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Oct 2017 · 444
Nate
Sean Flaherty Oct 2017
Through another storm
I worried,
but your mother is fine, and
you're still not coming back.
It's a drive I can't make, by morning.

Dogs bark, you disappear.
I annoy you with the
same two low notes.
One stinks, the other screams.
And I can't play piano.

Are you there Nate?
It's the wagon driver.
You left the back open,
or I forgot to close it.
Either way you're on your own.

Were you God, Nate?
Or just some gorgeous ****-head?
If they don't have a bed yet,
tell them you'll take the couch.
Tell them I'll take the floor.

My blood pays by the heartbeat,
with my veins in rebellion.
Bleached is my skin and I'm
sold in pieces,
to the dust, to the dark, to the smoke.

Nate, I cry about it, every single
ride to work. I beg the cars in
front of me for your life. I beg you,
for mine.
I met Nate on Xbox Live. I hope he's alright.
Sep 2017 · 719
Still
Sean Flaherty Sep 2017
Still lanky dude with the long hair
Still can't tell you when, but I'm getting there.
Still the best poet you ever read.
Still don't think you'll read it till I'm dead.
Still gassing up past 3 AM
Still saying "Won't fall in love again."
Still waking up from the same dreams
Still getting air when I try and scream
Still wanna **** up a KMart
Still wanna skip to the next part
Still got a problem with some folks
Still tryna swallow and just choke
Still poor, still *****, and still tired
Still last resort if you need a ride
Still driving off of the Hairpin
Still hope the car lands in heaven

Still the one that loved you despite all of the pain
Still pulling the heart together, next is still the brain
Still the beating of it, stop it dead, leave it there to rot
Still wonder if you ever gave it a second thought

Still fighting toys in the playroom
Still saying "we're gonna move soon"
Still getting kicked out in August.
"Still this isn't breaking my promise."
Still smoking out in the same seats
Still hiding under the bedsheets
Still hit a home run in most cases
Still gotta touch all four bases
Still don't have the words for this feeling
Still tryna peel me off of the ceiling
Still chew my teeth instead of food
Still try to learn like I'm in school
Still hate the face in the mirror
Still my vision only gets clearer.
Still wanna ruin a Wal-Mart.
Still gonna race with the shopping carts.
Still scaling the shelving in home decor
Still can't go back, still banned from the store

Still gassing up past 4 AM
Still city streets, devoid of men
Still have to make wrong a few rights
Still, like a deer in headlights.
Sep 2017 · 864
Happy Sharks
Sean Flaherty Sep 2017
"I wish I was happier," she
confessed, to me, in-between
puffs and awkward silent
pauses.

"I'm not disappointed," was
all I could say, forcing
back down my throat, the "me too."

We stood there, in quiet,
surrounded by loudness. The other
few, ate, and drinking inside.

Goes back in, she kisses him.
What does he know?
Answer?
More than he's liable to make known.

I can't look at her. If I do,
I'm caught-in-love, and
stuck on the possibilities.
If my eyes can avoid you, my
dreams can stay fantasy,
not just unfulfilled.

She's tired of hearing she's perfect.
She'd rather be told the truth.
but no one that loves her lets honesty in earshot.
And I'm sick of love, lying, and
truth-telling, too.

I wish you were happier.
I wish the path of least resistance laid itself out,
before you.
I wish you'd hold my hand while we walk it, together.

I wish I could make happy,
like some folks brew beer.
I'd pour you a growler,
(On the house, of course)
and laugh at everyone else, while you drink it.

This poem is the list of
things I never thought could
make a difference.
This poem is the litany of reasons why
I think I deserve one
last chance.
This poem is the one I'd
read to you every night, if
it would change your
mind.
It wouldn't. It won't.
This poem bites, the last dying
hope of a beached shark, spying
the wave that could save it.
This poem is the black pods
we once foolishly believed were
shark eggs.
This poem knows I hate the beach,
and brought me along,
anyway.
I started this poem months ago.
It'll never really be finished.
Feb 2017 · 960
The Last Time
Sean Flaherty Feb 2017
The last time I wore a suit was
    my high school prom. A
grateful world has left me,
    without funerals to attend.

The last time I wore a jonny,
    I danced the wind in dad's room.
Machines that beeped and whirred
    were somehow keeping him alive.

When I finally picked the phone up,
    we'd already talked, two hours.
The person, your disease has curtained,
    read my poems for the camera.

The last time we got high, I wanted you
    to hear that Strokes song, and
listen to you list objections, to our
    sharing a kiss.

I'll take a dare, and tell the truth
    to you, over phenomenal music and
exhaust. I'll be desperate if you promise
    to stay as vulnerable as you know how to be.

The last time we took the car together,
    I remember you weren't so afraid.
The next time you try being alone with me
    I'll insist I shouldn't be driving.

The last few times I'd felt brave enough,
    but courage never serves me. If the
Queen's decided not-to, it's as
    sure as our demise is.

And all-Earth smells like a lake town,
    hurts, just like a headache, can't get
all the ink-out, blinking
    at the sky.

The last time I felt so alive we
    were driving some way, that you
realized, halfway-there, you're
    sick-of.

On a runaway ride out from trouble
    the passenger seat always
seems to be
    empty.
No notes really. Just life.
Dec 2016 · 863
Burst to Diamonds
Sean Flaherty Dec 2016
There's a better version of me,
    up, ahead. And
        he loves you in ways,
        I can't figure ways,
how-to. Yeah,
you cried when he
left you.

And lonely,
    you screamed.
"But if he'd come back, then,"
you think,
you'd believe it? The
            roads don't just sparkle, every
            time that you need it.

            In the poem I write next,
    we're both losing games.
I press up then, catch on,
turning to flames.
                In a grand winning gesture
you burst
into diamonds,
                before I can remind you
                about asking Simon.

    In the distance, outside the door to your
    basement, a crowd la-las the
    Star-Spangled Banner.
From the bulkhead and foundation,
from "the Hobbit door," but,
behind me,
the Anthem goes silent.
                            "Not home. Headed home. Stopped
here. On-my-way."

"Where would you rather be,
                                            than right here, right now?"
Ralph Wilson died a rich man,
with a football stadium
by which to remember him.
            "Well then trace your
depression to its sources."
                        I'm afraid I'll never own the franchise.

There's a father, presiding
over a service,
                for both of us. It's the
same priest, at every
                    front of the room.
                        Our parents are crying, regardless.

                        I'd say somewhere, we sit,
together,
            sipping on the universe. This one
                                                    or another.
        If we don't, then they do.
And they're having the best time.

        But in our past,
        the same one we share now,
        a version of you stiffens.
She glazes her eyes, sugary.
Holds out her palm, fingers to the sky.
And he matches her thumb first,
before the four digits.
                                    Her face bursts, all rosy.
His turns away.
First full thing in a while. I re used a line. ******* its my line to re use it.
Aug 2016 · 605
Super Bowls
Sean Flaherty Aug 2016
I really miss
24 hour super-markets at
around 11 PM
on a Saturday night
in July

I miss the t-shirts on strangers
from Super Bowls long-played and
done-over. I wonder if they'll go
home to the same houses
they watched the
wins in.

When they've finished
with their shopping, do
they read magazines, or just
fall asleep.
Mar 2016 · 968
Martyr for Secrets
Sean Flaherty Mar 2016
I've been yearning for a future I
had around me four years ago.
I would pace, and you would
sip your coffee.
We were both falling-in. Before
our falling out.

A black hole, a sentinel, shoots
through the space, above the
apartment.

Time bends. Twenty-different, endings.
Cursed to see them all. Granted,
as a gift.

The path leads, not back, but away from
the car door. A martyr for secrets, each time
that I'd shut it.

Over a short hill, I caught my breath.
Fixed my eyes on a snake, and
inhaled the devil.

(If love is for losers, I'm
****-sick, and winning. A laugh-
it-off stab wound, for each
failed beginning.

The noise in my back just can't
drown out my brain. The one-
volume-voice lies, and insists
I'm sane.)

But I burped up a bottle, betting to
blur my vision. And, I burned down the house,
trying to warm-up my hands.

I try not to look
back-past-two, or
further than eight.
I remember "what comes after four?"
I'm just hoping to forget.
Sean Flaherty Mar 2016
In the distance, outside the door to
your basement, a crowd
la-la's
the Star Spangled Banner.

All swirl-eyed, and promising water,
a circled-hiss, a lie.
Fox-headed, and painting Old Glory
onto his chest, to the amazement
of even the millionaires.

In a dark room, eyes roll back,
towards Wellesley. Eternally, hung
on the wall. The
patriarch, shaking the hands of
your grandfather.
Dreaming of the
late 1960s.

The mountain, surrounded by
clouds.
The Gods throw bolts, and
fireworks, at-You, through the
television set.

From the cinder, on the lawn,
of a house, on-fire and crumbling,
the kids
are catching flame.

And if all goes as planned then
the bonfire's a beacon,
we're not going anywhere.

We are the rocket's red glare.
Garnering hope from those
driving to work.
Hitting the light switch, to
see the results.
Trying to look for America.

Bernie 2016
Vote. If you're so inclined, vote for Bernie.
Sean Flaherty Nov 2015
Put my name on the deed to a Rolls Royce. See a live elephant, before they all go extinct. Spend a year in New Orleans, with no one else's help. Win an Oscar. Own a Super Bowl Ring. 

Train my husky to walk my Boston terrier. Finally quit cigarettes. Never quit spliffs. Go hiking, every day. Drink less coffee. Get a better job. Get an even better job. Take less bathroom breaks. 

Fall for someone that helps me up. Have a talk with Fiona Apple. Write the screenplay we'd always refused. Ask relevant questions. Give accurate answers. Win a Peabody. Own a football stadium. 

