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B Young Feb 2015
The artist evokes his tormented psyche

Through gestural abstraction
a systematic colorfield emerges
The blurring of dreamworld and reality

All pretensions dissolve
But…
Critics still criticize
Snobs still scoff
   the creative will still drink and drug themselves the death.

whichever way the wind blows
that’s where my dreams escape me

They transform to Queens of Hearts and Princesses of utter

Royal

Baroque

Beauty
Bygone
Be Gone
my heart must resist

I will not be controlled by the guild
Caravaggio kept painting until he got killed
Went insane like most artists
Couldn’t stop before he got his fill
Caravaggio poem poetry
words old
B Young Feb 2015
The suburban housewives are all prostitutes.
Cuckoo CUCKOO cuckoo
Sings the cuckolded husband
Bury the demons in the backyard,
Jack.
Decomposing rotting souls
Enriching the soil
Get rich without any toil.

Step
Outside

A glance to heavens
From the floors of a forest
Reveals a distant star.
Symbolizing neither here, near or far
A twinkling image destroys the ego
Although in this here woodland
Anything goes.
I am the king.

The truth only goes as far as the rocks thrown
So I asked the reapers which way to go
Take a trip with me down memory lane
my past has no real pain.
And no thank you I would not like any fame
I really have nothing to gain but catharsis
So please don’t call me an artist.  

I learned how to read from Frodo
Potter got me through puberty
Infinite Jest is too long
They say the strong dont read poetry
Naked Lunch ravings from a ***** gone mad
Anything discussed on Oprah during brunch is just bad
Satre and Camus too absurd
Stephen King too frightening
David Sedaris too homosexual
Chucks Palahniuk and Klosterman too hipster
The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test for van wagon hippies
Lao-Tzu is too Zen
James Paterson and John Grisham are a waste of pen
The Perks of Being a Wallflower is too needy
Just begging to be loved
Like stupid Twilight
Ann Rice already got it right
Political books are for crooks
Self Help too pretentious
God Dillusion and God’s Not Great too scary
Romances are all wrong
Farces are all right
The Torah too infallible
The Gospels too life changing
Fear and Loathing, On the Road drugged tales disguised as art
Truth can be found in A Million Little Pieces
Lies found in the truths of our textbooks
Vonnegut is always too short
Woody Allen plays never long enough
Waiting for Godot left me waiting for an ending
The Big Book didnt work
Tweak is a ****** piece of work
Henry Rollins yells Get In the Van with a vein pulsating out his forehead while,
Nikki Sixx makes millions from a marketed selling of his soul
The Hunger Games are over popular children books
Did not stop me from getting hooked
A Brave New World is a reality
Dune a vision
50 Shades a pandering to public lust
The etchings left on my mind by Supertramp McCandless and Hesse will never rust
Edward Albee is everything you could ask a play-write to be
Harmony Korine just makes me envious
Even grand mom has the collected Carlin
Twain is middle school
Hemingway high school
Coleridge is college
Dostoyevsky too daunting
French books are too ****** french
Joyce too Irish
Kafka too German
The great American novels are comic books and tabloids

I get it life is both entirely ****** and perpetually beautiful.
One needn't to read to see
2.3k · Feb 2015
SOho FeEds The pOOr
B Young Feb 2015
Captive of the city.
A walk between the drawing and the camera, a drawing and a camera.
Blindness is about understanding gesture.

Stereoscope Sound Scenes Systems

Blue lines form the links between
the black cats suggesting, what we know is that we do not.

Forget me the sweet song
rising from her ashtray
be gone hearts frayed afraid.

Coma Cluster
Coma Cluster
Coma CLUSTER
COMO cluster
CLuster cOma ClUsTeR CoMa

Soma simply trying to muster
Domino Christos no longer allow my suffer

ECCE ****
IN The GARDEN of ever EARTHLY delights

Strings
Filaments
Voids
Soap

bubbles filling a sink
slide through

Pop. Pop.

I float above stronger than a rock
my blue black burning body

love
emirates
emanating

Red-Shifted

For You

though dust clouds interfere
B Young May 2016
I am Immortal
I am Invincible
I am Imemorable
I am the blackness living deep
in the bile ducts of your lungs,
I hear you whisper my name;
and I shiver.

I have neither hero nor god:
I am that I am that I am-
ALIVE
I learned not the word caution
I know not the meaning of a future:
I am where I am where I am-
NOW

The bullet which ricocheted off my right *** cheek and exploded through my left ******* seemed to have its own voice as it whizzed  by, winking, “The truth may set you free young man, but not until it is finished with you.”
got shot last week
2.1k · Jul 2015
baes and thots
B Young Jul 2015
where did you go
what did you do
where did you wake up  
I went everywhere I could
I am trying to escape
can I escape
been looking for my mind since the pixies asked me to

I did everything I could
to escape myself
over oceans to London
over arctic to Beijing
over prairie and rocks to Durango
traveling looking for myself in everything else
instead of letting go
can't I escape?

I go to work here there and everywhere
What can I get for you guys today
What kind of massage would you like today
Where do you want me to bring this artwork today
Where is my guard post today
can I never get away?

