Jesus, what was that!?

a thing crawled out from
under the park bench he
was sleeping on

it didn't look like a stray dog
when it ran away
didn't look like an animal
at all
the thing ran on two legs
and it ran fast

he stood and checked his
shoes and the shoes were on his feet
then he checked his
pockets for his most important
possession
in this world - his ID

it was there

tomorrow was supposed to be
a big day
He had a job interview
for a position as night guard
at a fishing lake

he would be given a
modest salary and a small
cabin to stay in
and all he'd have to do would
be sound the alarm if someone
comes to fish illegally in the lake

the job of his dreams

He could dedicate the time spent
in the cabin to watching the lake
and dreaming
and writing and maybe... maybe....
dare he think it? Maybe... even
making it into the industry one day

but as he sits back he realizes
the day will most probably not
be tomorrow
the sharp pain in his side
says so
and his hand reaches to it
and returns before the dim
distant lights of the park alley
holding a rusty syringe needle,
it's tip ******

the syringe is under the bench

he sits on the bench and
starts crying

why? Why? WHY?

There were times
when I got
home
threw my backpack in the corner
took off my shoes
my jacket
walked into my room
took off my pants, my shirt
put on sweatpants, another shirt
turned on the PC
ate a bag of salty potato chips
drank whatever I could
wasted time

I was happy in those times

Today I write.

The philosophers are still trying,
still striving to answer to
the age
old
question: What is a poem?

Sure, they figured what's the
meaning of life and other
metaphysical truths but
poetry...

And what is not a poem?

a to-do list is a poem

the obituaries are poems

that curse word followed by
racial slurs scribbled on the
inside of the cabin, probably
with ****, is poetry

blood spilled writes poetry
just as well as does the one
contained

a well landed punch is not weaker
poetry than one missing

to chew sand is to make poetry
and it's not lesser than chewing
bread

to rip a piece of paper and
place it under your fingernail
and hold the finger above
a burning candle is to make
poetry

to fall from a tree and lay down
while being chewed by wild dogs
is to be poetic

to let death win without a fight
or to greet it with open arms
or to bully it into taking you
is to create a poem

and to remain silent when the world is
loud... Ah, not many can create such
poems but those who do make them
exceptional

you're an alright poet if you can tie a
knot and you become a good poet
if you can turn the knot
into a noose and you grow to be
a great poet if you can put the noose
around your throat

luckily the world has some
great poets

but the world also has godlike poets

I wonder what they do

In five years.
I don't know where I'll be in
five years
I promised to myself that
I'll be an official published writer
and never told anyone about it
never told my mother about it
but perhaps in
five years
I'll just come home
drunk and ***** all over the
toilet bowl and sink and my shoes
and shirt and I'll fall face down
on the cold tiles and break
my front teeth
and never smile again
It's no myth, it happened before
but I was living with my
grandmother at that time and it
was perhaps the shock of her life
Yet she forgave me
even when I couldn't forgive myself
All I could do was come up with
promises, like
my very soul was a woman whom
I've wronged so **** bad that
I'll have to sacrifice something
of equal or higher value to make up
for it and even after I'd make up
for it things would just
not be the same as before

So I promised myself that I'll get
seriously serious about writing
and do it consistently and
ignore distractions like friends
and girlfriends and pastimes
and eating and sleeping
I would only go to work in order to
earn enough to survive modestly
and spend the rest of my
existence writing and writing
and writing

I wrote so badly that ******* people
could look down on me with pity
and not much changed
But I wrote a lot
And as long as the goal put
volume over quality the goal would be met

Well, all this writing taught
me something
in the
end.
Taught me that sacrifice is the
key to anything one could wish for
in life.
And the sacrifice gets you what
you wished for precisely
at the time when you no longer want it

Somehow it's always the
people that
are most alone who
know the most about
people

here's one undeniable fact:
all of them, everybody, everyone
loves and seeks constantly
to get high

the loners
will drink and pretend
to meditate and
the social ones
will party and **** and the dull minded
will explain how smart they are
and the truly intelligent will turn
sadistic
and the ugly ones will be
more outgoing and the pretty ones will
get knocked up more

the rich will buy the children of the
poor as *** slaves and the
poor will fill plastic bags
and balloons with feces and would
leave them in the sun and will inhale
the vapors
The middle class will seek more
friends, acquaintances, relationships,
dealers, promotions, real estate,
festivals, explosions. They will always
love explosions of any kind, the bigger and
louder the better

and the young boys will think
of old girls and bully other
young boys to assert dominance and
both those things will get them hard
and high on hormones

politicians will aim to imitate the rich
and poets will aim to imitate the poor

rich singers will sing of how
poor they are
and poor singers will sing of how
they came from rags to riches
and those with a small ***** will buy a huge car
and short people will be more aggressive
and the losers will shout "It's not
a contest, you guys..."
and the women of high pride will
adopt one more cat. Forty-two should
be enough, right?
The most outrageous ideologists will
buy megaphones, collect them

weak men will brag about owning
weapons and the right
to use them

the youth will talk to each other
before seeing each other
and the girls will want to know
how tall the boy is and the boy will ask
how much the girl weights and then
he'll be hated so much, so passionately
And the smart girls will use dating
to get free drinks and meals
And the people who play games will
turn to suicide when the artists who
design characters won't do
something exclusively for them, "I want
this character to act like she loves me back!"

