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Harry J Baxter Nov 2013
I was six or seven
I realized the dragonball Z comics I was drawing
needed a story line to make any **** sense
that was the first time
Then I was twelve
writing gangsta rap with my friends
a group of English farm kids
who couldn't be any whiter
That's when I realized who she was
By fourteen I was writing things which resembled stories
only not really
fifteen sixteen seventeen
they were growing stronger
February of my eighteenth year I wrote that first poem
I thought it ******
and it did
but still
people liked it
poem after story after novel attempt after poem after story after...
almost twenty years old
the words are thicker
shorter
harder
but still,
we're not there
but I can't wait until
the days of matrimony bells ringing in empty churches
the day were you give in to my
I do
We'll write our own vows
burn our sacred cows
we'll write a love story
which won't ever be forgotten
Harry J Baxter Nov 2013
Salt on the back of my hand I know so well
shot of tequila to remember you scent
**** the lime down to bring the balance
How are you tonight
better than me,
surely.
My chestnut girl
my top teeth too long
upper lip too short
best friend
making me feel saintly for taking your nerves and melting them in my palm
pleading to Gods I never met
for this last bet
to end up winning
I'm losing my sanity with every breath expelled
but who want's to be sane
when in the land of the blind
the seven eyed man is king?
Sane insane saints and sins cast across the wall like suicide grey matter
the children wouldn't understand
It's probably for the best
but when tequila clouds the back of my throat
my sinuses remind me of the sound of you
playing guitar
and singing the songs
which held you close in childhood
Harry J Baxter Nov 2013
Don't approach
the humanity encroaches upon the macabre
I dance pencils, pens, and cigarettes across my knuckles
like hypnosis
I drink and smoke until I'm hypnotized by Hippy free love ideals
This **** makes no sense
but I'm fine with being sensibly nonsensical
It's a character trait
when you're strange
the doors and good old Jim
couldn't capture it better
Harry J Baxter Nov 2013
Let's be honest people
I write too many of these **** things
for all of them to be any good
I know that the notifications from Harry J Baxter can get annoying
the only thing is
I'm not whole yet
and each poem I write
****** or great
removes a piece of me which is deemed
unessential
Pain is weakness leaving the body
*******
pain is the body leaving the idea of weakness behind
one minute
two minutes
three minutes later
I'm dealing with ten views and one like
which is fine
eat me up
I taste like ****
but I'm nutritious
that's for ******* sure
read my three hundred and something poems
and try to tell me you know my life
you'd still be wrong
working on working towards being completely honest
but a part of me cries against the crimes of obvious weakness
that's fine
patience is a a part of my best part
I can write ****
until there's no **** left to come out
that's the goal
aim
desire
I can sound similar at times
but don't fall asleep
this ocean runs deep
and is ready to explode
hold your friend's hand
a tsunami is brewing
and I'm in the mood to drown
Harry J Baxter Nov 2013
1800
Georgie boy
busch
bud
coors
PBR
they slide down the relaxed throat
of an unrelaxed youth
and these red squiggly lines mark my poems
as if to say
hey,
Harry buddy,
you realize that you make no ******* sense,
right?
and who decides what is and what isn't
nonsensical
All I know is that these crazy ******* yankees
are making me lose my grip on the English stiff upper lip reality
My tenth grade history teacher/JV soccer coach
liked to make songs up about me
There's only one Harry Baxter
true.
only not
there are many of us
the good Harry
The bad Harry
Ugly Harry
and swagger Harry
Violent Harry
and introspective Harry
Romantic and evil
caring and selfish
I get drunk to forget everything
life
money
cares
desires
needs
duty
I write about ten ******* poems a day
not because I'm prolific
or inspired
not because I'm deep
or smart
or romantic
I write because it stems the tide of suicidal thoughts
which barrage my inactive mind
like cannon *****
and I've got great ***** of fire
rushing the pace of every word I spit
but I'm afraid of my own genetic cowardice
From grandfather to father to son
it runs through my veins like people and bulls
I'm drunk tonight
I'll be drunk tomorrow
and what the hell do you care?
Harry J Baxter Nov 2013
The apartment was covered with ash and dust. It wasn’t a big deal, only it made them self conscious of the filth. Matthew and Steve were used to the filth, but nobody else was. Dust hung suspended from sunlight like a death sentence.