All these thoughts and all these thots  
I woke up and ran out of the filthy philly basement on acid molly and nitrous running from bats flying from the speakers
out the house
I crash then stand and smile at police lights and friends drive home from the party
I stand smiling holding her and pray they make it home with all these  
bats

I woke up here there and everywhere
Ice bag on my testicles
I awake from my morning bag
to a scared smiling face
I awake with black vision
heart nigh exploding
to crying terrified girlfriends
I awake on my steering wheel
from my weekly drive and cop
to nobody but myself
In bae's comforting arms
In the everlasting eternity my father still believes in
I awaken
I found myself
2.1k · Oct 2016
Spindleclutch
B Young Oct 2016
Caught in the clutches of the spindle
my party parlays its way through, ever increasing
grips of madness, fear of becoming overtaken
by the darkness.
Is this a metaphor?
Or, is this a game?
We are in a dungeon, deep, destroying
lest we are kicked for floundering.
The spiders spindle down from the roofs of this cavern.
Slowly descending, thirsty for blood.
My magic is powerless
My blood is becoming the feast
"Feed us your blood." The haunting thought reverberates throughout.

In the cradle of shadows.
Hides a man named Walks-In-Ash.
His face is the last I see as all fades to darkness.
eso
2.0k · Nov 2015
millennials
B Young Nov 2015
All us children of the Millennial
awaiting an omen,
seeking out the last augury,
weaving among the boomers
who present us with a forgery.

Stay strong, my children!
We are the last missionaries,
the last lost lovers,
are the rarest breed indeed,
above us a genuine gospel hovers.

Stay authentic, my friends!
Set out with unmatched veracity,
imperfection glistens these days but,
we see through the deceiving fog with rectitude,
we refuse to be mislead.

Steer the course, my children!
These maps made for us yield no
sensible shape or design when traced,
we forge our own compass.
Forgetting north south east west,
undulating inwards with a steady pace.

"We are the lovers, we are the last of our kind, so hold my hand and keep your chin up and I swear we'll be just fine."

We desire no recompense, only truth.
On sour soiled presidential soliloquies we muster strength again and again to chew, repeatedly breaking a tooth.

With roots above and branches below,
we capture our affections in nature's photo booth
but,
furrow our brows in a sordid mirror reflection.

Stay clean, my sweet princes!
Dart ahead to meet me and my words I will not mince.

Hold steadfast to the healing hope hovering above our masts,
steer this ship with steady hands,
fear not the undertow.

A voyage which is long and treacherous,
but this is no ship of floating fools.

Be proud, my children!
We have sailed successfully into the millennium,
leaving in our wake the outdated value systems of the past.

We are the strong
We are the brave
We are the lovers
The last of our kind
B Young May 2016
Pocket full of clacking around benzodiazepines
Xanax, Klonopin, and ******.
Am I late for class? Am I late for work?
Am I late for my own life? (truth)  
Is this really any normal kind of respite or relaxation?
Chemistry really has come a long way to introduce
us to induced relaxation(?) pills.
My Mr. Dr. says it should help with my anxiety,
but it only seems to cloud me in my depravity:
I steal, I lie, and I wake up naked in unknown
bedrooms in unknown cities with unknown
women. Who…did they steal my wallet?
And where the **** are my car keys?
Better yet, where in Allah’s name is my car?
OH! Lord Jesus Christ OH! God of the Jews I cry out,
Forgive me (lie) for I hath sinned.

I suddenly want to do every drug (truth)
ever made, you name it, I’ll try it,
just this once, of course. I don’t have an
addictive personality (lie)
The Dr. says it is OK if I take 4mg of Xanax a day (truth),
hence it must be safe (lie), right?  A Dr. can’t lie, can he?
Wait! Where am I again? And, what are we doing here?

Oh…that’s right, we are kids going nowhere (truth), how
silly of me to forget. If this is Prozac Nation,
then I am the ****** State. My governor is the late
William Burroughs (lie) and my deputy is the late Kurt Cobain (lie).
We are not in this for the fame (lie), a state run by the deceased.
So, how dare you point a finger at me in blame.
This is Drug Nation, America-home of the sedated and land of the overdose.
B Young Feb 2015
Harness the evil
Stamp! Charge!
Out!
You(r) demons
Send the swine hurtling off the cliffs of forever.

A mad king sits atop a crown of broken glass
A dead pop princess screams me to sleep
For forever and ever and a day my prodigals
are always running away.

My brother is my keeper
in keeping me insane

Go down to the railroad
You will see the past present and future...
Rolling into the distance like a faded man' is dreams.
An expired whisper escapes into the stale air,
as daggers cut me to sleep

open my door, Goodnight
B Young Feb 2015
I
I am him, the man seeking solitude
I am him, the boy annoyed afraid and hates being
Alone
A flea, fleeing man traversing
fleeting moments.
Burning away oil, soaked fleece.
North Face coming home feels more and more of a disgrace
North Star
I want to follow that sweet shoulder with that
brainwashing
LOGO
LOGOS save me logo log logarithm love

My jacket pulled over her legs
freezing she says
shivering chills
Withdrawal, hence we are en route to the corner to get well.
sitting silent and innocent (comparatively with the deranged driver).
in the backseat as this driver drives lives nowhere and the only place we all want to go
everywhere
all at once
into oblivion we go sullen eyes and veins soaked with ****** and *******.
I am him  
the man looking in the mirror with disdain
I am him
The man afraid of what he sees.
Maybe dolorful colorful Colorado can save
Him.
This is my Howl
This is my Purge
save me save me
save
me
me
I fear of Art becoming dead to me
If fear of God dying to me
Dan is dead
II
The neighborhood is dim
snow falls
I smoke on the porch
5 years before
what you just read
Dan is still alive
and as I smoke on the porch
snow falls
I watch the people
commuters
college
professors
middle class
lower class
intelligent
stupid
rich
poor
white
black
doctors
trash man
*** heads
junkies
young girls
grandparents
my community
America
These people enclosed in there cars on their faces just
regret
anger
disappointment
I start to wish there was something I could offer them
but I have nothing myself
only
fog of dreams in my head
1.7k · May 2014
one legged junky
B Young May 2014
Hop hopeless off the L
searching for hell
"works" "works"
"subs" "subs"
"Bars" "Bars"
"Xanny Bars"
The Avenue Chant
Howl the diseased infected addicted ****
The Avenue Chant
an open drug bazaar is a beautiful thing for one playing the beautiful *****
Requiem for a Nightmare

