverse
Is more connected
Than we ever imagined?
What if God is a number? (a chuckle)
What if God is all the numbers
And combinations of them
And possible functions
And every algorithm
Every discordance and solution?
What if fate and free will
Don't really hate each other,
And it's just a game they play?
What if, just as we imagine characters,
Scenes and fiction
And paint them with words, sounds, and pigments
Our lives and interactions
Are painted by some society of higher beings,
In some fractalesque twist?
What if perception and emotional value
Are just the icing on the cake
And they are what makes life more
Than numbers and figures?
What if art
Is more than human?
What if the magical spells we once dreamed of
Have become our reality-
Songs, pictures, symbols flashed on the TV...
What if it really is like good guys vs. bad guys
And it's all just whispered above your head
Just within earshot?
What if it's not so black and white
And our only true villain
Is the stupidity of the mob?
What if it's somewhere between
Like it usually is?
What if we were always happy
Or always sad?
Would there really be a difference?
What if you could escape the circular nature
What would you see, looking down?
What if every system is circular
Because they're all gears
In some big surreal machine?
What if you're dreaming?
Nope, still here.
What if you're not dreaming at all
And it's really just that strange?
What if everything that could happen
And you are only allowed to see one of each?
What if the laws of physics
Are only so set in stone
In this universe
But there are others that vary?
What if the speed of light
Is the universal speed of time?
What if I'm actually dead
And this is just a virtual world
And I'm living through a computer?
What if reality is a very complicated computation?
What if I woke up as someone else tomorrow morning?
Would I even realize it?
What if one of my poems caused two people to meet
and fall in love? that'd be cool
What if one of my poems accidentally somehow set off
A chain of events that killed someone? that's weird and sad
What if gravity were as strong as magnetism
Or the other forces?
We'd surely have no planes
And getting up in the morning would suck even more
What if for once you were grateful and happy to wake up in the morning?
Ooh, got you with a tinge of guilt din't I?
What if the whole thing was a joke and no one likes getting up after a nice rest?
What if looks didn't affect judgment so much?
What if this is your very last breath?
If so, look out-
What if my imagination didn't have a bottom?
What if the act of believing in something
Made it true?
What if my red was your blue?
What if you could see tenfold more colors then most humans
Because you had an extra type of cone in your gene code?
What if the very fundamentals of science you were taught in school
Were mass-spread so no one could know how strange the universe really is?
What if the moon landing was fake?
What if conspiracies don't really affect you that much in the end?
What if there was an underlying pattern of questions and statements
Following a free-flowing logical train here?
What if it just crashed?
What if when the light went off on your webcam
That didn't mean it was inactive?
What if you had something to hide?
What if they're out to get you?
What if they're everywhere?
What if it's way over your head
And it's time to get out of the house?
What if Uncle Ben never got shot?
What if Tony Stark is just a friggen' badass genius dude wonder?
What if some levity never hurt anyone, but what if it did?
What if some guy was telling a joke, not paying attention
And he fell and broke his left arm?
I bet it's happened on numerous occasions.
And statistically, probably more if you change it to 'right'!
What if you didn't help that old lady cross the street?
What if the old lady never crossed the street
And she just sat there forever like a lost puppy
Doesn't it just make you want to cry?
What if you were sitting on that thing you're looking for the whole time?
What if your life is a TV show
It's all staged, Truman!
What if I'm not real
And a secret artificial intelligence project
Wrote this to test how convincing it is?
I promise I'm not but you have no way of knowing!
What if some of you start to suspect me of being a robot?
What if in some ironic twist of fate that made someone crazy obsessive about it
And writing it led to my very death?
What if I'm just here for the ride
And I don't have time to worry about things like that?
My eyes are getting heavy...
As much as they tell me
I need to focus.
I need to concentrate...
And leave the la-la-land dreamscape
Of my head,
I'm proud to even
I m a g i n e.
I guess you could call it feeling lost.
I guess it's like::
I'm in my bed, and I'm sinking.
I can't fall asleep until I magically imagine that your arm is wrapped around me.
I can't listen to a song without thinking,
Wow this must be written about me and you.
I guess it's like::
I got my hopes up.
And you brought them down.
I invested my energy and put it inside of yours.
It glowed and glimmered and I grabbed it but you let it float away::watching it struggle to hold on.
I guess that's what it's like.
