wm-jones
American
Matthew William Jones was born in Chamblee, Georgia. / / He initially began drawing primitive comics and writing absurd short stories, probably beginning at around age 6 or 7. He began writing poetry that rhymed at age 13. / / In high school he took a total of ten semesters of "fine arts." This includes on semester of Drama. He began to deliberately paint abstract in late 2003, also focusing on collage and mixed media. He quit his part-time job at a fast food corporation, and began to paint his mother's basement walls. / / In 2005, he graduated high school and continued painting in the basement. / He is employed by a Southern-based grocery corporation as a full-time dairy clerk. / / With the exception of a couple websites that publicly display both his poetry and visual artwork, he has never been published.
"holy **** it feels like years"
i close my achey eyes and breathe your silhouette.
i smell you, your skin and shampoo and funk,
scents on my pillow become cents in a jar.
i am working hard tonight to become
a mess and alone.
the rain slowed and disappointed me, i hoped
to be washed away.
i hear airplanes and apostrophe,
short of breath and epiphany.
meat-hook and drag me like something worth catching
and carving.
you may eat me alive without ever knowing it.
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 7:14 AM UTC
I am afraid of what I've made myself.
I am a Demon, you're beliefs 'n your loves
are enemies.
I've tried so hard to leave behind the
memories of what once was so
precious: emotion, wrathe, **** and wicked
lit like wicks and taken through
Daytona dark, the strip we marched, the
palms looked like black fireworks.
The ocean sang, the handclaps rang and waned,
and Bobby talked to me for hours. But
in the end I still felt alone, fell quiet,
the handclaps rang and waned.
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 7:00 AM UTC
he was your Door your floor for you to walk on.
lips to press against light making the day
look like night in comparison.
is
grammar all i get? does the wit **** off
and leave my lungs like wind and puke?
music does it, four me.
1music
2what i already feel
3you
4everything else
i swell Crescendo a catalyst string cheese section
of bittersweetmorsel perferationperfection.
piercing me from the outside in and back again i'm
letting wounds heal the long way taking the scenic route
and enjoy the unfinished road.
thirty picturepoemsplay in my brain all at once- i
grab my butterfly net to try and capture as many
creatures
as
i can.
take my hand and
stroll be my leash and love
me taste good be
mine domestic life strife
rifles through my chest as i do my best
to keep it there.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 9:39 PM UTC
there is no sun, no west,
no east.
night falls, morning comes like
clockwork.
but,
what does the night hide?
and what does morning make new?
i don't know when you wrote this
poem,
or if when you wrote it you
had a song-to-be in your head,
but i've rarely (at least not
first-hand) seen you wander into
the night; rather, you - much
like i often do - ignore possibilities
that another morning could bring,
and choose to grasp
a bottleneck as if you could choke
yesterday's throat. i would know -
i've blamed a lot of yesterdays.
and you went on to say that
rays of new sun beam onto
beauty that rests, as if it were
potential energy.
beauty is kinetic.
beauty does not rest. it is a killer,
and a victim, as it suckerpunches
you, and cowers. beauty is
not love, and love is not a victim,
and doesn't cower. those may be the
only differences, but i prefer to
think that love may have its
redeeming
qualities.
i don't care how sunny,
it doesn't shed light on a
**** thing, clears nothing up
anymore than night hides things.
but you were right:
"somewhere in time
something is lost"
but what did you lose that you
have not re-found and lost
again and re-found and....
there's no hiding, man.
we were always more alike than
most, and
i know what you're looking for -
love, for "things" to make
sense, for that orange-y
haze of childhood innocence (yes,
in my mind, childhood was orange,
carpeted floors, "playing house" (and
"doctor") and an electric *****
by the hallway that no one ever
played) to return, for the "real deal" -
whether in the form of a woman,
an oblivious grin, fruity drinks
on a remote sandy beach, or finding out
the hard way.
i'm finding things out the hard
way. i'm missing "things" (people,
smells, strangers (not to be confused
with the aforementioned 'people'), and
everything else i knew would
be missed. i'm realizing that
all the time in the world
doesn't necessarily mean an abundance of
inspiration. i do dishes wherever i go.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
spinach,
baby arugula,
alfalfa sprouts
typos, misspellings,
guns, gods, lies, news,
jokes.
mushrooms, sauté
suite suit
suits
you well.
you are well.
i am no more lonely, but physically alone.
or yeah, maybe just that much more lonely.
i hate work. not equally, but differently.
i love music, because it's all i have and
my life depends on it. get me through this!
me?
i crave
***
connection, even without ***
love.
or apathy.
i'm not sure where to go, what do do....