Write the news my now doesn't know yet. Drink bourbon in Kentucky. Learn how to program. Make the best-sellers list. Fill dad with pride. Do laundry this week. 

Go see a chiropractor. Stay off the junk, would ya? Smell less-like I just smoked. Pay back your lenders. Keep close, your real friends. Let someone publish my work. Win a Pulitzer. 

Be punctual. Write something you'll want to read. Clean my room. Lower the volume of my voice (but not really). Earn my P.h.D. Adequately meld the personal and the real, the universally and the delusionally relevant. 

Make them pay me to do what I love. Spend it all on you. Get a bigger ferret cage. Live a greener lifestyle. Trash fewer K-Cups.  Let people be themselves, without worrying if they're sneaking around. Hug Tom Brady. Thank him. Explain what he means. 

Reconcile with the town of Webster. Pay the city of Brookline for those parking fines. Spend time in all 351. Read Infinite Jest, and all of Ulysses. Identify when a work is "Joycean." Interpret it, as such. 

Act. Tell a good joke. Become a falconer. Hug a chimpanzee. Dismantle a hate group. Put them all in their places. Cry easily. Stay happy. 

Revisit Paris. Discover Ireland. Stay awake. Talk to another wolf. Record the perfect song. Compile the perfect playlist. Want to go to work. Enjoy New York City. Maybe live there. 

Inspire society to care about poetry.  Re-certify my black belt. Center my self. Listen to it. Take photos that stop you. Draw pictures worth buying. Keep the gun in your waistband, in the small of your back, and never, ever, pull that **** out. Mean something, when you flash metal. 

Learn photoshop. Laugh at the all-encompassing parody. Love first. Haunt your dreams with a good story. Make you truly regret it. See the ****-good in everyone. Know the past, own the present, visualize the future. Catch a fist, dodge bullets.
List of goals
Oct 2015 · 1.1k
A Webbed Wire
Sean Flaherty Oct 2015
I watched a spider
walk a webbed wire,
waltzing 'twixt me
and the water.

Thought of turning to words, and
concur did the birds.
Hoisting colors,
not flying more fodder.

For the staff's, (standing tall)
flag is not flown, but tied-on.
And, for it,
the boy seems more chipper.

Still he stares at the stars,
drawn-with, cigarettes, cars.
Doing his best to
pick-out, the Big Dipper.
This hit me earlier.
Sean Flaherty Oct 2015
{9/23/15 - 12:09 PM}  

[page 1]

“I’m Flagstaff.”

I'm borne-witness, to a splattered human corpse. I'm twice-over. Shocked. I'm doubled, where I'd have sworn, there were once three, of me. I'm the witness. I'm: the sequel. I'm the self that slept through my own screaming, for help.

[Somebody, stop me. Please, assist, with-this.]

I'm jaw-dropped. I'm probably halfway to heart-attacked. I'm trying to remember what an old boss had said, about that. I'm sure that this is traumatic enough, to ask, for a few days off.

I'm on my way, to officially knock, on the door, of the office (which is always locked). I'm hanging my hat, on a lamp, inside-it. I'm hitting the light switch, and melting-more, plastic. I'm crying the realest of tears.

I'm not wiping [page 2] them away anymore. I'm distant, from a once prioritized fear, of a nap on the floor. [Or, a drug-saturated, and dark-eared, dirt-sleep.] I'm considering the wax I'd left, on that dirt, near the splatter-stain. I'm calling out my own name.

I'm thankful for any opportunities to recharge your batteries, but I've told you before of my power outages. I'm outraged.

I'm waking up to the Grim Reaper, in my rocking chair, every morning.

I'm forgetting, "who made that chair for me?  I'm not sure, "she did much more, than paint it." I'm too big, "to fit-in, it, any way?"

"He can ******* keep-it." I'm not sure who said that. "I'm right here, you glorious fool." I'm far-from, and a Good Word Away, from a fool.

[page 3]

"You've spent so much ink, on your Kryptonites. Can't we just shoot some cans, off the over pass, with our laser vision?" I'm stuck-on. The idea's that I must do-good. "You're better, than done-good. You're the Great-Best-Unfinished." I'm confused...

"Well, I'm not. I've been taking over, for years, but you've ignored it with tears, and the salt you spit angry, at selves, far more jangly. I'm the S on your chest when it stands for success, or your second-half, or your superpowers."
I'm Superman!

"Sure, but I'm Flagstaff. This is my sword. We've got an army of angels on the way. Suicide is a coward's [page 4] out."

I'm not professing any bravery. "You've pretended you were better to brothers, and sisters, for almost two years. Your responsibilities outweigh your rare ability to regret your existence. Rally-up, Mr. Wizard." I'm not as well-versed in the old craft, as I used to be. I'm not really writing fantasy. I'm self-centered, "in the middle of," a really nice day.

I'm aggregating all the energy I can use, to arm my amazement. I'm splitting my personality, to prevent feeling so-pulled, apart.

"Now you're getting it."

I'm spinning gems, looking for lost contacts, and rebuilding, a burnt-bridge... [page 5] I'm just gonna need one day asleep...

[...]

at your house... in Right City...

[...]

I'm gonna chop my horns off, on the rails of the train tracks. I'm simply gonna rest my head...

[...]

on the platform...

[...]

and wait.

I'm not sure where Flagstaff went.
[...]

"Get the ******* the floor." I'm not sure I'd call this the floor. "Get the **** up, we're going to bed."

I'm not tired. "Well, you're gonna be."

[I'm halfway to the decision to get back on my feet, before the screaming subway shuttle smacks the wrong-side of my right horn. It splinters and cracks and spins me, slicing the [page 6] lesser half of the left-one, on the lip of the first car.] I'm checked for head trauma, quarter-horned. I'm hoping the devil was bid: "back down."

"Sleep now?"

I, uh... I'm not sure who I'm talking to... this time.

{9/27/15 - 12:28AM} An angry redhead operates farm-equipment (the heavy-kind) with an Xbox controller, from inside my television set. My eyes are trained on the answers, with which, I had, typed-in, responded, to his voice. A skunk walks by outside. I can't tell if it was attracted to the ****, or the weasels.

I'm just about to lose myself, again, along [page 7] with everyone else.

"Stop letting yourself get bored! I see you there! Your eyes, glazed-over, like this'll be just another ******* poem you read, over, and over, again, to yourself.
"For yourself! I beg you to wipe the cobwebs, from your eyeballs, and break a little bad here! **** it, man!"

**** it indeed. I'm too clean to fight the **** machine. So roll me a fattie, and sell-off my spleen. I can be mean, but I hate when I show it. You-zhuh-Lee trip, when I'm flowin', but  find ways, to keep  goin'. And I don't wanna do wrong by my friendships. Want them to know, [page 8] when I'd said, I "love" them, I meant it. But I don't have the money they've been lookin' for, I spent it. Bruising up my knees, begging: "leave my skull un-dented!"

Rented out the couch, before I stole my brother's bedroom, for the afternoon, in my dreams, I was singin' show-tunes. Doomed to sound. Like "rip-off-Danny Brown." This clown, that clown. We still around. Came back to your hometown, and ended up inside, your little blue notebook. Said "you shoulda read it!" When you spat-that-****, the Earth shook.

Forgot to ditch my henchman, as I entered fourth dimension. Words are sentient, and mention, more than definition. Hush up, listen, see! We be the glorious ones, without a gun, but weapons that, from our tongues, are flung, and they're still unheard. Weapons are glorious words, see-through, the story.

I'll purge all the toxins in your mind. Like oxen, farmed for hides, by the shepherds we were finding. But the field is made, of food, and that dude's always been rude. It's time we charge, with-horns down. Buck the rodeo clowns.
Off the cliff's a better-tread, head above water, 'fore we drowned. On bottom-rocks we'd woke up dead, yet still without the farmer 'round. So if instead you swim to nearby islands, start your grazing. Freedom never came by anyone who can't endure some hazing.
The sequel to "Essay #2: 'I'm'"
Oct 2015 · 594
The Canvas of Page 22
Sean Flaherty Oct 2015
So maybe I got riled up, and thought he was trying to steal my ****.

I don't work at Stop & Shop anymore, but I still
almost cried at those dogs,
on television.
The world is an impure place, but in times of trouble, you can always double your dose.

Trouble us. Forever.

As low, in your clever-minded excuses, to get out of your
parents' disapproval.
I bought so many
hallucinations, that I'm debating a few more.

Hope I remember writing these words. Scary to consider,
but there, nonetheless. The world is
melting into all sorts.
Colors, that I love.

Hope I remember writing these words, and the light,
reflecting off the ink,
in rainbows of black. The
ash, an impossibly-unforeseen consequence,
of the cigarette. The
cancer is laughed off. And you had forgotten my name.

Cutting up the canvas, she called it, "blood," even though, by a trained-eye, it lacked.  
Any tactic will take flight.
Take care to catch yourself when your wax melts onto your owned face.
Not your practiced one.
Sep 2015 · 731
My iPhone wrote me a poem
Sean Flaherty Sep 2015
The new version is better, than this year. It was not immediately available. But, it was not clear.

The fact that you have a great day, and night, in my head, is killing my vibe.

"Yes," it was, "the best of luck."

The only thing, would have to go back.

It would mean the world.

The face, of the best thing, about being. The only thing, that would make my own house. And the only one that is not an issue.

It was the first half of the best thing.

I'm not going. I'm at work.

I'm so excited, to be the first half , and the only thing, I don't think, I can see.
The suggestions my iPhone made to me I would pick one of three. Until I found it was poetry.
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
"We'll see."
(Thirty-two team,
two kyoo-bee,

a full-starting
O-, and only
two-guys on D.)

