decompoetry

decompoetry Mar 2011

Little ******* on the boulevard;
they look so cool, they look so hard,
they look so mean, they have that green;
looking oh so bold while they wear their gold.

Little ******* on the boulevard;
clean shaven heads are on their guard,
standing out in a rugged front yard,
sporting Glock 9s that look so fine
in the crotch of their denim jeans,
where the end neglects to have a means

+

Little ******* are on the boulevard
now
and the cops are calling
just as their pants are falling
down
and amidst their crawling
they admit to sprawling
down

You haven’t a clue,
do you,
you little *******?
You’ve been reduced
to your recluse
in your boulevard,
now.
Life’s so **** hard,
you little *******.

+

Little ******* on the boulevard:
rather face death than be barred,
even though they already are.

Little *******, little *******,
leave that boulevard,
leave it all,

leave that boulevard,
just go away,
now,

you little ******* …

decompoetry Mar 2011

a day without the sun is a day you never have to run

I don’t enjoy the TV
as much as others seem;
rather say goodbye to reality
and hello to a new dream.

Never have felt the sea,
yet it means more to me
than it does to you.

The moon is my getaway
while the sun is your only way;
a day without light
has never been so bright
from where I stand,
and from where you can’t,
for in your point of view
it’s just another
inconvenience
to get through;

like a coffee stain
at the crotch
of your pants,

you continue to scrub.

decompoetry Mar 2011

Music Man

The man was not a man,
but a listener of music;

the melodies told him when to sleep,
the angst gave him his anger,
the happiness blessed him with love,

the guitar beat gave him movement,
the lyrics were his thoughts,
and the end of the song
was the only closure
in a world

where music
was the only thing
that made any **** sense.

decompoetry Mar 2011

No More

The ocean washed it all away
before we’d even awoken
from our dreams.

Towns washed away
like a hose cleans
a sidewalk
of its chalk.

Creations no more,
erased from existence
as easily as
a man blinks
an eye.

It was gone.

http://www.charitynavigator.org/index.cfm?bay=content.view&cpid;=1221

decompoetry Mar 2011

Moments of Weakness

Now was the time
for hands to come
together,

rather than to drift
apart

and accuse those who
did not control
our origins
of sadness.

In our moments of weakness,
we preferred to shed
death

rather than to shed
light.

http://www.charitynavigator.org/index.cfm?bay=content.view&cpid;=1221

decompoetry Mar 2011

The Writer

The writer never strayed
from the same line
in his notebook,
yet the tip grew dull
and the page grew a hole
as deep as his desire
for satisfaction.

The lead bled red,
as did his tears
in his fit
of utter

madness;

he’d lost it.

decompoetry Mar 2011

Just Flew

Apologies changed with the weather,
and trees split in half;

this would never get better,
there would be no change,

despite how much
the movies promised.

Our “one day” mantra
had started running dry,

like an alcoholic bruising flesh
in his foreseen relapse,

and a ******’s inevitable conclusion
of a vein collapsed;

and still the leaves flew,
all because of you,

because you just lose,
and because I just use,

and because we never grew;
we just flew.