“What are you doing tonight?” Steve said.
“Drunk. High. Who the hell knows?” Matthew said.
“What about Katie? That girl you’ve been talking to?”
“What about her?”
“Are you seeing her tonight?”
“No, not tonight. Tonight is for getting drunk.”
“so get drunk with her. She’s probably lonely thinking about you.” Steve said.
“We both know it isn’t that simple.”
The platter before the two of them carried salt, tequila, and sliced limes. They split a shot of tequila and sighed out their discomfort into the dead air. They downed another shot.
“listen man, I’m done with the dumb drunk girls, that’s all.” Matthew said.
“Shut the hell up man. You know she isn’t like that. Just text her.”
“what do you know.” The air settled between them. Matthew felt inside his breast pocket for his cigarettes. Lighting one he said,
“It’s not like you and that girl Danielle are making progress.”
“You’re right. But you actually like her.”
“Okay Dr. Phil.”
“All I’m saying is I’m going out tonight. If you spend another night bull ******* alone, I’ll kick your ***.”
“Okay. Yes sir.” Steve stood up and put on his backpack, ready to leave for the night.
With the apartment empty Matthew felt more at home. Stephen was a great guy, but he was naive about a lot of things. Things which really mattered. Like the disposition of other people. The only judge we have.
Matthew stood up and poured himself yet another tequila shot. Grimacing as it went down, shaking his face left and right to shake off the alcohol.
Matthew wrote some shity poems, waiting for the online responses to flow in like they always did. The 1800 tequila was empty, but he still had a whole litre of bourbon left to slug down.
“Here’s to me.” He said as he drank a shot by himself.
He felt the stress of the night’s potential weighing down on him and became alive.
“Let’s see what’s going on out there.” he said to himself as he tightened the belt around his jeans. He left his ****** apartment feeling ready to take on life.
Pulling out his cellphone he dialed Bernard’s number.
Ringing, ringing, ringing still.
“Hello” Bernard’s voice said.
“Yo, It’s Matthew. What are you doing tonight.”
“Going to some party with Cornice., You should come.”
“What’s the address?”
He sent the address and Matthew walked into the slowly cooling night.
Grace street is lined with legions of homeless. They post up at bus stop after bus stop. All the way past the police station. Matthew gave out a few cigarettes before he made it to broad and belvedere - the location of Bernard’s apartment. It was warm in there, the scent of pumpkin spice lattes permeated through the air with the central heating.
“How’s school going B-rad?” Matthew asked.
“How’s being a worthless drop out going?” Bernard said.
“Same old same old.”
“Well, how’s Cornice doing, anyways?”
“I don’t ******* know. Alright I guess?”
“**** I know the feeling man. Oh well. We’ll get drunk as **** tonight right?”
“You know it dude.”
The two young men gathered themselves and then left the apartment on a quest to find out something more about themselves.
Harry J Baxter Nov 2013
yeah we're getting drunk at four in the afternoon
we don't have anywhere to drive to.
we have no class
no responsibility
my city's filthy
I live in the art district
nobody else anywhere else in the world can say that
Richmond knows how to lay it down
how to make the children feel invincible
how to make the women feel like super models
and the men like long lost kings
don't like my poems?
that's fine
we flow to a different drum beat
yeah we are a bunch of
PBR swilling hipsters in our non corrective lenses
but we know how humanity dances back and forth
like the flickering of candle light
and I've never felt out of place here
only just as weird as everybody else
we are pathological liars and sociopaths
our apathy is only matched by our endless empathy
My Mum thinks I am a hell of a writer
endless support
but the anonymity never ends
a scroll from God to lead us to death
and the transvestites are polite enough
boy you smell ****\
they blurt out as I walk past in a cloud of old spice
the art school chicks make me feel validated
when I find myself sneaking out of their houses in the morning's yawn
come to Richmond if you want a good time
if you're fake you'll make it
but if you're bitter and jaded
you might pass out of interest
like cartoons to a 15 year old
I could talk **** on this city all night
but truth be told
I love what I hate
and truth withheld
don't tell my English friends
that my heart beats
solely for that
RVA-lution
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