You ask what I need
knowing what I want
Hop down the corner
You know the best spot
they got the fire
I got a house to burn
You ask, can I get one?
I think in first person with a laugh
perhaps I would give you a leg for one
I see you could use it
We keep walking
you keep limp, limp, limping down....
Cambria
Crutches clacking off the littered decaying pavement
The boys are out in town (when aren't they)
the block is hot (as always)
I wait around the corner
You do my ***** business
Our ***** business
Everyones ***** business
You swing back, deed done, dirt in hand
awwww
yeahhhhh
the stamp is cobra
I remember this ****. mm.
this **** is good
The printed snake swims up and out
siphoned from a tiny
baby
blue
bag
cleansing all insecurities, all fear, all humanity.

We limp along
You tell me how you ended up on these streets
wife kicked you out, job fired you, veterans insurance cut you.
The American dream as it looks, on Kensington streets,
circa2013
etc. etc. etc

I feel bad, but, not really, emotional skeleton,
Numbed.

I leave you with some rocks, not much,
then go off kicking
rocks all the way Redrocks
H>O<W
long can I continue without being caught in crosstalk.

A skinny white privileged boy from the suburbs
seeing his future
trotting away before his eyes
The
everlasting
haunting
crouching
limping
creature of death
A
rotten
old one
legged
......junk
Y
1.6k · Jul 2015
cocoon
B Young Jul 2015
I see you at the open mic
we smile through mocha haze,
almond eyes bring the butterflies
out of the cocoon I had built for them.

We collide at the milkmen show
dead on drugs and the city,
my glasses fall off and I see you blurred
punk beats bringing the butterflies back.

I sit down we meet by the beach
drunk, for we are the liquor.
In love with the blue sky ocean bay and eyes
we grab the fish by the tail telling secrets by the sea
and here come the butterflies.

Back from the cocoon I had built for them
1.6k · Apr 2016
Brook Glenn
B Young Apr 2016
On the mental ward,
there is no "Lord,"
no "Savior."
Only society's leftovers,
shuffled to and fro and
around and around we go.
1.5k · Mar 2016
Disclaimer
B Young Mar 2016
This will be just one more ****** love poem
to ***
to drugs
to rock n’ roll.

   You think you’re too young to die, huh?
well, everyday my facebook feed
fills with people who were
too young to die.
   Everyday people they loved post
on their walls, memories and pictures,
writing how their hearts ache at the passing
of one too young to die.
   People who the dead disliked or even hated
also post on their walls, RIP, sad to see you go,
etc. empty ******* like “only the good die young,”
please.
   I try to watch from afar, for if I get too close
I fear I am the next to go.
   You think it can never happen to you, until
you wake up in a hospital bed with an IV in your arm and
a head awhirl with Narcan.
   But still, it couldn’t happen to me, because
it’s happening to the people all around me.

The last girl I ****** off of Tinder
I stole thirty dollars from to buy
black tar ****** in Colorado
then saw a **** jam band
play their **** music,
it wasn’t rock n’ roll.

The last girl I had *** with
because I was in love with her
won’t hardly speak with me, anymore,
because ***
because drugs
because rock n’ roll
….That was like four years ago.

I miss the rock n’ roll in ***** Philly basements
that felt punk even when it was folk.
I miss doing drugs without ending up
homeless, broke, and emotionally destitute
immediately after.
I miss the *** that meant something,
but more so miss the idea of *** being related
to love, which was it ever even in the first place?
I don’t know.  
I like the tenants of pop punk music,
example: I like my friends, I remember that time you were drunk and spilled the apple juice in the hall, I like the ideal of that one girl all the Jesse Laceys of the world write about, most importantly I like the thought that none of this is really my fault…when it is.

I had a therapist, more than one, ask me
to write a break up letter to drugs,
I could never get very far with it
because drugs dumped me a long time ago
and had since moved on.
If I was honest I would write, “Take me
back, I can handle you again and
things can go back to how they
were when we first met.”
But, I know this can never be,
as drugs are busy seeing other people.

Do you remember the day the lightning bugs
began to disappear?
Now, in the stead of those tiny glowing insect dots
is only the sense of a faintly felt fear,
of growing old
and
losing our illusion of safety.
Bring back the insects,
bring back the
***
drugs
and
rock n’ roll
1.5k · Aug 2015
pink and blue
B Young Aug 2015
watermelon rinds
and
osprey eyes
float down from a pink and blue sky

kiwi peels
and
albatross heels
surface around a pink and blue wheel

walk, run, turn, keel
the colors bleed and it's hard to see what's real

olive pits
and
garbage spit
chugging liquor in an attempt to feel

white washed
blank walls
seeing pink
seeing blue
coating the barriers down iris halls

watermelon rinds
and
osprey eyes
floating down from a pink and blue sky

*I look up and feel alive hoping these colors never run bleed or
dry
1.5k · Oct 2015
Seasons
B Young Oct 2015
The seasons keep changing
She said
Green slowly turning red
Quickly falling as nature bled
I want to catch them, keep these leaves from
spinning about her head
A pretty, delicate dance our mother holds
calling us to get fed

