kevin-theal
American
I grew up in the California suburbs. I'm not interested in your 100's of years of form and function. I believe much like acclaimed author Hunter S. Thompson any self respecting author should be armed to the teeth. / / I hope I grow up to have a drinking problem. / / These are my teenage angsty woes and my early 20's bs poured onto a page like hot bile and shit. / / I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoy writing . / / / by websites / / http://sundaybest-and-brokenglass.tumblr.com/ / http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=552357703#!/profile.php?id=552357703
My brain doesn’t fire
Synapses the way I want it to
Anymore.
It just shorts out
Causes a commotion
Leaving me on the floor.
I got a few to no tricks up my sleeve.
But these idiots keep putting faith in me
Like filling a plastic bag with more plastic bags.
I can’t see any reason to the way I’ve been living.
I’m fighting myself by instinct.
If you build a multitude of clever one liners
On being “Angsty and smarmy”.
Then when you run out angst and smarm
Your basically ******
So I’ve been trying to reinvent myself
For the kids.
The little bastards with the confidence to keep stars from falling.
But I haven’t seen a gleam in ages.
All I see is an empty sky reflecting in my hollow head.
I try to sleep it off
But I just wake up feeling dead.
I could go find a firing squad,
But that’s not what I want to say at all.
My brain isn’t working the way I want it to.
If this is growing up, we’re ******
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 4:30 AM UTC
I want you to eat me alive,
So sharpen your teeth
Till they gleam like knives.
Macabre vision of intestinal track
On soft red lips, biting down
And tearing apart my weak body.
Because I’m pretty sure
You’re a stray and I can only feed you
Till you’re gone. So stay home.
Stay under the tree’s and live from one
Meal to another. Insatiable. Your violence is
Unreliable.
Like the weather changing on a whim.
It’s whims that brought you and me
To the table to the floor.
Splayed out and crying “more…more”
They always say
strays will get to attached
never leave.
“So don’t feed something that wanders in”
But it wouldn’t make sense
For the stray to be the lonely one
It wouldn’t be the stray getting attached.
Casting things aside could never come so easy.
Second nature and serendipity .
It so rehearsed you’d call the
Familiarity love.
But it’s just fragile convenience.
And We shattered it
Like broken plates on a clean floor.
But stays don’t need that
You ate me alive,
Till I was a carcass.
Attached.
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 4:17 AM UTC
I want you to be like cracks in the wall
Splitting, terrifying, acknowledgments of age.
But full of character.
The kind of wrecked up building
Hipsters want to take photos of.
I want you to be a condemned factory
In some rundown New Jersey Industrial district.
I need you like the worn lines on some film reel.
Getting in the way of the best parts.
You could be a dress completely destroyed by cigarette burns
Or the stains on an important document.
You could be my anti-Christ to perfection.
And I’d crucify you with the best intention.
You’re like a car with old bullet holes,
Or that rug everybody is afraid to touch.
In the end you’re like some decrepit ruin of a vast civilization.
Old and broken.
But eternally majestic in my perception.
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 5:02 PM UTC
I felt heavy, in a way
i'd never felt before. Then suddenly knew
everything was going to be terribly
okay.
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 5:02 PM UTC
High and dry it’s all deserts and tumbleweeds with you.
But I’m a cat that likes to travel and move.
So I go the opposite way. Because stagnant dreams at high altitudes don’t suit me.
I’m a flat line realist with big aspirations, but I need to understand the game board.
So I hope there’s gas in the tank. Not for terrorist motives
Although I wouldn’t mind wide scale destruction
And my friends and I
We try to live like pirates.
We wish we could steal
But my mazda’s not a ship
And I’m not boarding port side.
Although to be perfectly honest
I feel that introspective ramblings
Aren’t going to save me.
When I ‘m fine with my self
It’s the flannel wearing 30 somethings
Raised trucks
Medium beer
Hats
Bro’s with community college degrees
The death of California
So My friends and I
Should drown in tar
Like dinosaurs .
Hypothesize our end
Our demise was overdue .
A few years ago I was cutting edge tongue flapping
Now I’m electrodes to spit older quips for lack luster
Gents.
I know the kinds h & m uniform, scarves in California heat, military grade boots.
This one’s name is Jeff and he slings dehydrated lines about charity like it will save his life of mediocrity and empty,empty,empty pockets
For the things he needs to do
To make people like him
Some where
Maybe india
Yes india
We’re friends that are just a 7 dollar donation away.