Mixed-media,
played-with, in poetry.
War, on, inside-me.

Implying-unstable, infer-me,
infirm the insane,
afraid,
and a stain,
and-to-blame.
And,

for shame,
part of race, don't,
myself, run-in.
Tryna buy-my-lunch. (&)
*******'s brought a gun-in.
Element'ry school, and all you wonder's where the fun's went. (&)
"Probably in another-empty-bag of
eaten-Funyuns." (&)
Probably, blue-blew fireworks, with fingers-off...
stumped-him. (&)

"Stomped'em."

Wonder, beauty, why you cryin'?
"Wonder,
if you'd drive?"
Bought-in, you did! To
all-I've-said, ugly and
alive-eyed.

"Wouldn't cough too much,
with tube-in!
You're mouth-dry."
Hampton-Beach-power-plant-hug,
July Five. CJD makes-me.
A bad brine, mine.
Another-youngest,
"Brother has died,
blind."

North Hampton,
on the way to
Hamherst-dam.
"Tryin'-man!
Love, the fam.
Will it be too late t'jam?

If I leave, you, now, from where I am?"
I leave now, from where I am. So,
[Leave now!
From: where I am!]

Leave now, "from where?"
(I'm already there.
Or did we come
the other way?)
"I'm getting there,
****."

I.

Am.

Despite the **** blizzard.
Why am I afraid to say
"it?"
Like:
"it" isn't.
I'm a Wizard.
Are we set,
now?
On-a-plan?
I'm a lizard,
tail-dropped.

Basilisk-Kenevel,
walking water-cans.
Bet you coulda. Know I woulda.
Puddle-crossed,
"Bye," I ran.
Ogled-over noodles,
with the
"wrong-sauce-
Dan-Dan."
I'm always glad to read you.
Wrote to your-self, I am

THE man, I am
THAT guy! I'm not?
"You are."
Just-High.
I fry.
These-frilly vegetarian-victims.
I ripped flesh from bone, before my dogs,
had to sic 'em.

Oh--
if you don't like the channels you can clickclick-click 'em.
If I'm showing off my *****! "Better go-head."
Lick'em.
See? Hawk-my-****, and
Stickemmmmmmmmmm.

Didn't happen to 'bic' him."
D'you know
how to pick 'em?
Cuz I take hit, like you
take-a-****:
Ummmmmmmm
...
well.

And, I turn-it.
All-around.
And I make you
****-yourself.
*******-on my
"all-that,"
it comes, with.
Now, Fall! Back!

Cell-tough, in round-III, so
convert, or burn-winnin'. "Comfy-
When-sinnin'." In-system,
Preferably would, and should-be:
Bobs. Newhart and Lee and "the
Third. " "Cornball." Griffin.
Racist, your second-choice, whiffin'.
K-battin', ten,

outta-tin.
Hear it in the heat, soul-hissin',
lion-sun, bathing,
and she-glisten.
Cast me, to an
island away,
swears-by-we,
"Listen."

"More pills, son?"
Try'na name
your brand,
Of volley-*****.
Wilson,

Rus-sell

"I call them the
'defensive-stars,'"
And this-league: ***.
***. Arr.
Ain't-no-side-

hus-tle.
Fantasy. Cyclycality. Football. And, all Bob's, thought-of, that rhymed.
Jul 2015 · 353
Essay #4: Act V (From Home)
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
[Some-a-ways-on-down the line, you stole your way to my sleeping. You took only-pictures, before finally, robbing me of sleep-at-all. So, I guess I don't slip, and fall, in love. It's black, inside my pen, and I can feel it, and use it to write, and run out-of-it. All-empty after-April, and then it's time to steal-another. From work, from a friend, or, from her innocence. Am I making sense, yet?]

Are you with him, [page 12] right now? Am I paranoid, or am I creepy? Am I making you uncomfortable, just by asking? Am I thinking-the-friendship is for-simple, forever? In-the-fire, over foolishly having been buried-in-love, with you? Can I share this without regretting it? I don't regret writing it. Witholding absolutely all respect for what-may-happen-next, for the fiend, the blonde-model I've wished you would call: "Ex." And, all the air in my lungs I've got left, and a small cloud of smoke, and designs for a theft. I'll say, last-way: I love you, I don't regret that I've said it. I just hope, win, or lose, here, you'll text back when you've read it.

[Rolling Studded]

[page 13]
Wrote, in-silver-soaked-December-fourteen,
eyes-rolling, over the
studs, in your wrists.

Now, you be the gunman.
I've felt like the anti-Christ, the whole-way,
from home.

Rust-red, rather 
than blood, rubicund, 
just "read, anything-at-all, to me."

Shoot me with your
right-hand, sterling, and
bid the Devil, "back-down."
The finale to the flaying my self for everyone.
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
Out-of-that same hole, you built the bridge that brought you into my apartment, and closer, enough, to laugh, at my-joke. Enough to make you comfortable, once. And well-built-bridges survive torrential burns. 
[Good pitching usually bests good hitting, bad defense is hard to play-beyond, but, for some reason, sonny keeps-on. Practicing that shot, past-the-arc, [page 8] feet-so-far from the floor.]
I bet on another-blaze, from that boy. Bet his broker--- down at the "bridge-insurance-agency"--- bet, that he bets, too. One big tragedy and The Bad Boy-Blonde bought himself a little capital-l Legitimacy. Or at least a capital 
M-mulligan, ~~~~ _~~. "******, man, can't make another mistake?"

I mumble, again, to myself. But this time, I'm not complicit. I won't be the lubricant, whilst he wears-down his looks, or when he can't use his **** every day, or when he runs out, again--- back, with mean things to say. And now he's ******* disappeared, and you're back on my couch, and we both complain. And you read a poem, and I write a love letter. And---

That part there, that ain't-even projection! Another delusion, maybe. Again. Am I trapped, in [page 9] typing out words that later, I'll trick myself into believing? Or? Truly? I'm more sum, than total, when you tag-along. I'm totally, and tragically, head-over-heels. You'll hear this, here, and have a hard time listening--- "no, listen, I understand all that, and have a position on your counter-punches."

I couldn't, possibly, corrupt my own kingdom by exiling you entirely. Because, yeah, you're so beautiful, but you're also my-best bud. You, fit-flawless, and fearless, and effortlessly, into the hole, left by the jigsaw-piece, lost-years ago. My friends, and ******-when, had it, penultimately, "pieces-no-more," way-back then. 

Yet you're sure you weren't there. "You're sure? You weren't there?" You can be sure, I [page 10] believe you. I'm not under the impression that this is the long-con. I know, I'm a little-less-adorable, when I yawn. Or I cough, or I cry. And if I fawn, all-over you, still, after, I admit. I've really been trying to get-over-this, for a bit. (you could, honestly, be the best-friend that I've never-had-yet.)

And, you could, plainly break-my-heart, again. Apathetic over my annoying requests, for you to, "read my ****!" For it to be this, and you, getting-so-mad. For Adderall-sale to become the staple of our "extra-workular-relationship." For us to lose all contact, like my personalities, currently. For losing the ability to over-explain HBO programs to "This-girl-from-seven-nine-three." For you, this might be easy!

No, sir! Miss, I mean! No, you! I won't let it happen, if you say you won't, too. Put this down, make no mention, if it's made you upset. I've [page 11] already trusted you, once, to forget. And, he did, as well, so we're on the same page. Writing about him: lettered-love, turned toward rage (never, in-your-direction). I'm sure, at one-point, I had promised: no-more interventions. Lashing out was true, but convolutes my intentions. True, also, is the certainty of this-thing, I claim. The third-dream, "with ~~~-~~~~ ~~~," ~~~~~~-~~~~, yeah. You're the name.
I censor the sensitive bits, solely, sorry though.
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
I don't have recurring dreams, but... right..., my dreams... recurring themes. And, if in-them, I've a ... "love-interest?" ... they've taken many shapes. The one, and-one-and-one more, who've shown up more than once, I could cough up, cry-out-over, and name. Only three come, through the old haunts, of my odd-head's hallway, Round-and-round-and-round trip. [redact] At least here, I dated her. In real-life, as-opposed, to the annals of [page 6] more depths-delusional. Did wrong [redact]. couldn't believe she was "glad I came." Care enough, to care. She couldn't-care-less. Middle-ground, Grey-areas, and misinterpretations make my skin crawl. Excepting another-day-in-April,

[big
redact]

and maybe if I sing it better this time she'll seeeeeeeeeeeeeee... "wait, Kay, Cee, and Ell?" I've noticed too, and it's cute, but a fluke. Not some-hidden-meaning. "Got a subconscious, on me," Freud couldn't pursue.

Silly, and I didn't mean to be serious, but you're starting to get a grip-on-it. The feelings may fade, but the drip-drop flow of dreams adds to the direness of my dilemma. Alas, around when she's leaving us-all, in Natick, [page 7] I began-becoming acquainted with another-animal-lover. "Any port in the storm?" Any pill, and a razorblade. "A penchant, for an interesting existence!" Next-door, the slowly-nailed-coffin! Where people are abandoning their unloved pets! She mentions Bertrand Russell, in-the-line to buy, more jet fuel.

 "(sung)Way down in the hoooooooooooooole..."

...
A lot is missing from this act but I bleeped rather than taking out a whole chunk which I also did
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
I invite you every-which-where, to hang with whoever, because, if "not-the-bother" came not-with, neither would have I. 

                                             [page 3] I invite you every-which-where,
                                              ­ to hang with whoever, because,
                                             if "not-the-bother" came, not-with,
                                               neither would-have-I.