the women who love to travel will be
accused of loving to travel because
they secretly wish they got *****

the most valuable of people will become
those who get famous precisely
for having no talent
and everyone will want to
invest in them
so the masses will see them
and feel a bit better about
themselves
No one wants to support the
superior but all laugh
when the inferior acts royal

and "how do you *******?"
the journalists will ask the
interviewed hermit

Why are there no hermit women?
Are there no women hermits?

Look, those big companies are
fighting over the right to lie to the
population

fake
fake
Fake

Knowledge is not power anymore
The ability to escape the loop is
and they who are not even caught
in the loop in the first place are
gods

If this world has something
in abundance that'll be
people who offer solutions to
problems that don't exist

And to offer a solution to
a problem that doesn't exist
means to create the problem
yourself

Thus,
computer viruses are created
by companies that develop
antivirus software
and
diseases are created by doctors
and
crime is created by police
and
ignorance is created by teachers
and
hate is created by spouses
and
famine is created by chefs
and
the milk man creates a lack of
calcium in the bones and dentists
create tooth decay and owners of
beauty parlors give birth to ugly children
and I'm not even gonna talk about 'em
priests, man.

Only the bums and the orphans and
the stray dogs and cats and the
rats in the sewers and the pigeons
that **** on cars and statues
are truly without sin

as long as the world has them
the world is going to be just fine

so it's true
there is a world out there
in which the rich are
inferior to the poor

and there's a woman, more
beautiful than any, desired,
waited upon, a woman to
die for, a woman who only
comes to the dead and sometimes
to the poor and the miserable
and rarely, almost never to the rich,
to the well-being, to those with
full bellies and pockets and
no worry of the morrow

strange tastes she has

above all
she loves madness
the mad never have to search for
her. It is her who hunts them
and unless they grow sober
and sane she never leaves

she goes by many names
and no name at all
and a name this second and
another the next
But names don't matter
she only cares about making love
and you'd better not wash yourself
before getting in bed with her,
don't chase the stingy smell
of hot spirits from your breath
don't clean your teeth or the
***** stains from your shirt
or the sweat
If your stomach keeps turning
around empty, void and
if your guts could make a little
music while you're at it, it's
even better. She loves this type of music
And if you still wanna take a step further
have your body covered in wounds
and rashes and some broken
bones where possible, a swollen
eye, a bent nose, a chewed off ear,
enough scars, missing teeth, and
oh, boy, she's yours

"Name me, lover boy!"

I call her simply The Muse

What about you?

R.I.P
my name below in
The Bookman Old Style font
And then
"He Never Stopped Writing"

Really, to have this engraved on my
tombstone feels more important than
all other goals and wishes
more important than buying a house or
starting a family or a business,
going on a trip around the world,
winning the lottery, having real friends,
building... Ah, but what am I talking about?
Forgive me, I am drunk
and when I am drunk I crawl
under the skin
of some character that's not me

those aren't my goals and
wishes
me, I want to have "He never stopped
writing" engraved on my tombstone
more than I wish I was the only
human being left on planet Earth.
And that is really something,
believe me
Not to be at all is better than
to be and to love it, love that you are
and...
Hold on, there's a character here
who doesn't agree with me
Shame, just when I thought I was
done killing them

"He never stopped disagreeing
with his
creator"

R.I.P

Um... it doesn't rhyme,
she said

I looked at her
You kidding?

And then she shook her head
No, look, this poem
really has no rhymes
at all
You sure it's the right file?

Let me see

She handed me her phone
and I looked at the text
on the screen, smirked, turned off
the phone and kissed her

You are truly the cutest, I said.

If you wanna be a writer
Write

If you wanna be a good one
don't get yourself a cozy, comfy,
warm, clean studio. Just don't.
It won't help you, it'll do the opposite.