So leave me high and dry with your corner out eyes
Save yourself from the breakdown’s the x, y, z’s
Of predictable lines and same old stories
It’s the same thing with ***’ of varying size
So if I quench my thirst from leaky pipe dreams
Or water plants with the excess, it’s all the same.
Because a silver tongue and debatable morals is the selling point but we’re not vinyls
Value is measure in age.
And wisdom wasn’t the call your made.
I’m sick of cut throats in Sunday dresses
And thief’s in cheap yellow sunglasses
Life’s not a slope of a flat line or a mountain to be ascended or descended
-Kevin T.
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 5:02 PM UTC
The sound of the radio
Tears through my room
And the drip of the faucet
The gold in my tomb
And the song is just
A hymn
Or a swan
It’s hummed over
Veils
And blank stones
With pretty eulogies
Made up of blank white paper
Because we couldn’t say
Anything better than perfect geometry
Blue lines
And red ones
3 holes
5 stars: *****
Good god
A+
You’re a the fulfillment of a prophecy
Self induced
Trauma
It’s just a like cooking a dish
So follow the directions
Hold yourself true
Here’s some things I made up:
Like flying kites, and kissing electric, post fall shakes, pined arms, letting go, making makeshift pasta desserts, the cranberry’s, popular mtv songs, your memories.
So cheap so I buried them
And if this is guilt
It’s not heavy
If it’s the clouds I’m the anchor around your ankle.
Breathe deep or bubble up
Maybe sink to the bottom
But this is ********
And I’m let down
By a kids decisions with
All the let downs of a major league game
But the let down of *** wee **** fest
A ten year old in fancy threads
This cat’s talking so smooth
“IT’S THAT ******* HOOKED ON PHONICS”
So cool…
So look out because here comes a schitzophrenic with nuclear capabilities.
We gave it to him, with no intention and a foggy head
4am finds 2million and counting charred and burned
Jaws opened wide black melted skin on the linoleum floor
But it’s at the bottom of the sea
And I’m buried with gold
And this is swan song
In head bashing
Numbness
Loud noise
And over the speaker it says something like
pseudo indie artsy
Printed on torn up coffee cup paper
When God speaks he does so without commas
Because he doesn’t need a pause, dramatic or not
So if I’m crawling in the dirt and the ****
Sniffing up trash and dancing in the mud
Call me
Rattus norvegicus
At least I got my instincts
And as a person
I’m not a fad
Falling in an out of ]heads
When the futures meek
I won’t end up on hipster retro gear
When our 20’s fade
it’s not me looking at the ***** mirrors
-Kevin T.
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 5:02 PM UTC
The come down comes in slow like the last dance.
So we grasp our hands and pray like were being let down into unknown liquids.
But mines perfect weather, in an overcast globe.
So I come down and look around, to recognize nothing.
The idea s that I tried to portray fell on deaf ears and eager hands.
So now I’m a sham and the rest of the worlds sitting on a pretty brass with a hollow carcass.
I can’t do anything but watch my words roll around like red carpets into newer venues.
And me
I’ll just take what was yours and call it mine
the me that is the thief
in the night.
10,000
Is the summarization
And the number is more important than the words
Because we’re all thinking to a minimum, life’s an assignment
And as every hinge comes undone
Down and down
Further down we must go.
Until I’m the truth
Until you’re right
Until I see what it is.
Becoming my exclamation points, overused.
Re-hashed, copy, print, stamp, autograph.
Till it’s passed around like a cheap drug
And my come down is a wakeup call .
To make me wise that I hadn’t created something for myself.
But a pamphlet to measure yourself. A standardized test.
I must have ****** up.
Until I crash into the ground.
Or I could deploy a parachute, but I need to see these ants. So I’m falling straight into the farm on my dresser.
And it’s not like an assassination.
I just fell on 100 bullets. Let the janitor clean me up.
I tried to do something great with clay.
And I did
And for that I can’t ever take myself seriously again.
The come down left shivers in my bones and every synapse sunk so deep into a dim pulse that I forgot how to breathe.
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 5:02 PM UTC
We are hands,
and eyes,
and feet, and ears,
lumps of skin,
and bone.
We are puddles of blood
filling the cracks
on the side of the road.
We are mush,
and porcelain teeth
knocked out and embedded
where the steering wheel used to be.
We are hearts, and veins,
arteries clogged up
with a midnight treat.
We are alcohol in the blood stream.
We are 60 miles per hour,
on a residential street.
We are a corpse,
Limbs thrown out like a compass,
Guts spilled out like a teenage poet.
But what we are not,
Is a soul.
We are objects,
We are play things.
For higher species,
Godly beings.