I could show you that rock, I just found, and be sure you'd see the lion's-face in it, too, and if not, not so-say, as a saving throw (for my sanity). A welcomed throw, at that. But, merely, a prediction. An-[Dad just startled me, by design, kicking down my bedroom door. This wasn't left in as some song-for-sympathy, but a solid,  and tangible-manifesting of a shared assumption: that this planet won't pity us, even for an instant.]

Projected predictions probably-not-preferred. They aped me, in April, when I accidentally abandoned discretion, and made you [page 4] aware of my more-amorous intentions. [I made that too wordy, for my reached-for tone.] Regardless, I don't misread your messages, rather, I'm quite sure you've sent zero. Real appreciative of those rapid minutes, relived, wrapped-up in last April, that I got to hold you, and reel, and ring-in, your ear, right-next-to-it.

I know, it "isn't-like-that," But I hope it wasn't awkward. And that hug, that wasn't-awkward-hug, well, no, it wasn't weird for me, alsotooeither---it's always... just, a little-too-tough, to let go of you, leaving me. I can't even remember, the lie I allotted, to attempt an escape. From my outcry of "awkward hugs!" as I hid, you still made an anxiety, into an awesome-day. "Even-if," you wouldn't have-shown, [page 5] had today not been paid. And---wait, no, you know I don't mean-it-that-way. [I'm sorry. I think about you reading this, and my writing will ramble. Maybe, when re-written, post-forced-revision, and transcribed. Maybe I'll annex all these tiny annotations. Maybe I'll never regret the exhibition, if I never air-it-out.]
...
Nothing missing yet.
Jul 2015 · 1.2k
Essay #4: Act I
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
[page 1] I already regret writing this to you. I already regret sharing this with you. I've already told you, before, but I'm bursting---I'm skidding, like my brakes are busted--- bottling-it-all, inside. And, a wise man once told me, "If it's eating you up, you should ink it, all-out." I just wish I could remember whose words those were.

Sometimes, when I'm searching the Rolodex, for the right-scene, you've been around, to remind me. [Almost-like, you'd read along.] You tell me, you assume "I'm always awake," and, I would only elaborate: with-fear, my dear, for falling asleep would draw you back, to my dreams.

See, and I've said this (to much poorer souls than yours), [page 2] before I allow my ambitions the axiom, certainty must surround the word "love" like an aura. My so-flawed system of authentication, of authority, in my own-hearted matters, starts and ends with my dreaming. Only three romances have recurred. Randomness is much more regular. Rarely do my dreams speak with structure, or in-a-story. That real random. [The reason I'm a poet?] Flying symbols, from "seven hells," heavens, or highways. If you left the top-down, or had a bad-day.

[Relax, Flagstaff]

sighs

[Ready, again?]

Ready.

...
Essay #4 is even longer than #3 by a little bit and I'm posting it in parts. With parts missing. Because I'm keeping some of it personal. Or at least for one person.
Jul 2015 · 515
Passage
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
In an attempt to walk the path I had
Beaten bone dry with the
Soles of the sneakers I wore for years 
And years
I was stopped by
Overgrowth and foliage

It used to be mine
But time had claimed it for herself
In an attempt to put me in my place
Daring me to not relish in what
Used to make me who I am

In fighting my way through
The bushes and leaves, I was
Forced to surrender to the
Simple fact:
I have changed.

I stopped living on that
Dirt ground
And sitting on those four rocks
That divided your house and mine
To catch my breath
And decide my next move

The downcast shadows of the trees
Recanted to me the stories of
My former jubilation
And versed me in the
Games I had missed

I traced the stars with my cigarette
To find the meaning they'd hid from me
Since birth dropped me on this rock
To learn all they had to teach

I thought I knew when I
Jumped the puddles in the road
And the cracks in the sidewalk
To avoid broken
 backs and
Accidental swims

Exhaustion on my heels
I began my ascent to the
Canopy, holding the answer to my
Long-drawn inquisition.
Discovery drove me to this new creed:
I am stronger than my scars
Give me credit for.

I understood my dryness in a 
Fit of introspection and
Cold sweats and
Warm shivers,
My sobriety, my closest familiar

So I buttoned down the boxes that
Help me get to sleep
And said a few words about the friend
I used to keep at the
Edge of those woods
Back when growing up seemed easy
And nothing seemed too hard
More throwbacks. More like dumping my old stuff all onto one spot. About growing up. 2/21/13
Jul 2015 · 604
I Saw Someone I Knew Today
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
When he and I had first met
It was different.
A shared love of music, in general,
Of course,
And a dead dog, he couldn’t forget about.

We were both afraid of the walls.
Couldn’t be kept
Inside them, without
Metallic assistance.
I didn’t, and don’t.
“Keep in touch.”

A fluorescent barrage of
Bright blows to the body.
Overwhelmed, under-appreciated, and
At this point,
Unemployed.
Could you please
Allow the lights
A chance to let up,
A little?
I feel punch-drunk.

And, ultimately, exhausted,
From searching faces
For more faces.
Rapid-fire sighs, and
Ever-tired eyes.
Maybe the occasional metaphor.
“Irrelevance is an impala.
Or at least I think it is.”

He used to break up discussions,
By way of the occasional
Canine-inspired anecdote.
They kept telling him,
“It is unhealthy to want for love.”
His Honesty kept telling me
“They’re ******* wrong.”

Am I just a city boy?
In a city setting?
With city dreams? And rural motivation?
With pitchfork in hand,
And Pitchfork on screen.
Cigarette. Dangling.
Torch extinguished.
Working wonders, under no lights at all?


Well, I saw him today.
He was with two other people, both shorter than him
But all three smiling.
He seemed to have forgotten something.
You can’t bring your new dog
Into the mall.
I wasn’t going to tell
Him that.
Throwback Thursday. 2/19/13.
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
[page 10]
Regal lions, turned house-felines,
in the cave, with so-loved-Dan. 
Thank goodness for the better ones. Thank
goodness for my friends. 

Often, only reasons to stand 
up, withholding coughs and stretching.
Even if you can't interpret all my 
fourth-dimension etchings. 
[page 11]
Sought to state the timeline, as
I'm not strung-on-the-plan. 
And, almost, every human, with
a Facebook, has a band.

There'll always be peripheries 
and, people on the side-
lines, and people craving
air-time, and people, deserving that time. 

All-white eyes, fall back, in
waste-of-times, and
beer-soaked-pasts. For
the amount they seem to
smile, you would be
thinking, "this could last."
Go read all of Essay #3 if you like this!! In my poems.
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
[page 1] And it was soon after, that the weekend had ended, and I drove home, only-sort-of-alone. Unclean, happy, not the type-to-convert. I don't mean to end the evening by evening the score. "Better than no one," but beating the billboard, and the broad-side-of-the-barn, and the *****. 

You stole from my sewn lips the secret sentiments, which would scare you. You would have been more than welcome to have just asked. Which is probably why I didn't just ask, after, I mean, [redacted line] I hope someday you see this, hope they read it to you, over me, cold. I want you to know that I am a *******-great-friend. I'm there on those days that you don't 
[page 2] pretend. But I have faith (I have no evidence for faith's power, just a lot-of-it). There'll be space, here, for you, in the end. 

I'll look at you, last night, like I looked to enable. With two-eyes, and no movement, your addiction poking at poisonous salvation. You caught the wordless-stick, so, and subsequently set fire to yourself. This sharing of cigarettes was seen by the Absent-Folk. Jarring, I gathered. "At least," I had thought. 

At least, at that point, he, stood-up, stumbled away. "*******." Am I sure? No? "No." Neither bad blood, nor enough time-spent-forgetting my bleeding, my beaurocracy, or your backpacking abroad. I mumble, and I'm bumbling now, but before... I bet... that boy's been broken. And his riled-up "Ryan!" rang my [page 3] soul. My ever-loving soul! My non-existent, unconvincing, numbed-and-listless, inner-business! And on the porch, in the mourning, I wished him, dishonest, and shaved off his ***** hair. 

And on that porch, 'round 9 A.M., the band was packing up. Personally? "People-watchin'." Probably should check that they're actually... even... there. Probably should hear the percussionist explain rhythm, again. I can't tell if it's in seven-eight or three-four. I'll scoop up all your passion, as it spills out through the doors. Not isolated, all-four! Volume-set. Vicariously, sailing very... south (towards New Orleans, again) leaves in the river, collected for the raft, stacked neatly in the Pile. Vitamins, from the Oldest-Living-star, absorbed through skin, and eardrums.

[page 4] Stuck on the surprise of "****-function?" More surprised the ****-function wasn't ******? "No?" Not-even-sort-of. Not even worth it, with most of my words! "Oh, not including you. You let your ears be lopped-off, by my lamenting. You look like a love I could lose to a friend. I enjoy the loss, for a cause, since, if you're always right, you can never be wrong."

And in my acknowledgement
of my ignorance I become
more powerful than I'd ever 
need be poetic.


Not that my mistress numbered amongst my lamentings. Alas, "merely-explaining." 

"Oi, navigate!" Alas, "it's implicit." Therein's your mistake. [page 5] Implicit implies! I'll sooner strip-search a subject for intentions, ulterior motives remaining unmentioned (inspired, I'd reckon, by the pills I shouldn't chew, and the jokes I should stop making). My unfocused inertia interferes with my ability to infer. 

And if you're still here, you're fantastic. And I find you fascinating. And, I found, you were following. My sorries were useless, imagined-kindred-lies. I'm sorry I had to go and "color it pink." But, I'll copy this page down for you, if you'd save it? The buffer'd seemed beautous up'till I blew it. Shouldn't inquire after you, should I? If I'm still thinking on it, should I ink-it-all out? What was your name, after all? 

