Sometimes
Sometimes I lie awake staring at time.
As if at one point you were crying at the impact of birth.
and then you finish
and you're in tears over anything
A man would blow his brains out for.
And the trigger mechanisms are simple
So it closes in.
The crinkling stares of so many children
Who can't even imagine themselves in me.
And it is I,
I'm the one in make-believe,
Only dreaming and dreading of the future.
Like a heavy wool blanket bedding with you in a heat-wave.
My own until it becomes the crucifix;
The point of martyrdom of the heretic's soul.
And somewhere I have dreams of catching lost time
Of an existence of perfect contentment,
A life without waste or remorse.
time flows like mercury…
Breaking and gliding away
Rushing with unforeseeable motion
Into a horizon that breaks
into sunrise to sunset
In the shortest, disbelieving , stunted, stutters of breath.
The times you find when you're malleable.
When you look far enough back in time.
When you try and find that breaking point.
Where your idealistic self broke down.
Like a body collapsing over a sleeping foot.
the point where disillusion became a new *********** eating hyperreality
Where the idea became a living stain swathed in a sheet of toilet paper you stole because you couldn't afford to buy your own. Where living and eating, filling the fridge, became the maniacal obsession. When it began to devour all the space the Truth was taking up,
like an orca charging a shoreline,
like a bad piece of art you bought for cheap to fill a void in the room.
Your liver fills with beer and your lungs are lit by a six dollar pack of nooses.
day in day out.
You find where you got yourself all chewed up.
When you're laying in bed with all your prized possessions
***** laundry filling the floors like empty husks, shed skin
deflated costumes of the person you've always wanted to be.
When you realize that hour glass needs turning over
But you've already done the deed and the *** end of the vial is burying the best of you in dirt.
Where selling soul for *** comes easy.
too afraid of the becoming
too comfortable with the being.
Cowardice comes easy.
That's where it all comes together to fall apart.
To sell your soul
You don't need a prayer
You don't need to be offered the world
You don't need the love of your life in the fold
You
Just need an illusion of certainty
A moment, a shadow
Of doubtless prospect
Just the belief that what you think is coming around the corner
is around the corner
You sell your soul
You sell your heart,
your *****
your spine,
your genius,
your brain,
your sanity
Just to feel at home.
Sell it for a guarantee on cigarettes,
***** and a couch to meditate your guilt on.
A bed to sleep in where remorse is a dance done tossing and turning.
A bone dance.
A roof over heads.
Rent in pockets.
Zen
in a hovel hole of holy indiscretions.
The devil was an empty fridge and a stomach eating us thin!
We walk the streets as Concubines of wandering flesh
Paid and obliged,
obligated and pained
Marching with an anemic braggadocio, and a wounded dignity
Everyone's on their knees swallowing pride in gulps.
We wake up young and tired, vice-ridden, punched-in and broke.
waged into hypocrisy with all of our valiant and cumbersome notions of ancient virtue. Read to us in bed time fantasies and fairy-tales of things dreamed not meant to be.
And wagered into all that nothingness of essence, where
Vividly ****** in the violet haze of nightmares entranced in the violence and fury of the guillotine mind,
We converse in the language of our new and violent times.
It's become that Dream and Dread sit one letter off.
Dreaming and dreading, dressing as drunks draped in the dreary.
That's it there.
There's my poetry.
The extinction of the New Romantics.
The blood drenched fist harnessed in the beguiling, gilded, golden tapestry
the smearing of the ink upon the neon lights.
The weight.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
Sometimes
Sometimes I lie awake staring at time.
As if at one point you were crying at the impact of birth.
and then you finish
and you're in tears over anything
A man would blow his brains out for.
And the trigger mechanisms are simple
So it closes in.
The crinkling stares of so many children
Who can't even imagine themselves in me.
And it is I,
I'm the one in make-believe,
Only dreaming and dreading of the future.
Like a heavy wool blanket bedding with you in a heat-wave.
My own until it becomes the crucifix;
The point of martyrdom of the heretic's soul.
And somewhere I have dreams of catching lost time
Of an existence of perfect contentment,
A life without waste or remorse.
time flows like mercury…
Breaking and gliding away
Rushing with unforeseeable motion
Into a horizon that breaks
into sunrise to sunset
In the shortest, disbelieving , stunted, stutters of breath.
The times you find when you're malleable.
When you look far enough back in time.
When you try and find that breaking point.
Where your idealistic self broke down.
Like a body collapsing over a sleeping foot.
the point where disillusion became a new *********** eating hyperreality
Where the idea became a living stain swathed in a sheet of toilet paper you stole because you couldn't afford to buy your own. Where living and eating, filling the fridge, became the maniacal obsession. When it began to devour all the space the Truth was taking up,
like an orca charging a shoreline,
like a bad piece of art you bought for cheap to fill a void in the room.
Your liver fills with beer and your lungs are lit by a six dollar pack of nooses.
day in day out.
You find where you got yourself all chewed up.
When you're laying in bed with all your prized possessions
***** laundry filling the floors like empty husks, shed skin
deflated costumes of the person you've always wanted to be.
When you realize that hour glass needs turning over
But you've already done the deed and the *** end of the vial is burying the best of you in dirt.
Where selling soul for *** comes easy.
too afraid of the becoming
too comfortable with the being.
Cowardice comes easy.
That's where it all comes together to fall apart.
To sell your soul
You don't need a prayer
You don't need to be offered the world
You don't need the love of your life in the fold
You
Just need an illusion of certainty
A moment, a shadow
Of doubtless prospect
Just the belief that what you think is coming around the corner
is around the corner
You sell your soul
You sell your heart,
your *****
your spine,
your genius,
your brain,
your sanity
Just to feel at home.
Sell it for a guarantee on cigarettes,
***** and a couch to meditate your guilt on.
A bed to sleep in where remorse is a dance done tossing and turning.
A bone dance.
A roof over heads.
Rent in pockets.
Zen
in a hovel hole of holy indiscretions.
The devil was an empty fridge and a stomach eating us thin!
We walk the streets as Concubines of wandering flesh
Paid and obliged,
obligated and pained
Marching with an anemic braggadocio, and a wounded dignity
Everyone's on their knees swallowing pride in gulps.
We wake up young and tired, vice-ridden, punched-in and broke.
waged into hypocrisy with all of our valiant and cumbersome notions of ancient virtue. Read to us in bed time fantasies and fairy-tales of things dreamed not meant to be.
And wagered into all that nothingness of essence, where
Vividly ****** in the violet haze of nightmares entranced in the violence and fury of the guillotine mind,
We converse in the language of our new and violent times.
It's become that Dream and Dread sit one letter off.
Dreaming and dreading, dressing as drunks draped in the dreary.
That's it there.
There's my poetry.
The extinction of the New Romantics.
The blood drenched fist harnessed in the beguiling, gilded, golden tapestry
the smearing of the ink upon the neon lights.
The weight.
