days are spinning by and i think this is what remission feels like
i wish i could write
but this is all that i feel.
constantly losing battles is so hard
we play a losing game
i long for the person i used to be
or is this the person i’ve always been?
hold flowers between your fingers and think long and hard about something
something that you want real real real bad
maybe it’ll come true
so full of pain trying to be subtle i should be bleeding
word choice alone
should have given you a clue
and the consistent undertone of raw pure unadulterated angst and bitter humor
that isn’t funny at all.
Adventures In Good Deeds
i helped pick up the trash and i thought about volunteering at a soup kitchen
if only i could find the on switch
5 Hour Energy .
am i decent enough for one word biographies?
do i hold enough presence for silence?
can i afford to not begin my sentences with sorry?
i am barley a person
just a body with good organs
and no license to complain
“ma’am kindly shut the fuck up no one cares.”
that’s what they’ll say to me i’m sure
the thought police
who hate me and i don’t feel anything towards them
because i am nothing but apathy and stupidity
i don’t deserve anything
not joy or bad i don’t deserve either
not because i’m neutral but because i’ve never done anything to feel anything
not that i am undeserving of feeling the bad things
but there has been nothing in my existence to make me feel
spoiled brat woes and hearts sealed with classical silver duct tape
maybe a dash of pepper on a delicious meal that had no need for pepper
on the dot
sunday’s for church where the atheist goes because he fears and dreams
‘Milkshakes remind of that movie.’
I took a sip of chocolate milk
‘The street poet part?’
‘Sweet cakes and milkshakes,
I’m a delusion angel’
‘I’m a fantasy parade,
I want you to know what I think,’
‘Don’t want you to guess anymore’
I don’t think that I’m ready to tell you
So I stall. ‘Swap?’
Tall milkshakes glasses slide over the table,
Across from each other, straws plunging in
I took a sip of vanilla and you took more
Than a gulp of chocolate
And I wanted to think that
You might like chocolate more
Than I like vanilla
But then maybe not.
Because what I feel feels
Much more larger than you
But just the thought of
You liking me too
Has probably woke every single sleeping neuron
The waiter sighs, thick-crust pepperoni slides over
You offer him a slice,
I offer him an apologizing smile
He shrugs, taking both.
And we take our first bite
Pepperoni, mushrooms, bell pepper, cheese, sauce
Hitting our taste buds at the same time
And we chew in content together.
I would never want to miss
A single detail tonight
And I wouldn’t want even this
Tiny feeling exploding in me
Right now to be forgotten
‘I think this pizza deserves a poem.’
‘I’ll grab those napkins and ask for a pen.’
And we wrote our undying love
a certain snow fell last night
to freshen the scene
covering shadowed footprints
seven, five and seven more
count your syllables
and abrupt endings for sure
you got to be kidding me
they’re all I got to offer?
fold paper along its crease
contemplate the change
you’ve made in the worlds future
a small handful of fresh snow
an immense glacier
a connection to be grasped
fill my stein with a foamed head
always tastes good but
the next one will prove theory
please pass the salt to me please
the Tao finds balance
so send the pepper also
by the Embankment
of the Thames
she has a few hours
a few hours to do
as she pleases
the doctors said
OK but no
no pill popping
and so she agreed
and was on her way
although the ward sister
she didn't like
too up front
on her bed at night
fingering her cunt
thinking of Naaman
but she went anyway
took the train
and sits waiting
on the all
too tight dress
(her father's words
on his rare visits)
and the tight top
with yellow birds
and she watches
the water flowing
the boats and barges
and the occasional
row boat going by
and then he's there
having come out
the tube station
his hair dark
and open necked shirt
been waiting long?
yes been almost
picked up twice
as a whore
go fuck themselves
he looks at her
the river's dullness
buses passing by
the city alive
sorry about that
you're here now
have you got?
a few hours of grace
the doctors were good
said I could come
although the ward sister
almost put her oar in
but here I am
well for a while
so where are we going?
how about a coffee
in the park
and a lay down
on the grass to chat
and smooch and relax
no art or cinema
or record shops
or window shopping
unless you want to
want to have ago
in the bushes
or maybe be daring
and have it away
on a park bench?
and a chat will do
I don't perform well
and so they walk up
by Trafalgar Square
and on down
and into the park
she talking about
dying for a fix
and other things
and he talking about
his boring job
and drilling holes
or the pressing
of two sides
of metal together
and how he'd heard
the new Beatles' LP
a Doctor Pepper
they buy two coffees
and talk on
she gazing at his hair
the eyes staring at her
his mouth opening
bringing her words
his fingers touching hers
his having dark hairs
along the fingers
good for fingering
and he studying
seeing himself there
in that darkness
in that faraway place
far from God's kingdom
but near(he thinks)
to His grace.
