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Brycical Dec 2014
My body
an instrument
out of tune--
sour green apple
notes sliced, brown.
Wound too tight like,
clenching coal
in my fists.
Worried about
doing, not being bebop unwinding red roads
           let the wings         stretch
                   every breath        honey cloud dusk musk...
        jazzzzz buzzzzzzing king bee
                            s
                         w
                            i
                         n
                      g
                       i
                     n
                        g
vines wild hair hippie tarzan vibe
sssssinging sssssnake ssssssongs
sssssssshattering sssssimulacrum  sssssociety
     with           a              firey
                     lunar  
                     mane
singing
       compassionate christ hymns
                               of the 3 beating hearts  
                           glowing stardust rhythm
pulsing anahata nova lava drip dropping
third-eye  s e e d s s e e i n g i & i
embracing the wholly holy flow
                 of
                it is
              we are.
For Fah.
Brycical Nov 2014
Sometimes you can do everything right
when it comes to being patient, listening and playing
with a woman and after so many years
that feel like a blissful eternity
she can still leave one 3am night out the fire escape and on a train
to look for something better.

Sometimes you can do everything right
when it comes to helping the homeless;
giving them good and listening to their stories
and maybe even helping them find a job
and still get hit by a bus
soon as both feet jump off the curb.

Sometimes you can do everything right
with a story, and it's a gorgeous masterpiece
of years of editing and chiseling each word
to paint a picture that would make Rimbaud and Van Gogh weep
with ******* exuberance
and still find yourself dying slowly,  broke, in a homeless shelter
listening to a guy who will be hit by a bus
soon as he walked out the shelter
whose girlfriend left him at 3am.
This poem is mildly funny to me in some dark, twisted way.
Brycical Nov 2014
(I)
My mom once kicked a hole in the wall as a way to threaten me.  
Any minute, it feels like my mom could toss out all her marbles & shove a pillow in her mother's face.

Sometimes my entitled Grandma has no idea what her name is,
so she wouldn't know what the **** is happening.

Before he died, my fair-skinned grandfather tried to hide the fact that his wife would forget where she was sometimes. And as his face melted because of leukemia he also tried to hide the fact that he was a hoarder, blaming all of it on Grandma, who was also a hoarder.

There's talk amongst some of my family that Grandfather's brother, the one who went to church every Sunday and spoiled everyone in the family with copious amounts of pies, cookies and money decided to pull the breathing tubes out of his nose.

This is the same Uncle who decided that his sister, whom I used to see as a saint, shouldn't be hooked up to a machine after her stroke. My Aunt made the best pancakes, and cookies, and cakes, and sweet treats from scratch.

From my understanding, their father was a scumbag drunkaholic but their mother was the church going working type who had a way with dogs. She's the stuff of those walking uphill in the snow to and from school with one boot legends.  


(II)
My Father used to be a dreamer. Now he sleeps with the TV on blaring either CNN or Fox News, sometimes in a buzzy drunken chainsaw snoring kind of sleep that's only awoken in a panicked restlessness wishing he had a gun under his pillow, probably because he ran away from a cult.

His mother joined a cult at a young age after years of working for the man. Now she's constantly in debt but swears that this cult is helping her change the world.

Her husband split when my dad was around three years old. He died homeless in Washington State. The day my father married my mom was the first time my dad met his step-father, also part of the cult.

My Grandmother's brothers are all the libatious kind of drinkers who all took jobs as either firemen or bank truck drivers. They're proud hellraisers.

Their father was a double-****** beer drinker on days he wasn't cheating on his wife with her sister, supposedly. He was a **** ballerina with a beer gut on the ice. Their mother was a bitter woman whose family lost all their money and would sometimes beat her husband with a skillet.


(III)
I don't wish to say much about my brother because i once found him in a compromising position in the bathroom with mom's panyhose over his head when he was around 10 or 11. So I shudder to think what weird things he's into now.
A response to all the people who have told me that my family "must have done something right" because I turned out ok.
  Nov 2014 Brycical
Fah
my mother brings out the rawest form of me
I brush my hair in a soapy tub
we talk about *** , i'm on the verge of tears most the time
about not respecting yourself
being born with the consciousness of 7 dimensions
respecting yourself
some of my words come out in paradoxes that have yet to be resolved
i tell her how my aim is to **** in his mouth one day
she tells me i'm disgusting and we laugh at the ****** hanging up my nose
I brush my hair in a soapy tub
It's 30 degrees outside
We have to turn on the air con
occasionally there is applause
as we talk
about how the best way to make a contribution to this planet is to be yourself , she says she hopes she offered me that wisdom as a child
I brush my hair in a soapy tub
and say that it was mixed - be yourself but then smack ! Don't do that thing. It was confusing.
She says she wasn't conscious , she was confused
she couldn't do it now
like i don't eat meat
certain things fall away when you respect yourself.
My mother brings out the rawest form of me
I brush my hair in a soapy tub
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