Fruit of the spirit
Father preached
Stretch up and pluck your pick
A peach for each
Keeps the grey night at bay
Avoiding a breach
Fight the seasons or look up and pray for
Earth can never be impeached

The seasons continue to pass
Sister sang
Clouds roll through the grass
Sun shines dim as thunder clangs
I bring a basket through the fields
Out of the rain, slam the barn with a bang
Sit down and nourish
The seasons change but our seeds
Will flourish
1.5k · May 2016
Still Life with Woodpecker
B Young May 2016
Pondering,
Who knows the secret,
Of how to make love remain?
Painting, still life with pyramids.
Those ancient symbols of death and rebirth,
Of love and the infinite.
Pondering,
What is the secret of the moon,  
What does she hide from the mortals below?
Floating forever circling above.
I know she hides a hidden purpose.
Wandering,
Inside a pack of Camel cigarettes,
Searching for oasis in the dry and solar charred landscape.
Smoking is our own little private communion with fire.
Who knows how to make love stay?
What is the purpose of the moon?
These are the secrets I inquire of the fire gods,
As I wander and wonder,
Inside a pack of Camel cigarettes.
B Young Feb 2015
Walking around Widener bookstore
   Brown bag 40oz in grip on the first floor
Hurricane
my life and future funneled life a twister whimsical whirlwind
down the hatch guzzle guzzle. Oh, Christie! How are you!? can you see I am a mess? I know Youtell my Chinese girlfriend from our study abroad you saw me a mess in the bookstore. SHe is now heartbroken in chongquing. see ah ha
later im just returning books to get dope money.
LAter

Oh, I see you are stocking that Stranger Camus
Langston Hughes
English 102
I drift in my own “end of summers night”
still dreamin’
still falllin’
   Dropping, stumbling, the house of German exchange professors
   Sequestered on speed *****
Welcome to Chester

Corpse exquisite
  the Bride resides in physics-compartmentalized-drawers
  hiding refuge from the storm

He was Alone

                             ( Most of the time he got weirded out easily)
1.3k · Jun 2018
Anthony. Tony. B.
B Young Jun 2018
When life departs
Where does one even begin to start;
                                                           the healing.
Those left behind masked and basked in burning feeling.
  
   A hanged man
   A hanged man

How does one justify a hanged man.
A man who seemingly had everything, but became a brand.
A bathrobe belt around his neck tied to a doorknob in a french hotel, ****.

   A hanged man
   A hanged man

A man who had everything,
Yet a heart full of pain, searing.
We may only see the outside.
The inside is hidden from us, tearing.
The cries for help ignored, no hearing.  
The inevitable demise pushed out of our minds, fearing.
  
   A hanged man
   A hanged man
   A hanged brand

How do we accept a hanged man,
a man who had everything.
rip
1.2k · Aug 2015
In response of a portrait
B Young Aug 2015
Like the portrait by John Singer Sargent,
of two helplessly hopelessly wedded souls.
The portrait was dim, even in 1897.
The couple grimly seeking searching reaching towards heaven,
timeless romantic.
Mr. and Mrs. Isaac Newton Phelps, who are you?
Starring through a century of fading oils, all my emotions become,
revoked. I sit and stare in repose.
What's left but to stoke the flame; the burning desire, love, and addiction.
Mr. Sargent did you understand my affliction?
Lest I travel back to the Rocky Mountains, those billowing rocks so beautifully captured by your contemporaries, by Albert Bierstadt.
I am a lost wandering critic, traveling through time using paint as my medium, to form these rhymes.
Ridding myself of a life that has become full of all things labeled tedium.
From the French to the Austrian to the English to the American, a new world unfurls.
All cultures aiming to capture the intrinsically fleeting moments of life, nature, and the beautiful, as they curl.
In and out, a dance of colors, a pageantry of light yet again is unfurled.
Only then does my soul feel full and bright.
The fog clears as my headlights part the mist, and I realize, as these masters before me, I do have something to offer...
Love!
Forgiveness!
Hope!
                               ...for a new tomorrow...
A new heaven.
A new Earth.

Today
1.2k · Apr 2015
Cold
B Young Apr 2015
I met her.
A silver tongue.
Driving Dads Silverado
through the danky dirt roads of little Silverton.

Thin throat swallowing
it's gum.
Pouting come and play come and play

Seductive hopeless
Cracked hips
Seamless lips

Whispering
"Don't you know that all we have is today?"

Well, don't you say.
Let's not waste any time staring,
high into the sky.
Eyes growing dry,
dry wind gusts with a flutter.

"Did I stutter?"
...
"Follow me this way,
look through these shutters."

I will keep you cold

I will peak,
shattering all molds.
Pity don't give up,
be bold!

I will keep you cold
1.2k · Oct 2015
Falling[?] for Pantheism
B Young Oct 2015
Does creativity spring[?]
boundless
from the well of the abyss,
so we can sing.

When you crawl up out of that well and
up my ankles up my
jeans
up over knee hills
through thigh valleys.

Reach a finger tentatively
approaching
my hidden alley,
a dark moonlit crater you're
encroaching.

My Annabelle.
My Annabelle
Lee.
Hate me later,
love me now,
then
take your leave.

Perpetually pantheistic
endless cycles keeping man
in a vast panorama of
meaningless[?] accomplishments.

Is this it?

We are embryos patiently awaiting our birth.      

We are gods,
each
awaiting our flock of faithful followers.