If you wanna be a great one
be a wanderer, do more living than
writing, break rules and laws and
glasses and bottles and heads and
lots of hearts

If you wanna be an outstanding one
break yourself

If you wanna be godlike
join the gods
There's a shotgun in the corner

A sewage cleaner
that's what the happy man was
but it was not why he was happy

they said his fiance
announced she was pregnant
and she probably was his
fiance because she was pregnant

and she moved in with him
in his bachelor apartment
and were living quite crammed and
she didn't go out much so
they couldn't tell if she was
as happy as him

the reason he was the talk of the office
was the resignation letter he submitted
in the morning
No one even knew his name before that
and no one noticed he was happy
and no one will see him ever again
but they
will remember him
and his
happy face
and will gossip and make
up stories about him


It's there even a doubt? they'll say
That child's not his, man.
Just more proof that women can
get what they want without working
She got pregnant by someone who
didn't want her and found
this fool, moved in with him
and profits. That simple, yeah.

I heard he ***** her while
drunk

He used drugs as well,
I mean, that happy face... uh...

To tell you the truth, she's
mentally ill, the wife to be. That condition...
it makes you think with an eight year old's
mind even though you're an adult.

Retardation?

Yeah, an' you can guess how she got pregnant
with him.

Gods, what a despicable individual. And to think
that we worked in the same place with him.
All this time and had no idea.

Yeah, I heard that she's ******* but not only
Guess what, she's a blood relative of him,
some cousin. I don't know how the hell
but she got in his care and... Look what's
happened now. Crazy.

No, no, guys, seriously now. The devil's not
as dark as y'all point out now. She's not
******* or a blood relative
to him. Just the one
******* with whom the
****** happened
to break. These things happen,
it's nothing to laugh about. Now she pretty
much owns him, I guess.
For the next few months at least.

Surely you mean years
I think she actually scammed him

Yeah, it's a common thing with
'em ******. When they feel like going on
a vacation they get pregnant and sue some
fool for child support and go all semi queens
'n ****.
the ****** doesn't have to break
they just have to keep it afterwards
and put the stuff inside.
So take heed, gentlemen. Always be
flushing your used condoms down
the toilet if you want to avoid
the ultimate misery. Throwing
'em in the trash bin is not enough anymore

Oh, ****, that's hella good advice, man
Wonder why we don't see more of
them used condoms in the sewers we clean

****, that stands to prove that the
world is full of men who don't
raise their own children

How?

You shut up, new guy! Get back to work now.
Jesus, the nerve of this rookie...

Well, I am audacious enough to
call myself
a writer
so I'll say it, I'll introduce him,
my greatest character so far
He doesn't appear in my writings
much, but he does appear often enough,
too often actually, in my thoughts
He appears every time I cross
the living room and glance at the TV
and see a commercial
This character of mine, he wears a black
mask like that of a hangman and
he sneaks behind happy people in
commercials and just before they're
about to open their mouths and
deliver their happy lines he passes
a cord over their heads and violently
strangles them and I see them
thrashing about and chocking and
panicking and the commercials become
bearable once more
Thanks hangman, you are
a beloved character

"You don't know how to write a love
poem," she said. "You couldn't
write one to save your life...
or your marriage."

"I'm not married," I said.

Apparently it was the
wrong thing
to say.

She left.

and I
returned
to my
desk

and wrote
something
that was
not a love
poem.

I'm getting busy in the office at work
listening and analyzing the lyrics
of albums I can find on YouTube
there are a few

Right now, the artist is talking about
choking a ***** with a cable
and spitting into her mouth as she
gasps for air and struggles
to scream
and then he says he'll
****** his ***** into her
dead mouth and will
feel like mouth ******* a fish

afterwards the artist
goes on a killing spree
in the streets and
throws racial slurs at those about
to be shot

he also shoots the police

what an interesting life this man
must lead

I mean, it says on the cover of the
album and he said it in the
intro that he's describing his life
in this work

impressive, truly
impressive

but you know, I too am a bit of a
******* lifer

I'm sitting in this comfy office,
in a comfy chair, surrounded by monitors,
sipping Irish coffee, because I'm so *******
that I smuggled a pint of cheap whiskey
here and poured into a coffee

and I'm using a screen to look at
photos of girls who work as
game attendants in the casinos I
supervise through cameras
and also, I swatted a mosquito on
some other screen

and I look at the bigger picture and
think to myself
Eh, what a live...
Drugs, women, ******...

and lyrics about 'em

****.

She likes to sleep late in the
afternoon, surpassing even me
and she wakes up a little groggy
and lays in bed and her coffee is a good
doze of browsing on her smartphone
which she lets charging all the short night

And then, when she's had enough
she smiles at me and puts her
phone aside and asks a
Would you rather question

And today's question was
"Would you rather **** a guy or
your own mother?"

"What?" I said. "Where did you find
that one?"

She said, "I made it up. So what's your
answer?"

"****, what would be yours?"