25 in 17 days.
i thought growing up made sense.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 11:54 PM UTC
you and me?
yeah,
our kids will bathe in paint.
look like that colorful zebra
from the brand of gum that i can't
think of the name of
she'll have your ears and nose,
and lips if she's lucky. my eyes, my short legs
my love of spicy food.
he'll have my hair and nose,
and good teeth, eh, maybe.
he'll be born with your tattooes. maybe my dad's sense of humor.
grow taller than any of us, turn into a tree.
span the view of sky from the tips of you and me.
she'll cradle this planet's ashes in her hands,
and he'll hold our hearts together with duct tape.
she'll have your voice and my phrasing,
a hybrid accent in between.
this is the best hallucination i've ever seen.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 11:47 PM UTC
i want love to do
more than whisper,
but right now it is
more than shy.
and i want anger to
**** this blank page
like the best make-up
*** i've never had.
i don't think i will
survive long at this
rate.
my bones hold my
heart hostage, and
my veins are filled
with clear, sweet
poison, and lust.
sometimes it's all
i need.
sometimes i want to
give in, give up,
sell all my junk,
wander the streets
like the bravest
raving lunatic.
wild wide-eyed
****** soapboxed
symphonies of
sin.
the problem is,
i don't know my
own gospel, i have
no clear message.
just blood that
hates needles and
a head that loves
hands.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 11:45 PM UTC
you want pretty pictures?
i want ugly.
i don't mean i want to be ugly, or that
i want a woman which is ugly,
or that you are, or that i am.
i just want that sick sad truth
told by lies. it can only be told by lies.
because the truth is what you leave out;
those whispers, little insignificant
details you "forgot" to mention;
those colours and smells that burn the
back of your brain, the shapes and sizes and
faces and flavors you savor and
forget as a favor
to yourself. the truth is that we want the
best, but never give our best,
you can't accept embarrassment
so it's denial, which tastes somewhat
sweeter.
so does scotch from orkney.
i write a lot, and get tired of sharing
because you must get tired of reading
about a drunk punk with
motionless ideas
who questions himself
and you
and your motives
and the everything in between;
craving solidarity, craving connection,
craving clarity,
craving does nothing until you sleep it off,
wake the godfuck up, and open your skull
to today.
therefore i sleep some more,
you turn the page,
and the globe
fits like
a glove.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 11:42 PM UTC
Please,
do me a favor:
stay out of my dreams.
i'll be beneath sheets, silent.
her love, even love for another
was a flood through my mind
at 2am.
you blend, spirit to spirit,
the ghost that i never catch.
the hope that lingers
like garlic breath.
swimming the lake,
it's slow-motion, it aches.
it's filled with possession,
money-drug manuscript
and reaching out without a grip.
she wears clothing, i wear internal
organs on my sleeve.
she wears lipstick, i wear warpaint.
i melt plastic for fun.
i melt into her, miles at a time.
she fancied displaying
naughty pictures of herself; hell,
i fancied looking at them.
angel wings, or what was imperfect
becoming so very perfect.
now she taunts me without
knowing it.
i wish for a long moment ago,
i wish i had closed my mouth
and made myself stay still.
i wish 50 weeks hadn't gone by.
i wish i had closed my eyes and
woken up in bed after a bad dream.
it was her halloween photograph,
that was the moment i sat in the
dark diningroom, staring, and
feeling my arteries bursting
through my sternum.
many nightmares later i am no longer
alone, and a noose in name is my
favorite false memory:
i electrocuted myself, three times
as a child.
once, using metal scissors,
i severed the cord of a radio
plugged into the wall. hurt like hell,
my arm went numb.
in the wrong place. i was released,
and ran like a fool back into
the trap.
i wanted to be trapped by
you. and NOW i have to force
myself to close my mouth
and stay still.
every day i stay away from you
is another ********* costume.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 11:38 PM UTC
dance, climb me like a tree-
stump.
rip my heart with sharp teeth.
Tth-thump. squish.
pick apart my embarrassments
like you'd pick apart my bones.
like vultures would.
i get to watch my own slow death,
you get to kiss me to death. slowly.
it's all the same.
distance suddenly makes sense.
Vivisection: i'm
sporadic neurotic
erratic ****** i'm
the smaller wheel on a tricycle, so
we get to go in circles.
i'm the fungus you can adopt!
cutting myself open, i can see what
makes me "frrrrrick."
heartache hopeful, i'm walking into
what i know are traps, what i know
is sure to hurt. i tell myself out-
loud, eyes closed, "THIS is gonna
hurt."
and i'm right. and i want more.
any and every relationship is more
and more masochism. it hurts more than
it ever heals, winds and wounds and
it musics me back to melody. hold me
hold me
hold me like
the car's gear shift, you only use me
sometimes.
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 11:04 AM UTC