[page 6] Was it really an accident, "or'd work seem like hell?" [I've been checking out apartments down there myself.] My shell was left-stinking-up the old Durango. But any newly-blazed-trail leads me "back to the 'co." A larger, sturdy, empty, circle-home, with an unidentifiable paint job, and thrusters that are supposedly-designed to fall back towards earth, and incinerate *(CAUTION: FALLING FIRE). *
"I'm pretty sure that verse is... It's just awesome." One of my best? "It's just awesome!" Okay! I'll remember, to remind you, that I've said the ****-I-say, spent, sped, speeding, smoked-out, and smoking-you-up. Spreading myself thin, like Communion-wafers and sticky, like reunions. 
[page 7] Saying you're glad I came, saying you're glad I came, saying you're glad I came. 

Someone snuck up with a secret. I'd seen nothing-not-standard. Even, in your snatching a spider, from my hands, and moving toward mundane mockeries, meandering, and making-my-year with a yawn. Simultaneously, I heard a sharp hiss, as someone had slowly let the air out of innocence. Somehow, rendering me speechless. Well, without respect to the "Whoa!!!" Spit's still not-red-yet. "Skeletal." Said-right. I suppose if I think hard, you'd screamed adjacently. I suppose I've never suggested a co-operative cackling. You're with it, right? You're with it, you're with me, and "you're my people." You're going to have a good time. You should know, I should've too, but attitude's [page 8] a fiction. An answer-tricked, alive, unknown. 

As a species we suffer, from seeing something done, and wanting nothing else. I'm on page eight, and ready, perenially-crushed into next-generation-dirt, but there, nonetheless. 

Well, "either way," even without you, even with her, even-in-spite-of-her, always because of him. "Always loved him, almost-******-her." Wish: I'd kissed Larry, too. Wish: she'd never married you. Wishing-dry, and diamond-winged, cursed voice, bumped up some orange change to the counter, and then off of it. More expensive than I'd have guessed. Self-consumed and best-dressed. Not rushing in, but wondering, about my-time-left. "And if death squashed potential, was it ******, or theft?" Only [page 9] if---I can look, and---wait, I have enough left, yeah, here. "Thanks, I got you back when I get some-of-my-own." Very sweet-air-tonight. "Mad, I missed the show." All good vibes.

[page 10]
Regal lions, turned house-felines,
in the cave, with so-loved-Dan. 
Thank goodness for the better ones. Thank
goodness for my friends. 

Often, only reasons to stand 
up, withholding coughs and stretching.
Even if you can't interpret all my 
fourth-dimension etchings. 
[page 11]
Sought to state the timeline, as
I'm not strung-on-the-plan. 
And, almost, every human, with
a Facebook, has a band.

There'll always be peripheries 
and, people on the side-
lines, and people craving
air-time, and people, deserving that time. 

All-white eyes, fall back, in 
waste-of-times, and
beer-soaked-pasts. For
the amount they seem to 
smile, you would be 
thinking, "this could last."

[page 12]
"Alas," this feels like the end. I feel like I'm leaving them. Slowly. Silently. The Shadow, to whom Paul'd refer, trying to stitch-himself to my town-skipping, sans-sunlight.
A party, retold, per usual
Jul 2015 · 914
There and Back Again
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
I’m from rearranged furniture
I’m from “asleep in the bathtub”
I’m from biting hands over
store-bought candy.

I’m from vinyl-white-siding,
No better at keeping in heat
Than keeping out punks,
Four guinea pigs named
“Gamber,”
And a spotted rabbit.

From searching for answers
At the bottom of a bottle,
And not stopping, to think “maybe,”
When the answers aren’t there.

I’m from thrown phones, and
Broken Home,
And diseases they have
Yet to cure.
From layoffs, to layovers, to
A car, that careened
Down the street that I lay in,
And broke the door off its frame,
Leaving an impression on
Unshakable wood.

A Golden Orb-Weaver
On a storm-door handle,
Painted purple and black,
And a blood-curdling scream.
From a run to the backyard
And irrational fears
And the accidental rhyme
Of your mask-haunted dreams

I’m from people who loved me,
Without knowing how,
And people who couldn’t,
Without saying why.

I’m from loving her, a
Little too hard, that when we finally
Broke, We both emerged.
Scarred, and scared.
Groundhogs, and rabbits, and
Cats that weren’t mine.
Being told, at times,
Simultaneous, that I’m
Less than, yet
“Above grade level.”

I’m from baring the blunt-force,
To numbing it all out.
I’m from jazz, chess, and
Tonic water. I’m from
The Wolftones classy sound.
I’m from turning up the
Music so loud, that when
The world covered its ears,
I tried my best
To listen

.
I’m deciding to recreate the world
As I see fit.

I’m going to do something important,
 special,
Before I die. 


I want to invent. An

Existence I feel more content, in.

There’s no wagon to fall off.

Just looming things,

And avoidance. 


I’m deserving of the option to keep

Calling it as I see it. 

Advocating character development,
And suppressing my own hamartia.

Experimenting with sobriety,
And the ending of days.
Fighting off the Great Greyness, unstoppable,
Laying down land-mines, and
Bear-traps, on the
Terrain of Winter.

*I’m going to turn the music up
Louder still,
Until protest, drowned out,
Is inseparable, from
Cheering.
There and Back Again, written a full two years before Essay # 2. Most similar stuff I've done. 4/23/13
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
[page 1] I'm a narcissist. I'm self-aggrandizing. I'm self-centered. I'm selfish. I'm ungrateful. I'm ugly. I'm emaciated. I'm neither here nor there. I'm almost androgynous. I'm awake at odd times. I'm asleep too often. I'm always on something. I'm always off-the-wagon. I'm incomprehensible. I'm rarely belligerent. I'm out of control. I'm out of cigarettes. I'm awful with money. I'm awful with your money. I'm spending all your money. I'm smoking all your ****. I'm not coming out today. I'm trying for tomorrow. I'm not really trying. I'm really sorry. I'm always sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry. I'm not letting that get out-of-hand too. I'm lying to myself. I'm trying to catch myself, dozed-off. I'm trying to convince myself I'm better. I'm convincing a lot of people I'm better. I'm better. I'm lying to 

[page 2] myself. I'm trying to catch myself, dozed-off. I'm trying to catch myself, before I fall into another loop of mundane infinities. I'm often repeating myself. I'm okay with repeating myself. I'm pretty sure you've heard me say this before. I'm saying it again, anyway. I'm so glad you'd listen. I'm so glad you still call on Sundays, and some Thursdays. I'm working this Thursday. I'm sorry. I'm dreaming of breaking hearts. I'm the one breaking my heart. I'm heavy-hearted, but barely broken. I'm buried in a journal of mine, from 2009. I'm disgusted by its contents. I'm not that person anymore. I'm not capable of describing the totality of my purpose with sentences, so blank-yet-still-slovenly as: "I have no other motivation for anything. I just love, want, and respect you." I'm not okay with having meant

[page 3] those words sincerely, and without even the tip of a tongue grazing the closest part to the teeth, of the inner cheek. I'm disappointed in my past selves. I'm motivated by my mission to make memories of them. I'm not letting them take that away from me.  I'm not angry. I'm better. I'm trying to catch myself, dozed-off, in the big-leather-recliner. I'm just wondering what time you all left last night. I'm not sure of when I passed out exactly. I'm not as embarrassed as I should be. I'm making it part of my routine. I'm not sure Dad would like that, though. I'm, either way, etching my own aphorisms into the infrastructure of the eternity. I'm attempting prose. I'm, admittedly, copping-out. I'm lying to myself. I'm trying to catch Myself, not paying attention to Itself. I'm failing, up to this point. I'm

[page 4] aware of my "exacerbating the issues." I'm aware this means I "don't want to get better." I'm a lot more aware of what I want, than you've been. I'm unable to catch myself, dozed-off, tranquil-for-once. I'm decided upon a signal of my impending arrival. I'm banging pots and pans, on the stoop, outside. I'm only a few minutes late. I'm not sure it'll make "a huge difference." (I'm sure it won't make any difference.) I'm finished, arguing about it. I'm proud. I'm light-footed, but proud. I'm lucky, beyond only the extent of my imagination's furthest limit. I'm in-flight, towards that boundary, searching for clues. I'm too close to the sun, considering my wax wings. I'm falling. I'm trying to catch

[page 5] myself, nose-dove. I'm amazed by the enormity of the earth below me. I'm running out of air underneath me. I'm evolving my opinions on God. I'm looking up at another-Icarus-ending. I'm staring down, at Salvation Incarnate. I'm calculating the time it'd take. I'm not-trustworthy. I'm awake. I'm not strong enough. I'm wide-awake. I'm not gonna survive this. I'm sick of being awoken by That Unmistakable Whistle. I'm out-of-breath. I'm all-out-of-breath. I'm lost in my lungs, and the Earth only grows. I'm telling lies to myself. I'm sure, I'll catch myself. I'm the only help I'm gonna get. I'm content now, in freefall. I'm watching the wax melt, onto my face. I'm wiping the wax off my face, while I laugh.

[page 6] I'm holding my own forearms, in a tight circle, tangential to my shoulders, too small to cradle a falling seagull, and motioning, as if I mean to help myself catch myself.
Started just writing all the negative things I could think about myself. It became six pages of a poetic... something.
Jul 2015 · 1.4k
Assembled Apocalypse
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
Hey kid, I woke up buzzing, here
In the future ruins of ancient America. 
Staring, after the imperial sunrise,
Listening to Los Angeles on repeat.
Insistent and purple, only 
Sediment left in the
Bottles of night. 

This third-world way
Causes Third World War
So I'm drinking at a 
Tavern on the End.
The bus goes by, and
"Baseball's the worst sport."

