Van Gogh
Cut his ear off and mailed it to a ******* in a box
For you I'd rip my heart out, ship it on a silver plate
And you'd
Reject it, like they've frequently done, every one,
Van Gogh's *****, you, her, all of them, cold souls.
Perhaps
Not, quite possibly I'm wrong, the reason
For rejections isn't cold, concrete souls,
And it's
Our fault, the writer, the painter,
We, the foolish artists, that
Decide
To package organs in
The mail for our loves,
That is,
Now that I think
It through,
Very
Strange.

Also poetic.
Artsy even.
So please,
Send a thank you note in return
At the very least.
And no, not a restraining order.
(And to end with a generic line
About poetry and the bard:
All these poems are my heart.
All of them.
So, here, take this,
I'm bleeding out for you.)
(Wait, what do you mean you only take cash?)

There really isn't
Anything like
The wet smell of
        rain.

a poem written at 5 AM - no sleep that night*

seen too many faces
melting into backdrops,
concrete boxes
where gray air
paint lungs gay,
where diamonds
fall too ******
frequently
blurring the windows
of colorless rooms,
tiny rooms,
that suffocate,
garrote
and wash the trees
and the flowers
into frail state,
where the moon
is nothing,
just a ***** coin,
where the dogs
howl and howl,
cry and cry,
in agony,
where everyone
is lost,
them you and me,
lost

"Spend your life behind bars"
big companies whisper
in your ear
while standing on your shoulder.
"Spend your life behind
the bar codes",
prison of the consumer.
there is no escape
in such a society,
addicts stand
nervously at the prison yard
ready for their next fix,
the guards open the doors
to the mall
and like cattle
the consumers follow.
Behind the bar codes
trapped
forever.

I turned the radio on
again for the first time
in months.
terrible thing,
to turn on the radio;
not the news,
not the music,
none of it
is any good.
I hate the radio.
And I hate that
I turned it on even
more but I was bored
in that silent car
with that silent person
and my thinking was
that it might
do some good
but I was wrong,
very wrong.
The host
was a bore
and the news
was dull
and the music
was repetitive
and dumb
and the callers
were worst,
stupid like their radios.
It's been minutes
since we left the car
and that torture instrument,
thank the gods.

I bet that
if i cut off your arm
added some seasoning
and cooked it,  
                     (actually not just your arm,
                                                              bu­t like,
                                                             any
                                               slice of meat
                                                   from your body)
the meat,
it'd taste
like honey
and whiskey.

The not so happy rhymes*

So I got a call
from the landlord
says it's time to pay
for the house,
"better not to play
cat and mouse.
hope I won't have to call
again."
maybe it'd be best
if I took a bag and left
'lest
you forget 'bout the "theft".
Shut your mouth, Mr Landlord,
I called you once and again
last week
and sent a check!
A check
was sent last week!

Alone*
          **I watched the midnight fires
                   consume the madmen and liars.

“"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown" –HP Lovecraft*

I stood in what I examined to be an ancient and forgotten shrine, to what god or devilish soul, I did not know, but it surrendered a sinister sensation. Its ruined ****** walls lay with some sections long collapsed on the ground, while texts and runes, in dead languages decorated some of the still upright rock. The roof itself was alarming, seen as if it were hanging reluctantly and willing to fall at any moment. A dispiriting, cold wind began blowing upon my face. The air became thick, difficult to breathe, turning every inhalation into a hard fought one and forcing me to continue onwards with this unwanted journey. I slowly crept out of the temple and found myself in complete darkness. There was no sun, moon or stars above, only a great barrier of pitch black nothingness. I studied the veil trying to make sense of this but surrendered and commenced following a wrecked trail carved on the earth.

The scene caused a sudden sorrow to spellbind me. Few trees remained in root, dry and dead, with branches pointed up at the heavens they appeared to be praying for mercy from a god that refused to answer. The ground was littered by branches and the grass was so withered that it was ash more than anything. This dim path that I found myself walking through warned me and all other unfortunate travelers, sending a clear, terrifying message: All hope and joy were gone, completely disappeared in this abduction of the mind. This domain was a plagued one. I heard in the distance howls of suffering and pain, savage and demented laughter; I assumed that these were emanated from whatever tormented and diseased creatures that resided here in this unholy place. These sounds, these horrid songs would’ve made even the strongest adventurers, quiver and cower. Evil permeated the region.