With good Music on the Speakers,
sipping Black Cherry Cider, eating 4 scrambled Eggs fried with butter
with Basil, Marjoram, Garlic, Onion, organic Milk, Oregano, Cholula hot sauce, Salt and Pepper
and reading from a list of fresh poems on this site from some of my favorite writers of all time;
Breakfast of Champions.
"Wow, what a mansion!"--Albert Wesker RE1
Gothic mansion, where every warrior lost it,
head, heart, and soul--as Faust did,
there walks a scientist who's blood is acid,
with glasses that turn to shade--death reactive.
" Who dares touch my holster" he says bombastic.
as walls evaginate victims, send out vines,
it is from Jesus' in the crowd--Mathew--his lines.
the sight of thorax, stinger and fang,
humping the slain,
do not phase him, for he is phase-less,
turn off receptors of pain, and all is pain-less.
A fallen teamate, still and a'swarm,
the black shades do not mourn,
as thorax crawls ontop of her
but laughs at the irony of a female,
impregnated with ovipositor.
He helped design those creatures,
and--he is her traitorous leader.
Howling night forest, awakens the staff,
as if they sleep facedown in saltwater tides,
shuffling and whale moaning, as if harpooned--
going to lonely depths to die.
then there are the hunters, reptilian apes,
can open locked doors with skeleton claw,
move to quick in hallways,
why pump buttstock you saw.
Pepper the orgy on the bed with full load,
with zombies fellating down to bone,
scream through your muzzle,
slide room apart in jigsaw puzzle.
then watch your six for the hunter,
it is stalking you, wants to put its foot on your face,
and dig in, then kick its leg--and rip off your skin.
retreat from hunters and faces bloated with cadaverine,
find a safe room to safely scream.
Sit down at the bar, pull scotch from its coffin,
on counter, rest pump and python,
do not think of the things you will die from.
there are three darts in the bullseye,
in William Tell style,
but the board is in fashion of an atom,
with electrons in orbit,
the numbers are the human genome,
and a surgical marksman has scored it.
He is Wesker, and this mansion is his tester,
blood and bone is both colors of his litmus,
horribles awaiting in dark room pay witness.
his muzzle flashlight's rooms with hot spark,
entry beats claw swing, shades now clear in dark.
they say in total black silence, one will go crazy,
from the sound of their heart.
but "My trigger that squeezes within,
charged from pupil's firing pin,
sweet semi-auto strokes of violin."
as he vaunts over dying beast,
and darkness returns to his shades,
from moon light through window,
reflecting knifes on wall from moon in wane.
he slicks back a loosed strand,
locks the door behind him, and continues with his plan.
" In my father's mansion are many rooms,
" I'll go prepare a room for you." he mocks, as he walks,
with parabellum hollow points and acid round glocks.
This is his mansion, he is Achilles loosing knees,
he is warrior and scholar, a student of Thucidydes.
team-mates--out air holes in jungle boot bleed,
blood seeping through pants--
olive drab uniform now fatigue.
rooms: blood grooves running down your bayonet--
traps-- channeling you to your death.
prop open oaken door with knife, hope it will hold,
walk to the far side of parlor,
the sound of medieval bolt.
door spits out knife,
just scream through keyhole.
The iron maiden taper is coming slowly,
do not let it go through non-vitals,
a slow way to die,
take it through frontal lobe behind eye.
alas a team-mate hears your screams,
in the sepulchal hall,
door swing, and out of deaths thrall.
Charley Mike: continue mission,
and paint the walls black,
with dead flesh backsplash,
gun or nerves jam, then die a ripping death,
smell a cannibals breath.
Be it known, the man in black and strap,
laughs off exposed rib cage slats,
with only a scrape to his pistol belt.
They rip, and stretch, and moan, half human half beast.
as the cook, in mansion kitchen, cooks his guts,
bowels on cutting board, butcher knife making cuts.
moaning, and crying, yet appetite never dying.
Enter the man in reactive shades,
Picture a alligator, calm, age old in the everglades.
One in the brain, and none in the chest,
those extra shots for rooks, without prowess.
" Wesker, you'll pay for this treachery," invoking Karma,
but the man in black measures her tears as he harms her.
So all that enter mansion portal,
and reach the basement, before becoming morsel,
finally catching up with Wesker,
no more trail of labotomized minds,
and jaws and eyes in epileptic shock,
from a calm trigger squeeze of glock.
Face to face with the master of the saxon race,
mastering gunpowder under the scope,
and you hear the hunters off distant,
primal howls and hissing.
Listen to what the man in black says,
the mortal contest is over,
and he has a virus to offer,
" Die here, and your death will be longer than your life,"
says the man, who's shooting hand is the reapers scythe.