Alliteration, allusion,
Colors, characters,
And metaphors.
Sobriety sending me 
Searching for smoke. 
Rehash, re-up, and "read the ****** thing." My world-view,
Out-maneuvering your
Upbringing.

(The memories I have are white and yellow.
Fogged, not angry, if even confused.
You'd call me, after finishing your nightly readings, to cry about the characters you'd loved, and castigate my inability to care.
Remember when you used "undermined" to describe the adaptation?
You meant that it was "assuming too much.")

"Brenda and Eddie," over here,
"Couldn't go back to the greasers" so they
Wound up at your family's tavern. 
"You look like the fat kid,
On whom the popular girl was 
Forced to settle."

Dear Man,
Woman's found you out. Or 
Are we, justly, doomed to be 
More juvenile?

Worn sole, soul-open, "so long,
Kid, I don't know you, but,
I can't help myself from
Destroying you."
(My upbringing: out-maneuvering
Your world-view.)

"You've always been the caretaker, Flagstaff."
The bait's in your brain. 
You've simply been 
Overlooking the barkeep.

(Dear Diary, could I just die already?
The Price is Life, and purgatory's a game show.
Anger, the color of your mother.
Skin, the shade of yard-work.
Staring at road maps of Virginia, stoic.
Trying to divine the diners we'd die in.)
I dunno I'll let this speak for itself.
Sean Flaherty May 2015
It's so gratifying to realize that
I don't care what you're up to
Post-deluge-of-Dilaudid. Or
Adder-all-outta-luck
Where the beige meets the blue, and
The cat's smelling flowers, and
We're squished in this chair, here,
But you don't give a ****.

This was supposed to be the
Maiden voyage of
The S.S. Dog-Staying-Home-Alone
But, instead, familiar
Anxious chills, and shaky
Hands, and aching bones...

Hell, Baltimore is burning, whilst
Nepal just falls apart.
Sun beams, young, and up-and-coming,
Never getting called to start.

Does the wind smell
So sickly, did it die?
With the rest of me?
Is this that "long-count to thirty?"
Am I being too wordy?

"Stop rhyming, we need to drink."
I didn't write this as a sequel but it was the poem I wrote next and they are almost two perspectives on the same conversation
Sean Flaherty Apr 2015
**** a poem, this is Lovelution,
Not just a God complex.
We look more like the Jesus, by
Whom you've been saved, 
Than the real messiah. 

The color hierarchy rushed
Away as you left. Swung, behind
Your ringing ears, and my silent phone.
Pain, sniffed up in public, and 
Off of ceramic plates. They couldn't tell
My mouth from magenta.

In richer movies, your room is
Never on the second story. 
Refuge, out of which you sneak, to
Ride towards the runaways. 
Round stone alarms, earnestly aimed. 
"Alert me if 
'Being easy to talk to,' ever
Becomes more than a reason to
Break my heart."

Suddenly everything 
Rushes back as royal and right, as it's
Ever-all been. 
Coffee and jerky
And whiskey and cigarettes, 
Train-tracks, chewed like licorice, and
Volcanoes of molten-virtue. 

What erupted, instead, were
Early-morning talks of
Celestial bodies, and police lights. 
Free-style rap, and the
Frantically Poetic. 

What you should do is 
Get in your car,
Drive to my house,
(Park in the street) and
Blow-up the ****** gas tank.
Call your ex-boyfriend, too, and
Ask if he's awake...

"This time I'll be Capote, and 
You'll be Harper Lee, and, though it's
Sixty-three years later, we still see
Strange Fruit hung on trees."
Sing it again, your majesty. 

Left to resent my capacity for self-poison, my
Penchant for the hip evades me. So I'm
Packed, headed south,
For New Orleans, or the
First solemn smile, on which worthy 
Summers are staked. She sings:

"We wanted more
From behind our sighs,
Maybe ***** hands, 
Maybe tired thighs...
But believed that there
Was relief in closing eyes..."

So suddenly everything rushes back,
As red and as blue as it's
Ever-all been. 
And I dreamt it went different,
And I dreamt I ****** up,
And I dreamt I bought a dog, 
And I dreamt about your stomach.
Luv-a-loo-shun

Is my voice changing? Is my style evolving? Is it for the better???
Mar 2015 · 1.1k
Headed for the Hyphen
Sean Flaherty Mar 2015
I used to be a good listener
Now, "I'm sure I've heard that before."
Arguing with Eros, arrogant, erudite.
At odds with his arrows. Even angry.

Bumping numbered reminders of the
Year I was leaving behind,
Headed for the hyphen.
Orange gunk, proper circumstance, and
Cagey, coughing.
"I want to be
Soaked in style, and left
Drying on a dusty line. See...

"I'm an ugly *******,
But my eyes are alive.
And the tragically beautiful's
All I've got left."
Killing, time and
Battery life, requesting
The chance to
Breathe in my city.

The edges of a crucifix
Etched into his visage.
Looking for good luck, and
"That USA Gold taste,
To remind you of home," in India.
Walking away from a car crash.

Not heavy, dry,
But frozen solid.
Trekking on, past beautiful women that are
Painting their walls.
Poems, pouring from the
Mouths of the desperate,
Echo down the alleys.

"I'm not sure to whom belong these bones,
'Cuz they sure as hell ain't mine." But
Remember? That December? We
Bled blue and silver,
Sledding down seven-foot snow banks, and
Kicked out for stepping on toes.
My poems aren't usually so liberal with the usage of the word "I," but consider this a soliloquy of sorts.
Dec 2014 · 1.0k
Rolling Studded
Sean Flaherty Dec 2014
Boring holiday in Purgatory,
Among old fires, now flat.
Hornet-colored, swears she's seen me,
Stinger-out, the gorgeous brat.

Lunar-citrus sour,
Twice, at least. Of course it's more.
Pale, and terrified of foresight,
Uninspired by the cure.

Poison-focused, smoky heart.
You'll find the best nightlife in Hell.
These horns scratch Heaven, battle-scarred,
And my tail's not hidden well.

Uncanny observant stars, 'neath
Sleepy lids, catch a red,
That's not unfamiliar.
-
Past light, she flew, brandished
Guns, in both hands, left-rusty,
But right, always silver.

Rolling studded, bony wrists,
Somehow, mortal in her gaze.
One shot, un-taken, doubt persists,
Losing games she doesn't play

Sulfur-sweat-soaked barrel
Bets the other bullet
"Can't miss."
One canon scrapes my temple.
"Point the second
Between my hips."

A smile! As I am
Obliged, the danger
Briefly gone, but
Then again,
A trigger pulled
Wouldn't quite be worth the song.

"Mean to **** you," now informed, I
Stood up straight, and heard the plan.
My gorgeous rival unaware,
This demon's such a tired man.

Still, for your opaque aura,
Weary throats scream life-alive.
Wondered by unhappy beauty,
Disconnected from your drive.
Normal dealings not requested
Sweetened suffering, in slime.
Assumed, the mantle of the satyr,
Took a breath, and finally rhymed:

"Well honey, you can't **** the Devil,
But would you do me a favor, and try?
I've been wondering, for quite a while now,
Just exactly how it'd feel to die."
Maybe Lucifer wrote Right City, Modern Real...
Sep 2014 · 446
Flip
Sean Flaherty Sep 2014
She doesn't think I still know about her.
She doesn't know, I still think about her.
I don't know.
I think I still love her. But she...
Doesn't love, I do that enough
For both of us.
Short poem came to me fast but felt valid
Sep 2014 · 762
A Reservoir of Good Will
Sean Flaherty Sep 2014
Gon' drinkin', out behind a
Reservoir of good will, with
Pillbox eyelids, and third-day dirt.
Stumbling, and suddenly sobered
By a Queen holding Court

Silver-freckled, auburn haired
Sweating under the sun
Shining on her tee shirt
Somewhere, from a secret cigarette
Soft-blue silk is rising.

Men wearing armor, the color of
Christmas lights, stand guard.
Invisible, if not for an
Incessant rain, insisting on
Their silhouettes.

Bronze icons, the rubble beneath her.
Returned to their birth-site, the
Brush and broken glass of a
Resin-colored dusk.
"If you're having trouble
With your next one, it won't be
Too hard to light it for you. I know
How fast tears can
Dowse a needed flame."

Still the snow-covered stick of dynamite, and a
New stick is now burning,
Behind all the bushes.
True belief in her
Opportunity for rebuttal.

Boot prints in the courtyard
Press a face that look up at us
"Like a cross-between Kurt Cobain and Jesus."
Martyrs of a movement
Our people fail to understand.

Polite to the end, and even
Presented with the
Crowned homecoming of a higher horizon, she
Spins and falls, deliberately sputtering out
"Don't let me get smoke in your eye."
Rough cuts and a return of the Queen
Sean Flaherty Jul 2014
The addictive aroma of
Well-aged nostalgia, and a
Hurricane-yellow sunset, was
Striking from the Western Side.
The east, full of forest. It
Often goes Unappreciated. 

Sat alone, and gritting his teeth
Over it, his forehead wet,
Losing patience, sweating 
Droplets, wiped up by the
Dollars you couldn't afford to spend.
Outwardly expressing: "Overwhelmed."

Born of the burning woods, and 
Left to ash, again, with the leaves, the
Scent settled, clearly set on
Sticking around. 

In the mood to bleed, and
Drag some metal, through the 
Dirt caked on your legs?
Filth burns brighter indoors, and my
Power's just gone out. 