As I walked, a sickening green mist with the presence of death rose from the soot drenched soil surrounding and covering everything ‘neath my knees. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something shift in the dirt; a shadow now lurked hidden. I hoped that it were nothing but a mirage produced by my disturbed and weakened senses. Signs that my state of mind was slowly driving itself into mental insanity, yet lunacy at this point was bettered desired than a confrontation with any beast of cosmic horror that slithered through this wasteland.

Quickly, I discarded such an idea; it terrified me, the presence of a monster did. Gripped and strangled by panic I began to gently ease myself forward when again a shade dashed through the mist, this time, the sound of hooves accompanied it. I staggered back in fright and tripped ******* a branch, falling and hurting. I whimpered, feeling something wet, most likely blood, seeping from my now wounded left leg. “Please! No!” I yelled at the mysterious specter. Pleading to the unknown being, my vision was blurred by the sick fog, my lungs drowned with the stench of otherworldly dread and a fit of coughing possessed me.

The shadow stepped closer becoming distinguishable but not yet fully visible. It was humanoid in form and stood hunched, breathing heavily, on two legs. The fog dispersed for a few seconds. Pale skin, hair black as the ground, malevolent blood red eyes; those dead, revolting eyes glaring! Staring! The most shocking thing I then discovered: The beasts face, ‘twas mine!

Stone and stone
and black street
of these concrete
paths.
a laugh
from burning man,
the bloated veined man,
that stands on his kingdom,
that stands on stone and stone.
the yellow teeth,
gold like his withered kingdom,
that both host refusal,
refusal
to shine under
sun or thunder's
roar,
for
he's a king,
the king
of stone and stone
and the needle his queen.
oh gentle queen!
caress him with a kiss,
a last cold kiss,
"goodnight
goodnight".

Alt-Title:Prince of  the Street/ Filth and his Highness

The key was lost
among the books
and
crumpled papers.

The phone rang loud
through the empty
house
but no answer.

The fan above
would spin and spin
like
a dark whirlpool.

The bottle slept on
the wooden floor
boards
spilling slowly.

Somewhere in that
mess, pills scattered
on
the bathroom sink.

A fly explored
the planet that
kept
it prisoner.

And
quietly
the
breathing
stopped.

Many moons and suns
   have melted on that
     canvas horizon since
       our last cup of wine.

Thank you Hemingway
for putting the fun
back into my reading.
It been so long since
I had read for enjoyment
and not to study
some style,
some writer,
some time,
some setting.
The book was yellowing,
The Sun Also Rises,
bullfights, Spain, wine,
women, even writers,
all those things and more.
Last time it
was checked out
of that school library,
10 years ago,
**** long time.
I took it,
read it,
devoured it.
Brilliant!
Rough and honest.
That thing deserved
to be read and I'm glad
that it was by me.
Sometimes books just capture you,
make you wanna be in the middle
of the action with the characters,
live the story with them,
and I guess we do.
So in summary
and once again,
Thank you Mr H.

The mountains went green
some time ago.
The flowers opened
some time ago.
The road did smile brown
some time ago.
The birds sang again
some time ago.

All beauty returned
some time ago,
All of it except
you.

Laying down
on the ground
thought not found
invisible crown
on that head
killer cold
"oh man, we're old"
soon be dead
not learned
yet
a needle earned
gone fast like a jet
they leave
they leave
they got a ticket
from the street guy
a new trinket
and they'll leave
great goodbye

Born in a furnace
in the center of the Earth
wordsmith like fresh swords.

A dot of red
like earth springs
naturally
releasing
from beneath
those holy
waters that
haunt and run
our bodies
pricking thumb
let off all
the worries
rivers and
oasis clear
the sick realm
that plagues me.

Metal orbs
spheres of light
heavenly
guides do not
abandon
travelers
at any
time in their
eternal
quest
and burning
withering
away to
golden dust
carried then
by the winds
withstanding
every
pain struggle
arriving
then
by carriage
at ancient
palace gates.

Kids like him
spending nights
dreaming about
traveling to France
and sitting
around in a
café
wearing a beret
and black turtleneck
and smoking with
a cup of wine
on their other hand
that dream about
romance in the streets
a kiss beneath
the Eiffel Tower
musky hotel rooms
I'll never
understand
you kid
I just can't
dream that.

I've lost
the touch
and writing
has become
a damnation.