We are embryos awaiting birth.
1.2k · Apr 2016
Untitled
B Young Apr 2016
The Overdose as Artform:
or
A study on Modern Urban Myth

Stand alone, naked, in-front of your bathroom mirror.
Repeat three times fast:
   "Your liver enzyme levels are elevated."
   "Your liver enzyme levels are elevated."
   "Your liver enzyme levels are elevated."
My ghost will appear behind you,
carrying syringe and stem.
1.1k · Aug 2017
chromosomes
B Young Aug 2017
They keep calling me an underachiever.
I don’t understand is this all a contest. What is there to achieve?

There is no hope for you
Young boy young girl
You drive too fast up north
little boy little girl
You are running from mediocrity
little girl small girl
You  fill your lungs and heart with poison
little man little woman
I refuse to watch the streets take you
darling girl
sweet girl
Be beautiful forever
There is hope for you
my girl my woman
Drag yourself from your demons
my boy my man
dance
dance
dance
with the world my girl
Don’t turn blue on me ever again
dancing girl dancing girl
See the world through the songs of redemption
and recovery,
Sweet
Little
Beautiful
Dancing girl
Go
Be still
Be free
B Young Jul 2015
where did all the dreams go.
once soaring
over river sea desert arctic ocean
roots and veins
deserted glistening ringing
over yellow red and purple
poppy fields temptatious shimmering  
now I am souring
I ate the forbidden fruit
and rather than being sweet
it was sour.

where did all the dreaming go.
I recall transversing convoluted causeways
unconscious
uncontrollably wandering then falling
toothless
standing amidst the spider king
I ask if I can bring a date to the wedding
the king replies, 'No, and I hath stolen the ring!
you must sing for me, lest be spun and forever left undone.'
and rather than being sweet,
it was sour.  

where did all the dreams go.
I recall traveling charging at the one
the one was forever in my view.
I challenged the one
cross-eyed concupiscent cyclopian nightmare,  
the siren song always draws me in
and rather than being sweet.
It is sour.

*I wake up and think rather than say,
are we all not just elegant decay?
1.1k · Dec 2015
Foreign Flirting
B Young Dec 2015
The girl from Moscow
wants to hear, my
voice.
She is in love already,
with another,
but
is so beautiful,
do I really have, a
choice?
I call her,
using the international
connection line,
called Facebook.
I can hear her
but
she cannot hear
me.
I enable video,
and wave, but
she covers her
face, with her
hand.
Am I being mislead,
biting at the transcontinental line,
or
as they say,
cat-fished?
1.1k · Dec 2015
"The Two-Person Concept"
B Young Dec 2015
Love
will mean
facing the problem
of pushing the button
that destroys the human race.
1.0k · Feb 2015
olber's paradox
B Young Feb 2015
Figure a trigger
pictured fingers
scratch the brain
pick it ****, exposed;
******* minds only craving one more dime.
Insane
vein blade
neck noose
she drinks some to feel loose.

creeping
convulsions

chills christen me a martyr
King of the opiophiles
Christ of the smackheads
Conquering coconaut
Hero to heroinites
Majesty of the methodonians

Glitches in systems revolving
rebel against or kiss them
Ring the bell to bring out the MOB and roll your future to face the dice
who are they ask for advice?
You draw towards these demons while behind you attempt to bask
a mask
Cody raises a flask of poison resentful regrets
Brody the roadie is always on the move
that ****** basement edm dub scene sure did become crass
which only leaves you, alone to groove
and we drink my flask our flask and bask in romance and death
Sorry Sir that you asked…but wait I have one more thought before the session reaches the inevitable conclusive aspect. Listen to my
Unexplained Law
Of
Academic actualizations
Basic casualization
Capital causes compound connections only resulting in casualty
I am orbiting you
Blazing comet
A simple sultry satellite
cold convoluted
Sad
at my farthest reaching far flung Aphelion
Warming and safe at my closest approach to You
Blazing life bringer
Holy holy holy art thou oh Eye of all
Allow me to forever remain at Perihelion
The laws of Keplar could not keep us from colliding
in the end
fire
will be all dividing
1.0k · Aug 2016
Sick and Impatient
B Young Aug 2016
Don't worry darling, how crowded
The market square is.
I am always up early, and never
Miss a hanging.

I will run with the cure, I might get distracted buy I'll always make it
When you are getting sick,
And impatient.

The chills and sweats
Drilling through your mind,
Will vanish as I walk in.
I know the despair of feeling
Sick
And impatient.

                                                     (Oh Lord hear our prayer)

I introduced you to this world,
Brought your innocence with me
In a sinful satchel,
And lost you under the bridge.

Or

Were you already here?
Waiting for me,
Sick
And
Impatient.

I followed the sent of your perfume,
Venturing through the tangles of your hair.
And
We ended up right back where we started.
Getting sick.
And,
Feeling impatient.

                                   Oh Lord hear my prayer
993 · Jan 2016
slaughterhouse
B Young Jan 2016
Alas! The fleeting years glide on.
Eheu fugaces labuntar anni

So it goes, an old poet
rose, to tell the story of
the beast and the decaying glass rose,
petals falling softly cracking into broken
glass.

When you look at someone through rose tinted glasses, all the the red flags just look like flags.

raise a generation on Eminem and Cobain
then
scratch your head wondering where all us grown boys
went a little insane

from Timberlake to Bieber
Brittany to Miley
what's really changed?
anything
but our age?

a president named Bush went to war on terror
in the the middle-east,
ten years later his son does the same thing.

again I ask,
what's even changed
but
our age?