" But live with this virus, and you will never die."
but watch the sun burn out in the sky."
You can refuse him, and face the nightmare creatures alone,
adding your skeleton to the calcium of mansion stone.
or take the virus that invaded the first cell,
making 'other men' the meaning of hell.
" Come decide, lest I go prepare a room for you".--
From powder burns, your tears are black,
eardrums ring from screaming contest:
chrome python against giant asp.
shoulder numb from combat loading shotgun,
thumbing shells straight to chamber--
blood in boots: not much fight left.
your friends are dead, and you answer,
" I rather die forever traitor, to rid the world of your cancer."
In my masters mansion, are many rooms,
dying, crying, moaning: eternal tombs.
To translate my deepest desires to you,
I might have to let you in on the language,
that's so deeply my mother tongue
it vibrates threw every nerve in my body,
To explain to you the strength of them,
you'll have to succumb to your weakness,
ignore your pride and let every nerve in your body listen,
to the songs i'm singing along your skin
the verses derive from that place deep in my heart,
where construction crews are working daily to drill,
with lots of supporting beams and flashlights on helmets,
digging up notes, one by one
and sending them on a one way trip to my finger tips,
so your skin can react in goosebumps and reflexes,
creating surplus prints of flyers advertising,
construction crew wanted,
to dig deep into your own heart,
To complete the duet that has been filtered in our DNA since birth, That has always started off by a sigh of relief, from your arms wrapped around me like a safety belt,
sheltering me from anything I might dislike,
you have always had a song that matched mine,
and I've come to find, more proof of it,
every time I wake up to you already singing me a song,
creating surplus prints of newspapers that read
"Miracle! No need for reconstruction of major vascular organ, ever again!"
The small children with salt and pepper hats yell this news threw me like a war has just ended,
and now the parties will begin,
no more food stamps to find bits of intimacy,
no more seeking to find a place to lay my weary head,
because you didn't even have to learn my mother tongue,
it was already on the tip of it,
words only we knew,
seeking each other out in a sea of foreigners,
but that journey is done,
Now all that's left is to swim in our riches,
royalties of our music,
forever filling in the the lines of our epidermis,
with promises that don't need to be made, and words that don't need to be spoken,
because they were in the initial doctrine,
and yet we just love to repeat them,
because there's nothing like the feel of goose bump music
She hardly was an early riser.
Life at home for her was hell.
and mean threats.
She wrote this on a sunny start of the week, monday.
The sun seemed to have been greatly amused at her wrinkled face.
Recently, she discovered she would release a fart
whenever anxiety or nervousness hit her like a dart.
Her daily life began by 4:30am.
There she was in comfort on her irregular bed,
till a sharp light hit her face
and a thunderous voice boomed her ear drums,
His foot steps made so much sound than his voice.
It was her father.
It wasnt his voice that struck her,
or was it the sight of a whip that he wielded so callously.
It was the angry look he always beared on his face.
It was almost as if he was angry with God for waking him up everyday.
Mixed feelings of fright and fuzziness gripped her
she hastily greeted
He didnt respond.
Her sister stood behind her bed
whimpering in fear.
Only then did she discover who the whip was meant to trash at that moment.
The night before
was a nightmare she have seen before.
Her ingredients failed her,
and her organization
towards the food preparation.
Her Mom hated excuses
Her Dad hated losses and bad soups.
Her promises flew away
Phone accessories became her get-away.
It wasnt the intensity of the funny smell,
or the intense awareness of the pepper and salt,
but it was the searing look her mum had.
Her mom must have mentally shredded her like cabbage, she thought.
Her mom wondered why arguements stuck in her tongue like a tatoo.
Most times she resented her awkward behaviour,
She saw life has an eazy game.
She thought mistakes were a part of our imperfection as human beings and hence should be constantly made.
She didnt understand why God placed her in that family.
Her mom would constantly remind her of the future
She could hear her voice in her sleep
Her mom would speak with her eyes
when her anger has reached a certain height.
played a role
in her usual condescesion.
played a role
in her usual sadistic talk and thinking.
Yin and Yang,
Cold and Hot,
the order of seasons
Either you can change
or you can not.
Such is the nature of Monica.
We sit darkly among the shuffling of the pots
And the murmur of the television
Me and my cozy solitude
A redyellow booth all to ourselves
Grains of couscous have spilled
From the edges of my mouth
On to the plastic tray
Sprinkled with pepper and salt wrappers
I lean back and breathe
Between ambitious morsels.
I bit into an electric eel
and it nearly killed me.
I don't need
those kinds of culinary-thrills,
a near-death experience,
to feel alive.
I think I'll stick to Jalapenos,
skip the seeds
on my own edge.