But you cast quite a shadow, when 
Lightning interrupts the black.  
"Storm'd been on it's way for a while.
I'm relieved, it finally hit us. 
Fair weather felt dishonest. "

Long hair's got a few more days left in it,
Bags under his eyes, not quite full, 
Intent on the ideal, and
Going out on his shield.
Decrying the Curse of the Under-employed.

Barking beckons him back, and 
Beneath his broken heart, beating,
Beyond a reasonable doubt, 
Buggering on. Exhaustingly enthusiastic. 
The howled woofs, and selected drum lines.
Droning, diligent, 
"And pleased to meet you, darling."

He flips open one of his 
Boxes, counts to seventeen, and sighs. 
Puts a cigarette between his lips. 
Lights it. Counts to sixteen, and sighs. 
Closes that box, and buys another. 

"One third of what he says is nonsense, but
When you talk, he listens." And 
Love's a vice, he can't help but
Nourish. Hiding in fog, and
Drowning in his cheap whiskey. 
Perfectly cornered, writing a poem about it.
Very self-referential, but hopefully, also, relatable. I think this may be the best poem I've written. I may revise a little over time.
Sean Flaherty Jun 2014
One of these days, I'll move out of this place.
The Greyness making saving throws at my shadow, but my resolve concrete, and my vision clear, each step away being a decision. 
The television will dim, and the sun'll get hotter. 
And my skin will be tanner. 
And I'll smoke more of everything. 

One day we'll be sitting in my backyard, laughing at ourselves, for ever thinking we were "far away from this." 
We'll marvel at the greenness of the grass and the blueness of the sky and the anger of the heat and the deception of the trees. 
We'll argue about whether thirty can be as big as five can be small. 
We'll mix gin with our Newports and ash cigars into Dunkin Brand Styrofoam. 
The memories will blur, but the lessons stand steadfast. 

One day is often quite a few days away. 
Quite a few rounds of poker, about a thousand movies, a couple billion YouTube clips, and at least three unfinished projects. 
The slime gets thicker every day, and we're never given the assurance that our boots can take the inevitable torment. 
But once in a while, I can think of the future. 
I get stuck on tracing the outline you'll have two years from now, coloring it in with shades of pink and red paint, and writing your name over it in grease and alcohol. 
Hoping to make the image as permanent as the ringing of someone perpetually calling out for you, reappropriating all the muted spaces in my head.
And hearing it shouted, again and again, and seeing it written in places unseen, can somehow make one day seem more like tomorrow.
This was prose, when I wrote it. But I broke it up into a format more appropriate of this site.
Jun 2014 · 626
Right City, Modern Real
Sean Flaherty Jun 2014
Slow the jewels, you sent spinning,
Glinting, incessant and bright.
Blinding, if not for your
Sympathetic silhouette
Shredding the steam,
Silently static.

When you were so sure, that
We weren't what you wanted,
My nails dug in deeper, and
Brown hair turned red.
Cackle back, if you're with it.

Sometimes sleep steals me,
Still on the sofa.
Surprisingly sedated,
Sustained by the echo of
Your voice, off walls too-familiar.

There's not enough fiction,
Spicing up this
Modern Real. But your
Smile is a story that I'll
Never tire of writing.

Did we get stuck on the
Long count to thirty? Did we
Lose our place, looking in the
Right City, to stay up?
Or did you hear that? I swear,
These dead-end hearts just
Shared a beat.

Listen, the camera couldn't
Get a good picture, but
Tonight the Moon looked
Like a lemon-wedge. And
I'm lying in bed, awake, 
Hoping you saw it.
May 2014 · 474
Okay Either Way
Sean Flaherty May 2014
If my kind of crazy ever becomes
Your kind of heat.
Stuck-on, sweating the
Small of your back.
I just think I'd like to know. But, I'm
Okay, either way.

Anything to
Help spin your gems,
Closed eyes, yearning,
Projected romantic foolishness.
Remaining, vigilant, relevant.

Bolt me, back onto the
Bracketing. Make me make my sense.
Turn me four shades of color, your
Psychics won't name, but
Keep the floor close to my knees.

Fruity alcohol inebriates the same way.
But take your berries outta my
******* tobacco.
Smoke my harsh ones, 'till your lungs scar.
Or, tell me that I'm vague. 

If your pick of poison ever matches
My brand of cigarettes
The floor's always open, without help, anyway.
Take care, for my sake, not to
Ash on the rug.
"Okay. Either way..."
Keeping me thinking.
Apr 2014 · 959
A Nourished Vice
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
The sun rose sideways over
Trees so full of birds I'd thought they'd
Taken the place of any
Real branches. The song came quiet, 
Making conquest of our opened ears,
And ******, if it all wasn't gorgeous.

The Jazz in it hummed loudly,
Asking whence the shakes began.
She screamed in an ear to
Inquire about the fun she's having. 
Stuck staring in a rear view,
With hope they're unaware of
Locked doors. 

Green-garnished, gold-rimmed eyes, and a
Brandished black mask, blocking the brightness,
But also the bad intentions. 
Let 'em know where you come from,
And they'll use it against you. 
Let them see where you're going: then, 
They run for the hills. 

"What's a vice worth, if you
Don't nourish it?"                
                                                               ­               What's a number, but an
                                                              ­                Excuse, or a limit?

"See, there's a countable
Amount of stuff, in this universe, but we're
Still unsure of what we're
Doing in life."

Gasping at the light's 
Bounce off foreign plants. 
Recollections of strengthened bonds,
Pressing heavy, into wet dirt
Of a previous day's rain. Fearing 
Faith in what you can't understand. 
Working for the worst people in the world. 
But because, you must 
Help, to exist. 

But break the bubble, 
Roll back those shoulders, tuck those wings
                                                           ­                   Maybe get the **** out of the car?
"I'm getting there, ******."
Thanks for making me happy, guys. "Angel" getting featured almost made me cry. This one is about my recent life. Sometimes you just need to recalibrate.
Apr 2014 · 2.2k
Ricky's Sweatshirt
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
Sometimes it’s something, as 
Simple and clean, tapping my
***** hat forwards, and 
Kicking my back heel against
The wall. 

Sometimes it’s the dank cavern
Of a Dodge’s backseat. 
The frozen entrance to the
Diseased freeway, breathing words 
Of tragedy and paranoia. 

But, sometimes, it’s
The painted landscape of a
Beach, that hung in the
Girl’s TV room, Lodged in place. 

I contact my mind’s
Travel agent, to find it, and 
Wearing Ricky’s sweatshirt I
Stare at the open water. 
Mindful of sharks,
And the smell of ***,
Or sometimes, Svedka. 

Or I’ll stare into Sam’s eyes,
Wishing instead to be 
Spying the bottom of
Jacky’s bottle.
Or Mary’s bowl. 

And when my *** hits the ground,
I’ll look up, this time,
And just like last time, the
Trees will melt. Dripping like
Engine sludge, onto a pavement.
Behind the pool of
Vaporized reality, walls of
Fire rise, so I’ll sit
Back a bit. 

But sometimes, it is too much. 
And I’m down on my
****** kneecaps, 
Appealing to the apparitions. 
Begging for a 
Box of wine.
Even after you've been stuck, somewhere, and get out...
Ricky was the kid in the bed next to me.
I hate sleeping with other people around.
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
Twenty classless, eight cigarettes. 
Fighting over the radio at the 
Inpatient Mental Health Facility, 
A broken sense of belonging, 
And a dearth of veggie burgers. 

Listless with his lists, of course. 
Angst from the Anglophile, unable to 
Put a stopper in the pouring, 
Bleeding emotions. 
Open hands 
Stained red, and brown. 
Three breaks a day, scarring his 
Broken knuckles, they paint the walls. 

Code Smoking Gun, 
Code Smoking Green, 
Manic man, loading his shoulders with his 
Father’s burden, too big for Atlas’s arms, 
Or his mother’s shunning palms. 

Three breaks a day, 
Knee, shoulder, hip. 
The coffee’s decaf 
But your calves? Well, 
They’re just sore. 

They dish the brick every 
Other evening. But living, for 
No light, only serves to lessen your 
Love of life and make you 
Light-headed.

Broken beds with rock-solid
Pillows. Three breaks a day to
Remind you of your regression. We
Want you here as much.
Why’re you whining?

Busy doctors bust the doors, thank 
God for the freedom, the 
Fluorescent finish to your odyssey. The 
Flowers and grass greet you in 
Shades of pink and green your 
Greedy eyes hadn’t seen. 
Exhale. Ghost out your grieving.
Spent a bit of time "healing" in a "hospital."
Apr 2014 · 11.5k
Singed Sexy
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
You weren’t worth the
Hundred dollars it cost to
Keep you in my car. 
Princess got poached by the
League of Losers with Pedestrian Ideals.

I’d spit venom in your direction, if 
Poison meant anything to you. But
Akin to most things, so sub-human,
You miss the world moving around your
Ever pulsating veins, and repel these
Toxins with a slip of the tongue.

Around you I could line
Bodies of those you’d loved and left.
Each clasping hands with one another,
Privy to a specific type of pain, only you can
Deal out. And

In the center of the circle you’d
Stare, stunned by your state of
Affairs, and flings. Collectively concerned
For the safety of your
Rotting consciousness.

One by one, I could set these men
On fire, and hand you a place 
Where your head could be danced off.
Drunken and diving heart-first into
The burning lake of a 
Surfable crowd. Since that’s
All we are, serfs.

I hope the fire gets too close to your
Gorgeous face. I hope the
Love you receive is no more likable
Than a few more licks from the flames.
The scars couldn’t sideline you.
No one can stop ****.
I was mad. I'm not anymore. But I was so mad. And the result justified the reasoning.
Apr 2014 · 620
Caught You in the Flash
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
The Queen, snowed-in, stopped for
Cigarettes and milk
Then drove another hundred. 
The Governor told her not to. 
I suppose I did too.