The ****** scandals begun by our ******* president
continue today under an eponymous tabloid cover
called Kardashian.
exploitation the name of the game,
everything is done for us,
especially our thinking.
less scarily,
our cooking.

there has never not been an "us vs. them"
mentality in human history.
we are cultured cannibals, tribesmen who have outgrown
our britches.
****** and racial liberation continues against
****** and racial tension
*** is cheap
drugs are cheaper
morals are depleted
agnosticism the happy sedated norm
nobody expects a revival but the saved themselves, the born
again.
well do I even wish to be born again into a life as this?

If I have learned anything thus far from life's teachings:
One is nothing and everything
Nowhere and everywhere
   spirits abound where you least expect them  
There is no zero and no infinity

Watch a fire burn and you will know this truth

Alas! The fleeting years glide on.
*Eheu fugaces labuntar anni
990 · Feb 2015
What I see
B Young Feb 2015
Is what you get

London Bridges falling down
Lest We forget
September Eleventh
Brooklyn Bridges falling down
Always We remember
In dedicated horror
Pearl Harbor
San Francisco Bridges falling down
From the sinking of the Lusitania
To genocide in Albania
Burning bridges
Fall
ing
Dowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwn  

Profoundly it dawns regardless of all that’s left behind. In my mind

All is fine
poem poetry dated
976 · May 2016
Rose and Blinking Blossoms
B Young May 2016
Love lies on a razor
shoots through the clouds
as a lazor.
Please don't let me down, I look up.
Blink at the raining blossoms.

I convalesce in my self-made imaginary infirmary,
a red sphere floating firm above
a Japanese blotched black ink dove.
Blink up at the raining roses
Squint up at the blinking blossoms.

Love built the cross,
it also built the atom bomb.

Roses rain down in flurries.
Blossoms blink down in a hurry.

It would be sin for us to scurry,
even as the love spoken previous
beams down from heaven, is impossible
for us to bury.
If this is my truth, let it be conjoined, to become our truth.
And,
with outstretched skinny fists protruding out from the clouds above.
I watch as the Rose petals float fluttering down in a
flurry.
I blink up at the rolling, bowling, balling, beautiful blossoms....falling.

As the the is dawning.
As the sun is dawning
973 · Apr 2015
hourglass
B Young Apr 2015
this is just something written to stand the test of time
B Young Oct 2015
Is it all just cheap hash (and)
****** shopping malls (and)
identical housing developments
anymore
?
nevermore
is it expensive Asian dinner (and)
mom's special casserole on the stove
left to simmer (and)
a sticker on your school paper about cars (or)
a lucky four leaf clove
found innocently playing in the front yard,
hidden from the world by pickets white but barbed  
(and) beautiful (and) normal.
Is it all tricks turned cheap, sudden loss of breathing (and)
smoke inhaled (and) powders breathed (and)
emotions bottled to be beheld kept seething.
A ****** cold Mexican TV dinner, fake.
A sad sloppy American lunch break, for Christ's sake.
A couple of teens talked on tinder set up a date (and)
put each other in a relationship so fake,
it was lost to the scrap yard.
A pair of adults met on eharmony (and)
scratched, picked, clawed at each others minds until
they were ****, blistered, scabbed.
Wet hot beef (and) (or) dry cold spaghetti on a plate,
makes the post nuclear family come together feeling
just great :)
949 · Apr 2015
fleeting impressions
B Young Apr 2015
Hi it's good to see you nice to meet you
Had a rough ride so far too
Let me at least make my bed first
933 · Dec 2015
Michelle
B Young Dec 2015
What a Bass-Head,
the only one to ever fill me with dread.
She asks, "Hey baby, did you forget to take your meds?"

I just needed 3 xanax bars to remember not to forget about her, the girl drinking from the sweet wobbly nectar of the Bass Gods, I'd drop everything to visit her in Oregon.

She once flew to Durango, to road-trip home east, with me the beast. In my jalopy hooptie of a 1992 Corolla, falling apart, ripping at the seams. Across this country we flowed over rivers and streams and poured unhindered by time or space. Through the great sand dunes of Colorado we played our own tunes, the stalagmites and horrid cave crickets of Mammoth Cave Kentucky, It got fucky at a seedy motel in Kansas, another in West Virginia. We make it to Fredericksburg, Viriginia, in the span of less than a week we have roared and  soared through half the continent. We spend a night with our settled friends, married now, Shaun and Rachel, lovebirds. Until, home to Philly in one straight shot, through DC **** DC and up through Delaware, we are finally home. A journey complete. Sunsets, mountains, forests, lakes, dunes, beaches, deserts, plains, prairie, and perc 30s. All now a part of our memories,
how sweet they be.
B Young Feb 2015
The suburban housewives are all prostitutes
Cuckoo CUCKOO cuckoo
Sings the cuckolded husband

Bury the demons in the backyard Jack
Decomposing rotting souls
Enriching the soil
Get rich without any toil.
Step
outside

A glance to the heavens
From the floors of our forest
Reveals many a distant star
Symbolizing neither near or far
This twinkling image destroys the ego
Although in this here woodland
Anything goes
We are the kings of our times, the last of our kings, and the future creators.

