they come
and they go
like tides
like the moon
and the sun
when they come
they bring wine
they bring smoke
they bring lust and rage
when they go
they leave empty bottles
******* and cigarette butts
earrings in my sheets
and a mouldly taste on my tongue
every once in a while though
they clean up before they go
they take out the trash
and leave little notes on my dresser
when i wake up they are gone
my empty bottles are gone too
and their notes make me feel lonely
its not the way they show up
its the way they leave
i think i prefer the mouldly taste
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 11:14 AM UTC
I can remember starving in a
small room in a strange city
shades pulled down, listening to
classical music
I was young I was so young it hurt like a knife
inside
because there was no alternative except to hide as long
as possible--
not in self-pity but with dismay at my limited chance:
trying to connect.
the old composers -- Mozart, Bach, Beethoven,
Brahms were the only ones who spoke to me and
they were dead.
finally, starved and beaten, I had to go into
the streets to be interviewed for low-paying and
monotonous
jobs
by strange men behind desks
men without eyes men without faces
who would take away my hours
break them
**** on them.
now I work for the editors the readers the
critics
but still hang around and drink with
Mozart, Bach, Brahms and the
Bee
some buddies
some men
sometimes all we need to be able to continue alone
are the dead
rattling the walls
that close us in.
Mar 13, 2020
Mar 13, 2020 at 8:36 AM UTC
Well it’s another thrilling weekend,
a nerv-recking blood n’ love blend,
some even say that I’m to blame,
it’s up to me to change the game
yet I keep playing just the same,
my parent’s sin, my hometown’s shame.
I set it up, I pay my dues,
if they were dancers, I’d be blues.
When I lie resting next to her
and think of all that we once were,
I cannot help but reminisce,
about her careful, tender kiss,
and miss the time when we still risked,
to live on *** and joy and bliss.
Now everytime I’m out the door,
this urge is rising more and more,
to run away, never return,
to ride and ride, to burn and burn,
but I just sit and wonder how,
and she gets closer, too close now.
Feb 24, 2020
Feb 24, 2020 at 11:09 AM UTC
the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.
the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.
but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.
they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.
but the price is
terrible.
sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 9:40 PM UTC
There is a boy on his board and he is out there alone,
looks so peaceful and dizzy from the pills that he’s thrown,
he is drifting off quietly on a surface, so bright,
that all his worries and troubles start to vanish in light.
He never really knew why he’s longing to die,
he’s got his girl at home and too many friends to cry,
but out here in the ocean the sun is burning so strong
and the boy is finally fading at where he always belonged.
While his body is sinking, his whole world’s turning white,
he dives out of his shroud and right into the light.
His final moment on earth has made him happy at last
and as he dies he’s smiling despite the ghosts of his past.
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 9:04 PM UTC
No, it ain’t easy being me.
Though irresponsible for three,
it takes some effort just to be
the careless ***** that you can see.
I hide away, I ditch the stress,
and yet I’m running - out of breath -
from laws and ladies, prudence too,
a living mess, it’s sad but true.
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 8:12 PM UTC
Dear Jack, I sat and read your letter,
these lines of beautiful disaster,
wrapped up in a coat of poetry,
now carved in stone to thrill forever.
Dear Captain, can you smell the dead steam?
Hear the engine’s maddest tunes?
Just beat that slow, old road machine
right to the coast and up the dunes.
Let roadsigns blur, as we drive by,
towards the sun - it’s setting soon -
then make the stars fade in the sky,
and chase the Godess of the Moon.
Dear Brother, I don’t think I’ll make it,
this path is way too rough to take it,
so I sit down and drink and laugh
in sand that’s soaked in blood I cough.
Again I’m trapped, I’m caught in hell,
while snarling lurks our next farewell.
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 1:39 PM UTC
Don’t you see that after all,
this was never meant to last?
That every turn and every touch
is nothing but tomorrow’s past?
That even the most grievous days
fade - willy-nilly - overnight,
as dawn and early morning haze
play you their tune and set things right.
And don’t you know that this today,
is soon to be a yesterday?
So take a shot, bend it your way,
for it is never meant to stay.
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 12:44 PM UTC