She thought for a bit. "Hehe, it'll have to be
changed a bit for me, no?"

"Yeah," I said. "So would you rather ****
your own dad or another girl?"

"It's a bit unfair," she said, "isn't it?
I mean, for boys. Me, I could easily
do either, hehe."

"Easily?"

"I already pretend you're my
daddy when we do it, don't I?"

"I though it's just a thing girls do."

"That's what they say."

"Well ****, so you sayin' you'd like
me even more if I resembled your
father more?"

"Aw, forget it. Just answer the question."

"If I beat you and kicked you out of the
house, like you said he did, would you
love me more?"

"Forget. It." she said. "Just answer my question."

"You answer mine first," I said.

And she though for a little longer and
though and thought about it
and checked her phone briefly and
finally said, "You know what, let's drop
both at once. What you want for breakfast?"

"I ate while you were sleeping," I said.

"Oh, well, where's the ashtray?"

"There's still some waffles from yesterday's
pack," I said. "And cream."

"Sounds fine. Can I have some in bed?"

"There's coffee too if you come to the
kitchen."

"Wow, you know how to bargain,
don't you?"

"Unlike your daddy you mean? Heard
he was fired last week. What's he
doing now?"

She gave a brief shake of her head
and got out of bed in her *******
stopped by me, kissed my cheek and
whispered in my ear, "Let's. Drop. It.
Okay?"

I said nothing
and she went to the bathroom.
When she came back the coffee
was ready and her ashtray was
on the table.
Her eyes didn't leave the
phone as she sat down.

The boy sits in a dark room
and wants to write
but he only thinks
and the words still come up
but they are forgotten
and this pains the boy and he
then decides to sleep

but sleep too is
forgotten and he is
left with breathing and
staring into the darkness

The bed is uncomfortable
and the pillow is too high

he takes it from below his head
and holds it against his chest
in a tight embrace that seems
to grow
ever warmer and
more affectionate

his palm starts caressing
the bottom side of the pillow
and his lips start
making pecking motions
against the fabric

and soon enough he grows
hard and his hips
start moving on their
own and he thrusts
into the pillow and thrusts
and the bed starts shaking

"What the hell are you doing?" his
wife asks from besides him.

"I'm writing a poem. Go back
to sleep."

so, you're writing poetry
or, well, at least you pretend to
and you pretend you're good at
it and the people want more from you

nice

but how come none of
what you write is uplifting stuff?

if anything, you've got more
depressing **** than uplifting
stuff
and you expect to get popular
with that?

get real!

you've got to inspire people
you've got to write
motivational stuff, uplifting, hope giving
stuff, upbeat verses brimming with
intelligence and radiating brilliance

your words are like confetti on a page
why are they
so scattered?

what poem is this?

why does it start with a lowercase letter?
are you dumb? Don't you know
how to write?

you're unbelievable, man, unbelievable
and don't even mention the
nonexistence of rhymes, pfff, lame...

this is not a ******* poem, fool
it's child's mockery
and you should grow up and stop
pretending you're doing this for a living

Understand,
you can't write poetry to save your life!
Christ, just look at the anatomy of this... thing

to behold your poem before one's eyes
feels like watching an escaped lab rat
dragging its entrails on the ground

the poor ******* is blind, toeless,
toothless, there's a syringe needle stuck
up its *** and its stomach is cut open
and the guts are pinkish yellow worms
that coil around its hind legs

that's what one of your poems look
like on the page, to the viewer's eyes

I'd seriously stop this **** if I were you
Grow the hell up, get yourself a wife
start a family and focus on
your career instead
of writing for
ghosts
You get it?


Um, yeah. Sure


Are you sure?


I am.


You're not gonna write about this
after I'm gone?


Nah, I'm not gonna write about this
conversation after you're gone
and I won't pretend I'm showing
it to the world and
they're enjoying it
and the critics praise me
and all that.
I'm done.


That's good to hear.
Take care, man. And remember, less
daydreaming and more attention to
the screens, okay? You're paid to do a
job here. To supervise casinos, the
people who work there and what
they do, okay?


Okay.


Good. I'm glad we could get
on the same page here.
Good day now.


Good day.

I am a sidewalk

one upon whom your
feet dragged heavy and
wet and tired

and I wonder where you
are going
and where you're coming
from

I look up constantly and
am tired of soles and legs and
******* and dropped coins
and litter

and indifference

Too many people, too few dogs
and cats and some rats at night

But you are
different. You wear no shoes and
your little feet are cold and
so delicate
and in your wake you are painting
me with a trail of blood

you are not in the mood to
receive compliments, I know. But
I'll say it anyway. You are beautiful

I hope he never catches you

I wish there was
something I could do
about it