The truth only goes as far as the rocks thrown
So I asked the reapers which way to go.
Take a trip with me down memory lane.
My past has no real pain
HUmph - no thank you I would not like any fame
I really have nothing to gain but catharsis
So please don’t call me an artist.
Please call me the man who could not deal with beauty and treachery of life so he wrote after lusting for natures delights.
B Young Apr 2018
Welcome.
To the Age of major gains,
But no progress.
Abundant selfies,
But harshly any selflessness.
Delectable boomerangs of delicious dinners,
While many suffer starving in foreign winters.
Will
Likes
Hearts
Views
And
Shares
Become the end-all-be-all of the winners?
Chicken Dinner
Chicken Dinner
Chicken
Dinner
C
H
   I          R
    C       E
     K     N
      E    N
       N  I
        D
891 · Jun 2015
Ocean City Maryland 1
B Young Jun 2015
I have not been writing enough.
The beach the ocean the liquor the life guarding
Hath made me a sluggard. Lazy, un-inspired, creatively empty.
These crazy hazy days of summer,
The tourists the internationals the Irish the *******.
Have me numb drunk and in love.
But I am not writing enough.
Since leaving the mountains, the west, the Rockies, my pen has ceased to create,
breath, live.
865 · Dec 2015
*Roses in December*
B Young Dec 2015
We pull, into the
Grand Canyon,
at sunset.
We toss and fling
giant rocks, boulder-
esque chunks of
Earth, off of
the side.
Someone screams,
they are upset, but
no regrets,

Am I evil?
   (All poems containing a question)
Am I pensive?
   (All poems containing an affirmation)

Blazing across Arizona,
dead dogs grovel,
strays, orphans searching,
seeking, looking for a home,
******* and copulating,
in, vacant gas station
lots. Not a bone,
to be thrown.

Where are our owners?
   (All poems containing a question)
This is enthralling.
   (All poems containing an affirmation)

Fear and faith,
carry us riveting,
through rivulets of clouds,
we sore, flying above,
searching for peace,
doves.

The woods would be very silent indeed,
if no birds sing except those who sing,
best.  

But,
she wants revenge,
with
a thirst for pain, I cannot
contend.
And
as the rain pours down,
sorrow falling from the
clouds.
She wants revenge.
And,
I simply cannot even
contend.

Laying lines out on
the metallic surface, of
With the Lights Out,
white powder flaked
along Cobain's black
and white face.
The drugs which killed
him, no longer causing
him any more pain,
merely giving this writer
some idolized thrill and gain.
And then high, reading
about one more creature,
dizzy with love.

*God gave us memories so that we may have roses in December
847 · May 2016
A dream but also a Reality
B Young May 2016
Driving through Kentucky.
Fields fragrant with summer flowers,
spring fast approaching.  
En-route to meet the boys of previous
summers lounging in London streets, fields, and serpentine parks,
And, stairs leading down to unwelcoming basements; as is the British way.
Malls of America now act as labyrinths.
Where the hell can I park my car?
Again, I ask, where the **** can I park my car?

I don’t care.
I just won’t park my ******* car,
in this god-forsaken middle of the western U.S.
Louisville, better yet, Hicksville.  
I pop another Vicodin to get rid of this ill,
Surviving bit by bit but drained incessantly until,
I am no longer near fill, in spirit or in gasoline, tangible but also metaphysical.  
Someone plunge into my depressed psyche and drill, drill,
DRILL!
Hey waitress of my mind, may I please request the bill?
With a pocket full of Xanax and a duffel bag of boomers,
my pockets jingle, (click-clack) as the pills bounce around with
every step, treating addiction with more drugs appears
to be the current stance of the know nothing doctors across this greatest nation on God’s green earth.
Hey babe, “want to walk with me to the methadone clinic,”
It’s rainy out, cold rain, can you carry my umbrella?
I can’t miss my dose or I’ll get sick.
So again I ask
Babe?
Walk with me to the methadone clinic?
821 · Feb 2015
Sliver (like Nirvana)
B Young Feb 2015
Oh young one so ablaze in thy passion
What is it you seek?
The air thin-connections
confuse-debate souls
Try and push through being true
Sounding the heaven on earth
I-we
open our flesh
exposing the wave we will name travel---->

When the night grows light we will see
what it is we call reflection.

Live in the magic
Breath it in, then out. For when fear arises and clouds,
corner us as doubt sailing above our gracious gazes,
we will have forever gained the truth to carry us

Forward!
Desire
as Fire
spout forth the flames of intuition
814 · Apr 2018
y b
B Young Apr 2018
y b
I desire to play the piano
   fingertips like cigarettes
I desire to pick at the guitar
   fingertips like cigarettes

I want to whistle mellifluous melodies to my comrades
   lips like cigarettes    
I wish to massage your head
   broken fingernails filed cigarettes

I search for my voice to shout but my lungs
   are (((filled)))

I want to write a SuRreal poem
   But, my
fingertips are as cigarettes
cigarettes poem poetry surreal
760 · Dec 2016
Untitled
B Young Dec 2016
In Brook Glenn
Again
The Psych Ward
Writing in the Psych Ward.
On Thanksgiving
Yet,
I am still thankful
For life
For breath
For a love on the horizon

Mental illness is one hell of a drug.

Is this what the Egyptians called Maat
or
The divine right order?

the Nile flows
the Nile flows

The sun god shines from Aten
And
i am cursing Akhenaten

But

Motion is relative.
756 · Nov 2015
Pale King
B Young Nov 2015
I

Hero
in
Hero

He struts into a meeting feeling meek and needy but,
greater than the digit zero.
He figits around not breaking much mental ground although,
these restless legs could corrode the tiles to dust.
Nothing has been able to hold his attention,
they call it ADD.
He calls it the human condition.
He sees fear in a spoon full of dust,
shrugs it off continuing to pump veins full of rust.
Packs a bag and gives sister a hug,
trudge down under I95 reaching Broad to south Philly,
to be at peace and tormoil living amongst the crust.

