I. i was seventeen and bitter and you
knew nothing, old man.
because you said, "look how she hurts him, using her gender--"
(no, her sex, her womb breasts sultry eyes they've sexualized since age five,
to make mincemeat of astronaut dreams, to make docile queens breed and)
"-- as a weapon"
would you not bring, at least, a knife to a gunfight, old man?
(have you ever had nothing but a knife against a bullet, 500mph to your head?)
II. i hate you. i hear my words in your voice,
in that awkward cadence, like you're telling an sanitized moral,
some comfortable truth, perhaps, or maybe the secret to your
moderate publishing success. can you leave my words alone
III. i'd like to apologize, maybe, a little, for the insolence.
i'm not really a rude person.
i'd like to prove that while staying honest, but what would i say?
"i'm sorry i'm a shit." "i'm sorry you're a shit"
i'm sorry this world's a shit. i can't do the reading tonight
they said he should submit this
make submissions and do readings
this is the way it’s been done
for many years
but he didn’t really want to
a couple of rejections left him weary
and he’s a writer not a performer
the contests say “all styles and subjects”
but surely they have criteria
not this one
not this one
the all inclusiveness is a lie
the judges know what they want
he wished they’d be up front and specific
but it’s all about the entry fee
they pretend to be seeders
offering everyone a chance
to grow and bloom
but they’re actually weeders
quickly quashing poems
rubber stamped with doom
they never really stood a chance
because it’s all about the entry fee
“Don’t self publish”, they said
“You’ll regret it”
he did the design and layout anyway
“Can ‘we’ make changes to the cover?”
who the hell is “we”?
this is his book?
sure he wanted sales
that’s what publishing is about
but sink or swim
he wanted his book, his way
especially his first book
and he’s a stubborn bastard
the internet is accommodating
this IT age makes it easier
the process has been long
with glitches and obstacles
doubt and procrastination
but the would be destination was worthy
available at amazon
Please buy my book.
Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words
sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint
and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy
he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static
he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^
he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words
He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary
there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse
she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment
she was flying home for
there was no other answer
Is a million memories ...
Like your favourite Beatles track,
Like breakfast coffee in a Turin bar,
Like the old friends that never grow old,
Like your favourite Italian pasta in Rome,
Like summer swims in warm sea with cold rain,
Like the aria which sends shivers down your spine,
Like the magical taste of Gaja Barberesco for lunch,
Like coming home to a smiling face after a long trip,
Like your child buying you dinner for the first time,
Like how beautiful she was on your wedding day,
Like your first date movie being on TV again,
Like capturing a moment in a photograph,
Like rereading your favourite book,
Like watching Casablanca again,
Like publishing your first book,
Like living every moment...
... And a million more to come.
I can't think what I thought.
Can't grasp for what I sought.
Don't rhyme lines because its getting you no where.
Boy, do I want to get somewhere.
Can't take no one serious who says,
"Can't take no one with me"
Flick the light switch.
Speed up the beat
Relax your speech.
Can't write what I was feeling.
Lost all touch, lost all meaning.
Can't write nothing.
I just need to write something.
The words used to flow out of me,
Smooth like butter,
Flowed the ocean.
I would've never said "Smooth like butter"
Woulda said "smooth as the sky"
and "Flowing through my hair and floral patterned skirt"
Wish I had that much meaning
Behind everything I did again.
I was hurting myself,
But thriving and reviving and living at my full extent.
Hastily switching subjects,
All flourished about me
Broke me off piece by piece,
The paper caught those.
Now, wanting to say "catched" instead of
Been slacking on everything.
Having that feeling of "What's the point?"
Once the worst is over,
It can only get better.
I don't want it to get better.
I won't accept the truth,
I'll stay stubborn and push everthing I want away.
The best part was, no one could stop me.
No one knew,
so no one pitied.
I hate it when people pity others for foolish acts.
No one should give a damn about me
Cause' I don't give a damn about any one of them.
Still can't manage what I wanted.
Even when I wrote I knew it was something worth publishing.
I would throw this away,
because this is trash.
Just like me.
Trash, and dirt.
And used containers.
I've been used.
I've been thrown away.
I've been dropped.
Trash, I am.
Trash, I was.
I don't never wanna be nothing but trash.
I don't ever want to be anything but trash.
Sounds real different,
Wanting to cry,
Lost my rhyme.
Haven't had it for some time.
All I do is whine.
I'm allowed to ask.
Why? Why? Why?
For all the days that end in why,
The tears we want to, but never cry.
Let's all just come together and live as one.
Peacfully, and sorrowful.
Because I don't never wanna get better.
Too bad our future is our choice,
just like me.
Just like this piece of shit.
Hope you're not too angry
I wasted your time.
I don't mind though,
Because I don't give one damn.
Unless you know me better than myself,
You'll probably have to reread bits and pieces
to comprehend anything and everything
my mind ponders through it's journies.
Cause' I sure have no idea what the hell to say anymore.
thinking about you,
wondering if you're
thinking of me.
We've been down
this road before
and I know where
Only to wake up
to nothing more than
Secrets shared in
brings me around,
to kill the
painful thoughts of
The less you say,
the worse it gets.
© 2005 Dead Men Publishing
God sent me an angel to torment me with.
Hair of fire,
eyes of ocean blue.
Heart skipping beats
with a flashing of a smile.
Pain plunders my soul
with every thought
I'm being paid back for
every sin that I've committed.
Showing me something
I can never have.
On my knees,
begging for forgiveness
to which there is none.
This is my personal hell.
An angel with no wings and
a sinner with a broken heart.
Seized up in deep thought,
to ponder what could have been
only to wake up in pure desolation.
I am paying it forward.
Loneliness is my sentence,
love is my crime.
©2006 Dead Men Publishing
I don't care
I don't care
I don't care
I don't care
I don't care.
with an upturned
away from your
to your own kind.
Fuel my rage,
I just laugh.
© Dead Men Publishing.
to not see
what I've become.
Is for suckers.
I don't learn
from my idiotic
Once I've rescued
from the gutter,
it is submerged
into a pile of
from my own doing.
falling on my face
so many times
me a valuable lesson.
Nothing could be
I am to the point
of giving up.
It seems like
thing to do.
But, I know
I have to push
on and see
how much longer
I can go.
I will see the light.
© Dead Men Publishing
Stuck in a stupid fairytale
running around town like my heart
was out on bail.
Lord, please come down and kick my ass,
I need a whoopin hard and
I need it fast.
Retarded over a fucking smile,
not knowing all the while,
I was being played like
a hapless fool,
wipe away the drool.
Fed up, sick and tired,
stare my reflection down
My eyes saw something that wasn't real,
I got stupid when I started to feel.
That was my fuck up,
I should have known.
Love is for suckers,
I'm meant to be alone.
Dust off my shoulders,
and stitch up my heart,
That was all too easy,
time for the hard part.
Runaway to a place you'll never find
That walled up space,
in the back of my mind.
It'll be a matter of time,
before you'll be blowing up my cell line.
So, go about your business,
do what you gotta do.
I'm done with this shit,
I wash my hands,
It was over before it began
with her words:
"I just wanna be friends"
©2006 Dead Men Publishing