To smile like kids crashing toy cars.
We are empty,
We are just vessels in a blood stream,
Giving life .
We are white noise, screaming for our mothers.
We are a name in a notepad.
A statistic in a book,
Passed out at clever Christian fundraisers,
For old ladies who like sugar cookies.
We are a pop punk song
With memorable lyrics
And a catchy hook .
-Kevin T. 6/16/10
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 5:01 PM UTC
Fred’s a peddler of dreams
Between caked on make- up grins
And a dime sack of ****
He puts holes in logic
Like gaping buckshot wounds
While he sells his wares
To a corrupt, pretentious, college indie scene
The kids who sat in the back of high school dances
“Jesus I wish they’d play some Rooney!”
Are now ******* on the tongues of frat guy’s
Who’s favorite songs are narrowed down to a lists of hits
Played by Journey!
The same girls who dressed for cold New York days
In a California heat storm.
Who listened to Bob Dylan and The Doors
But now they’re covered in the sweat of a gang bang without the hope
Of ***********
Listening to Jay-z
Not because they like it, oh no!
They need to dance
And at least he sings
On key
While kids who made
Wordless promises
Sit in the back
Dropping LSD.
Fred’s a peddler of broken dream
Reach your hand in his satchel
For a fist full of glass shards, and rusted cutlery
He speaks in Biblical urban
Like “Thy shalt not give in, give up, sell out, buy in, peace out!”
And fred is a prophet on E
He’s the only holy man who’s ever meant anything to me
Or spoken a word more then the lessons I learned on Sunday’s PBS specials
I need Fred like a savior needs second chance
And I can find them at the bottles of these sugar coated alcoholic
Drinks.
And I’ll fade to a dim reminder like the scars
On the wrists of the girls and boys who wore the
Nightmare before Christmas hoodies, and understood so well
When they were younger that the only way
To achieve anything
Was to slice themselves under dull razor blades
In bathtubs payed for by parents
Who’s love was occupied by a 200 $ pay cut.
But now the bloods dried and the scars are gone
So 200 miles away and they haven’t learned
A thing
Or done
A thing
And when anything was possible
They need a multiple choice, with an E
For all the above
Fred these are my sacrifices, no love
These are old and weary so now I can sit
And watch the girl drown herself in alcohol
Fred to you I give her.
Put her in your bag of broken dreams
And sell her back to me as a blood alcohol
.40
Fred these are my payment in things I don’t own
The guys in meaningless vintage clothes
Dropping acid
And convulsing in chairs
Until their nothing but blink stares
And steady green lines
With the white noise swan song, and the time
4:40 am
Put him in medicine bottle
Marked “Lysergic acid diethylamide- For mild post college depression”
And Me and you Fred can share a nice chuckle.
Fred’s a con artists
He’s got an empty bag of ********
He’s got all the money he needs
He’s the **** all poster child
He’s the God I always imagined
He’s the best part of the week
He ‘s a lie caught between
Some tongue and cheek
And if I only knew what he said
Was a cautionary tale
And not some well thought out pitch or sale.
Well then Fred’s a messiah
Handing out second chance
In his knapsack.
But his advice
Is deafened by the constant hum and irritating beat
Of a floor drums that’s moving the youth into an early graves.
-Kevin T.
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 5:01 PM UTC
When I arrived at Brian’s house, the whole room smoked out.
I prayed to God I was walking into a witch burning.
But he was lying on the couch melting
into the cushions, being swallowed and chewed.
Like cud in a cows mouth, slowly sloshing around.
He’s rolling joints on top of college rejection letters.
He doesn’t want help in the most obvious ways:
he wants it in the way couples make suicide pacts.
Glass eyed, he looks at me and grabs
a beer: no cheers,
no salute, or words
exchanged.
We drink the beer quickly
Aluminum tips to pink lips,
that moose **** taste of natty ice.
As our ******** banter bounces of the walls.
The light bends off Brian’s glasses and flashes in my eyes,
Like the scope of a ****** rifle.
He is fixed on the flashing blue TV screen.
If I’m here or not makes no difference
He puts the joint in his mouth, lights it up.
The flame ignites against his sugar glazed eyes,
his skin stretched tight across his pale face.
Bright blue veins all along his skin,
like highways on a map.
A corpse in a cheap Halloween
costume.
I catch a ghostly outline
of him with all his drop out friends.
Lined up, ****** on the couch.
Jack-o'-lanterns.
Carved with frozen grins,
so weary
and hollowed out.
-Kevin Theal
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 10:58 AM UTC