II

Trying marijuana maintenance
Trying therapeutic intervention
Trying geographical relocation
Trying to be happy.
A pale king in the end a peasant feeling sappy.
He writes
He fights
To the bitter end he sees too many loved ones send,
Letters from the graves they dig for themselves.
An addiction which cannot bend and always leaves
Them broken.
These letters represent a token of hope to overcome
Dope, from beyond this temporal transient world,
He receives these letters.
Don’t give up! Don’t give in!
Written, in beautiful otherworld cursive.

III*

These restless legs can wear the cotton sheets
To fractured fibers.
A splintered conscience,
A glint of hope,
These trans-dimensional letters arrive on a silver rope.

The pale king takes it all in with no buffering
And dismisses his selfish suffering.
He has won
He is the hero of this story.

The pale king who once strolled the Kensington
Streets less than zero.

Is now a ****** hero.

Rally around this man,
A clan of beautiful addicts,
Laughing and not being normal,
Who wants a life which is normal?

All his friends
All his friends
All my friends  

The memories together blend,
In the end our ****-ups make us stronger,
Than the accountant making ends meet in a
Culd-a-sac street sign labeled dead end.

We spent the last ten years trying to feel alive,
And will spend the next ten feeling justly deprived.

His letters scream to defend:
That it is all well worth it, in the end.

Where are those friends tonight?
He visits them at their headstones,
Reminded where it leads, a life being ******.

Shivering cold to the bone,
Hot sweats dripping down flannel folds,
All we wanted was to break the mold.

He is more than a statistic of decimals and
Digits, greater than the sum of zero.

He is the hero(in) hero.

No longer
Less
Than
Zero.
755 · Nov 2015
the sickest generation
B Young Nov 2015
Waiting for a poem to come,
is a specific breed of tedium
which would have a lesser man,
undone.
Sitting bored on the porch
trying to express,
through my only medium.

It's now 7pm and
time to go to a meeting.
Living with a disease,
which through every pore,
is always secreting.

A busted water pipe in the winter,
can only turn the faucets on for an hour a day.
Wave to the missionaries in Kenya,
hey
hey
hey
751 · Dec 2015
translations
B Young Dec 2015
I am the commissioner of sewers,
king of rat's alley,
chancellor of the canine
graveyards.
This life right here is a party
and safari.

In hoc signo vinces:
In this sign you will conquer.

I am impetuous, adamantly
audacious.

Ic heb u liever dan en everswin,
al waert van finen goude ghewracht:
I love you more than a wild bore,
even if it were made of fine gold.
748 · Feb 2015
what was said last night
B Young Feb 2015
Do we ever really mean it
with temper stripping us down to our most
animalist
sadistic
I did not mean that, poem of mine I showed you last night
what read simply bled
Last night, contemplating accidental mescaline trips
loves
loss
life death
becoming master of this illusion
We are the generation which creates itself
I am my years in Chongqing
Where my heart heeded me not court the innocent
Chinese
beautiful
flower of a ******
My heart could not resist the fling
Monster
Foreigner
Devil
Oh! How my tormented conscious screams!

I am
my months
In Greifswald
Moin
Moin Moin
out back of Mensa Club
my head met an angry boot
thud
I let out my cruddy caterwall
*****
*******
****
******
Come here I will ******* **** you!
I am held back from further humiliation by the furer followers taken for my stitches.
made a scene at the police station.
I get what I deserve in my American varsity jacket I stole from my father, vintage. I was an easy target it is not far fetched I get a blitzkrieg on my head.

I am my posh time in London
In Hampstead I swirl sangria
discussion David Downs and
which works are his strongest
In Chelsea I walk around
boxer shorts and pajama bottoms
getting k-holed with the
bottom feeders all ****** on
frosty jacks

7 a.m.

I am ready for heaven
my world swings before me,
swaying... silently.
A dead man hangs
swoosh swoosh
falling
from the gallows
B Young Oct 2015
We **** all night,
Stopping at a ridiculous Red Light
District engulfed in a klonopin haze
Of lust.
Full of raging disgust I wish
To ****** violently until bust.
But first lets gander hornily every
Toy evil ***** and vibrating pleasure
Contraption this seedy shop sells
To the permanently sexually soiled.
I get you everything you want baby,
I will devour thee, God of Chaos,
Mastodon master, lustful leviathan,
Tonight, I am the destroyer of Worlds.
708 · Nov 2015
Art Angels
B Young Nov 2015
When dead men tell no tales.
My poetry still spouts from the grave,
to the tune of taps, a melody over the air,
signaling I shan't be saved.
She drops me off at the intersection of last year and tomorrow.
I look ahead with anticipation and
behind with sorrow.
Why do I cry out in distress?
Is my life really such an unheralded mess?
Or, is this path of distraught paths really the
god’s way of kissing me, saying, “son, you are
indeed blessed."
These pills cloud me, the gods of medicine hear
my plea and require a copay, a fee.
My vowels propel through space and time,
With a rhyme I dance with the
art angels in a basement of grime.
Carry me on the wings of pestilence,
I refuse to let go of this golden glow.
4am 5am 6am

I wonder
as I wander,
where this absent cavity in my chest
will be filled.
I go to the ocean, to the sea,
only to see the waves lap against me and,
for a moment I feel free, yet still absent from life.
I traverse the plains to find myself
lost in an empty great wild American praire expanse,
until I find myself trembling at the foothills
of the great mountains rocky of the west.
Climb, I must, or die alone and
hungry still absentness beating
within my chest.
4am 5am 6am
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