Dilemmas take over
Phone ringing wrong caller
The truth packed in boxes
That all are sly foxes
Sparkling drink
Have you on the brink
Rotting wood
Of guitar should
Tell you about our blues
Detectives lie about clues
There was nothing but sand
And a diamond ring on her hand
Little boy
Buried his toy
In the beach of despair
Washed by waves
A state beyond repair
We know what he craves
So please don’t cry
Or you’ll fall from this heavenly sky

Morning newspaper
Greets you with a smile
“Thank you paperboy”
Swallowing tablets
At the sunny ball
Watching the faces
Shape shift into rabbits
Morphing
Into who knows what
Feel like Alice
Explosions of color
And grandeur
Overwhelming voices
Lead the game
“I am God” shouted
They laugh eternally
Though it’s only
Temporally
And clouds devour
The yellow sun
Raindrop suicide
With their mile high jump
Tambourine and guitar
And the dancing
So much dancing
That summer is lost
Among the headbands
And shirtless kids
A blur
A blur
But what a swell time!

If you were going to **** yourself,
how would you go about it?
Lately I've been analyzing it
more than what I usually did,
I thought those thoughts were dead,
but they aren't, they simply left
for a bit of time, call it vacation,
and are back ready to mess around.
So many of the writers I admire
went through with it, suicide,
perhaps we share the same nature.
Someone once told me that suicide
was for cowards, I shook my head
and told him: No.
Do you hold the courage to end
your own life? On the contrary,
suicide is bravery to an extreme.
I'm not brave enough yet,
it's not death I fear,
it's the unknown
of what's to come
after the act's been done.
When you think about things
you notice our
insignificance.
Forgive me for saying so
but I'll probably go out with a bang.

She hung herself
from the ceiling fan
I think,
The reasons are
unknown to me still,
The why,
but she did it,
We never spoke
that much
so this sadness
is a mystery
to me,
Maybe I saw
something in her
and it
resembled me,
something familiar,
goodbye
Mirror.

What a show!
What a pose!
Who exactly do you think you are?
Hemingway?
Fitzgerald?
No.
Can't be.
Those guys wouldn't drink
this so called coffee
in this hell hole.
Look at the guy making
the drinks, clearly an idiot,
oh but look at him now,
pretending to be reading
some philosopher
I've never heard of.
Yes, pretending,
I can see him
eyeing his sides
to make sure someone
is watching.
And you
typing away on that machine,
that dinosaur,
in your thrift shop clothes
wearing that dumb beret,
so special.
I'm going to leave
the pretentiousness
that surrounds me here,
it's truly numbing and sick.
Forget Starbucks,
I'm going to that bar
across the street.
Whiskey is cheaper
than this cup
of coffee flavored water.

You get a card
some girl
some guy
we've gone to school
for what
7 years
they are nice and
they've shared
the school
it's their birthday
"you there
should come"
picking it up
the card
reading
I don't want it
don't want
to go
it mean talking
with them
people
that's something to
dislike
so much
not hate, not that,
but yes,
dislike
never been good
at it
having
fun with others
I feel
awkward
I feel anxious
what's wrong
with me
in the garbage
it goes
their card

nearly every
day
stalking us,
what business have you,
Cat?

I read a report
Not so long ago
Called:
“Writers most
likely
to suffer
from depression”
Irregular pay
Isolation
Contributed to
The illness
I knew this to be
True
But it’s not the whole
Truth
Writers go mad for
Other reasons
We go mad because
We’re insane enough
To cut pieces of
Our souls
And
Trap them
In paper
And ink.

I waited for hours
On that stool
Watching the ghosts
Pass come and go
Arriving upright
And quiet
Leaving dizzy
And loud
So loud
As if
Trying to shout
So that the cruelness
Of their days get scared
And not come back again
I ordered for myself
A drink
And another
Trying to decipher
This puzzle
They didn’t drink
For fun
For enjoyment
They drank
Same as I
To ****
Sadness
Loneliness
I sat on that stool
For so long
The specters
Unrecognizable
Blurry faces
Buried in mugs
And glasses
Bodies tied in coats
Workman's suits
Smeared makeup
They stank
Of dead dreams
Here’s to
You
Me
And another round
Please
Cheers
Fellow ghosts o' 13thSt.

Failing to comprehend
The idea painted
In colors gray and white
Dull and sad
Not a smile
Among it
The picture spoke
In foreign tongues
Flashing its surreal
Blood
A chalice was brought
So that it'd flow
And then ‘d drink
Absorbing the
Terrifying truths
Scattered upon
The canvas yard