I guess you could call it feeling lost.
with that lipstickless pout
her cat Léon
a "charmant" 2 bedroom apartment
and a once envied reputation
now deservedly sullied
and only getting worse.
Friends tell you she's got
at a sidewalk café
table wobbling on the cobblestones
carafe, glasses of wine
while she argues about everything
with old friends
and the stubborn ghosts
of those dead or gone.
You can still taste her mouth
a hint remains in your wet
almost spongy inner cheek flesh
probe it with your tongue -
late afternoon sun.
Her face ever immaculate
yet always foundation-free
a lesbian's wettest dream
no make-up grazes staining
anybody's Yves Delorne pillowcases.
When you fucked
you could often hear
next door doing the same
will she still whimper
when you make love
and get up to pour herself a glass
immediately after finishing?
When you step out together
later that afternoon
will you feel as though you
deliberately opened a door
into a dogeared postcard
or Truffaut film?
You know she's deceitful
runs to her own schedule
and clearly always had an expiry date
in mind for you two,
one she always kept
to herself -
"Those questions aren't
for asking, on verra..."
The cat has a tendency to yowl
at inappropriate moments
you wish she had a dog instead
or maybe just a goldfish
(there's enough dogshit
on the streets already).
Her apartment will still
smell of stale cigarette smoke
and the geraniums in the window box
and she has asked that you stay
for the full two weeks
(sentimental, unable to resist
taking old lovers back in).
Will she beg you not to leave
burn your passport
in the stained enamel kitchen sink
while you take a shower?
Or will she quietly close the door
behind you as you go -
suitcase in hand
your eyes turned
- - - -
For My Sister
Doll face, what does it matter
if you're ugly as hell?
If you’re short or you’re fat
Or your face is full of pimples?
Why the hell should it matter?
Sweetness, who gives a damn
If you tie your laces upside down?
And your left hand smudges the words on the page?
If you break down crying at the sight of rotting roadkill?
Who is anyone to laugh at you?
Who is anyone to tell you who you are?
I am sick and tired of seeing your red rimmed eyes
I am sick and tired of seeing what they do to you
I hate to see you hurt and I crave the very best for you
I want you to be happy in all the ways you can
Let go of it all and crawl on the ceiling, weightless
Darling, people are messed right up
And we've all got cuts and stitches and oozing wounds
But don't let the bruised and beaten up punks
the privileged warriors, the wait-listed mental patients,
the scummy lost wanderers, the vengeful aching souls,
Tell you it matters if you're ugly as hell
Please please please
Understand you are so much more than a shell
than an exoskeleton of a soul
You are a glorious, bruised and beaten up,
Ugly, pimpled masterpiece,
And it's a shame that they don't see it
Tommy’s little, sure, but he’s
getting to that age
when he understands a little more
picking up things as his parents
take him shopping;
and hearing and seeing things
at home, in the backyard
and in the streets
but today poor Tommy
is caught in class
he’s about to explode
and he’s controlled it the last hour
“Please, miss,” he has the balls
to say it after all
“I need go piss!”
“You’re not going,”
says the pedantic Miss,
“until you use in a complete sentence
the proper English word
for your urge:
Poor Tommy –
he’s got the balls, but does
he have the brains?
Tommy thinks hard for a while -
one hand on his head
one hand on his pants
and then he blurts out:
“YOU ARE AN EIGHT
and Mrs Smith next door
who sunbathes naked in her courtyard
LOOKS LIKE A TEN. Now, can I go?”
*listen-watch this poem read by me on youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XX-ZhOSQIsE ...
I step in to the streets where my mind is clear
Nature feels my pain with her rasp in the air
Singing duets about a girl back home
Dreaming of my baby with her light blonde hair
Laying in the gutter with a knife in my back
Trying to keep warm with this bottle in my hand
I've got a reputation so I've got to keep it cool
I would take my life but there's the laws of man
My friend says "take a bump to keep your mind at ease
A coked up conscious will set your spirit free"
Trying to find God but my ritual is insane
Living my life through a lucid dream
Running through Salem with the wind at my back
They execute the sinners with a bloody axe
Got caught dancing with the ghosts of my past
They'll hang me from a scaffold for my witchcraft
My mind cries warning but my heart don't care
A dozen red roses with a note that reads "beware"
I want to rise to fame, I'm going to make a deal
The devil takes my soul and the reaper is near