But it's two weeks later and 
I'll be ****** if we've heard
From her. 
Passionate about black lines,
And smaller yellow ones,
Metal arches, sweating salt
Since stained rain came,
And big green signs,
With numbered shields. 

She said, before she left, that she felt,
"Like a consequence.
Something that is constantly flaunting
How severe it is. 
A recourse, to a long-forgotten mistake,
That just learns to be dealt with."

Traversing the wasteland of white
Can teach you a thing, or 
Three. Like how you're not ready
To move upwards, if the
Phantom's shovel keeps filling
In your igloo. 

Every time she left,
I wrote myself down. 
Stories about how, when, and who
Should-Be-Growing,
And the day she lost Heyworth's smile.
I changed her name.
Poetic license, and whatnot.

It doesn't take long to 
Realize, picture or
No picture, they'll all
Still say their 1,000 words.
They earned them, when they
Caught you with the flash,
In-between dreamings. 

I don't need to hear from her.
I know what she'll say. 
A scathing remark about my advice,
A bite-back.
"Lay off the smokes. The Greyness may not claim us, 
Flagstaff, but sure as hell, has it made me paler."
Flash was my nickname in school. From seventh grade on. But only kids I didn't know would call me that.

"The Greyness" "Queen" and "Dylan" deserved sequels. This serves, as such, to all.
Apr 2014 · 432
Jazz Insatiable
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
Mouths open, Angel's back with friends.
A chorus of the celestial,
Wings tucked, halos blazing.
(Deaf, and you'd swear they're screaming)
Melody simple, beautiful, and toxic,
Blasting insanity back this way:
"They can't take that away from me."

Cheap Whiskey is still angry,
Writing about your arms, and your eyes.
Stuck in the rhythm of the Jazz Insatiable.
Voices, in harmony,
On the way to death's cousin
The "not - quiet - enough"

It feels nothing short of genius loving you.
Any notions, thought in such volume,
With such swiftness, should be going
Somewhere important, or to some
Great End.
Yet, all imagined here, stuck, throwing, with my own lungs.
Rings of smoke, and
Red sound. 

The Lines draw themselves,
If the dirt leaves a history,
If the wings help them fly,
If her car's still ******* running,
If the knife slipped a different way,
And the blood didn't stain. 

But what should I do when the voices get louder?
When it's all I can do, to give each
Frequency its face, how do I put her
Back in focus?
Humming, and a hot mind,
My teeth break,
And I sing back.

Difficult deciding that you'll
Never be so sure,
If you faked it so she'd want you,
Or if you faked it for that smile. 
Wings, splayed out across 
My open torso, begging for a story,
Maroon eyes, that tell furious truth. 

(There is something to be said for my future.
I'd hope it would be: The city I 
Resolve myself in, might rise and
Fall with the air in
My chest. We might inhale, 
Together, the streetlight dreams,
Before choking on stale air,
And hurling, in unison.)

Clotted outside, rushing throughout,
Stains don't bleed. But the scars do
Leave marks. The Lines 
Draw themselves. 
Despite my best efforts to 
Stop them.
The Lines get their name, despite showing up incessantly.

The sequel to "Angel." The continuation of the suicidal struggle.
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
I stole away, with an

Angel intent on keeping 

Me company, for my

Last day on earth

She drew my name in the clouds with

Ink she bought from God,

Broke my bed,

Ripped my blankets, and

Sat me down to

Mock my ignorance

Needing a place to sit,

We built a bench, out of

Broken promises

Each knot in the wood

Melted into a bitter syrup, as I

Recommitted it to memory

We drank coffee behind the

Store that sold my

Innocence to those more

Deserving of the 

Luck they’d received.

Their tender was 

Myth and merchandise,

Final sale,

No return.

The torn soles, on the shoes I

Wore, slid softly through the

Field of grinning flowers, their

Beauty rivaled only by their

Obvious ignorance

Fingers wrapped my wrist,

Departure was inevitable

Wings spread, we soared over the

Blue and purple of the 

Flowers, shaded darkly by the 

Sun’s embarrassment

But from miles up, my

Sight, seemingly unchanged by my

Decreasing proximity

Showed me their vigilant smiles

Had she dropped me 

Anywhere else, the

Beautiful field of 

Terminal foliage

Would sway the same, with

Each windy eve

I woke up, drunk on

Sleep and whiskey, as the

Sobering veracity of my

Failure to keep dreaming

Became achingly apparent.
I grew up, under the impression that I'd probably end my life at age 18.
I wrote this poem on Day 6,575.
(I'm 20 now. :)

18 + one day more.
Apr 2014 · 646
At Least
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
I'm sick of being told that I'm 
"Not Charles Bukowski." Because, 
I never said I was.
But also, and more, because, every time,
(And I suppose I've told myself plenty too)
It's a let down. 

I want to believe
(And not in that X-Files sort of 
(I Want to Believe sort of
(way) 
That we're all Bukowski. 
We're all at least poets. 
At least we're all ***** poets,
In one way or another. 
"I'm too ****** for this *******."

But this is starting to feel like
The part in the film when I'm 
Talking to the old girl, and she says, 
"What I've said up to this point is
Pointless. Now you decide."
I'm at the part of the book 
When he finally finds her.
And yes she still loves him,
Or at least. She's loved him the whole time. 

I can turn a leather recliner
Into a throne, if need be. 
I'll tape a crown of paper together
To prove a point. 
I just happen to think
The kid getting high in my kitchen
Has a real chance at the presidency. 

(Grab this, draw a circle on the floor
With it. Fill the circle up with
Everything you know, the words
The love, the colors, the mended,
And the still open. Watch that light up
At least a universe.)

I'd hope our kingdoms
Could co-exist peacefully,
But my respect for you,
As a fellow ruler,
Would never waiver

Because you can make your crown
Of staples and business cards
And be King Bukowski if you wanted,
But at least you'd be special. 
And (at the very least),
You'd be king.
An attempt to articulate the feelings of a "transitionary period" while still holding on to "who I think I am."
Apr 2014 · 645
Hissing Back at the Sun
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
His middle parts were
Passing through the couch that I was
Sitting on, but his
Face felt nice and fuzzy.
And it was way too
Way too loud.

Ocean water, creeping
Up the black-sanded beach
On the island where 
He drank his ***.
And he's telling lies to any
Crustaceans brave enough to
Traverse his thinning limbs.

Yet, reflecting neatly 
Off the ebony, and decisively
Catching his eye, is the light of her
Tiara, embracing her
Maneless neck.
In walks Nala, and the tide,
His tide, recedes.
The island becomes
Her savannah.

I watch him smile, and 
Close his eyes, and
Soak the moment in. 
Her claws extended, sharp,
Etching proof of her
Arrival into the eager,
Earthy floor.

Owning the steps she takes,

I shudder and attempt to stand.

But stop, as she paws his wrist,

Gripping it tighter,

Scarring him with 

Pointed, filed nails. 
Making him 

Bleed, and making 

Him beam.

Pride is just a 
Noun when there is
Hemorrhaging to handle.
Pressure must be
Applied on all sides of the 
Wound, in order to prevent
Infection, and infatuation.

But I guess when a 
Beast of beauty, makes a black
Sea walkable for you, 
You're liable to get caught up
Staring at the jewels
She's ripped out of her crown, and 
Sewn into her hair. She'll make you 
Hiss back at the sun, and
Talk about wild life.
For the same person as The Uncultured Below, but this one was for me, not for her.

In walks Nala, and the tide, His tide, recedes.
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
The senses, being irrelevant
And often misleading,
Have led me to answering questions,
You've never bothered asking

When "when" is not a timeframe
So much, as it is a 
Time of day, be it
Morning over coffee,
Or a digital dessert, I can't be
Made to let go of the
Gasps I grab for, upon your entrance
Or exit, breath becomes trivial.

You steal jealousy from
My eyes, and quite a jealous
Man can I be. Those same portals
You fill up every day with
Smoke and sensationalism, through which
Stolen intentions, kept quiet,
Are made mutineers
Against their vigilant captains. 

The how came from surrender. 
Realizing you turn me against 
Myself. And as the world falls
Down around me I can't
Get that awful sound of my
Own hypocrisy, crashing down, out
From the canals they've found to call home. 

Below broken-hearted-bowls,
And lying over the phone, and a
Cancerous presence on the
Stage of Socialites, you still look
Perfect with a cigarette in your lips.

I've used "portals" before.
To mean eyes.
And cigarettes before.
To mean freedom. 
But you just smoke them... Don't you...?


There are those who marvel
At the size of her, before taking in
The expansive beauty the moon can speak. 
Some are willing to court her,
Others rip the hoop skirt off,
And **** her 'til she bleeds. 

Oddly, no one is ever jealous,
Of the time others spend with her. 
She's taken for granted, as
The passed-around property
Of the Uncultured Below. 
But that's not why I'm sorry...

Or don't you wonder...
Don't you ever wonder?
Who went wrong?
What's correctly missing?


It is in how I love,
The ways not withstanding,
And reason, remaining remiss,
That I ask you to forgive me. 
You are who you are
Because I love you. 
And I am who I am,
Because you are.
...When I know who I'm writing for...

This is a love poem. As best I can do one.
Apr 2014 · 2.1k
Queen of the Gasoline Dream
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
It’s all laundry and cigarettes

White-knuckle odd jobs

And freezing your *** off, at 7 AM, to

Help your buddy out

Breaking and bleeding, and

Smoking and shirtless, and

Spinning your finger and thumb

Counter-clockwise until the

Resulting ring of fire and fury can

Torch your inhibitions

No one ever restricted you from

Rioting with grace

And through the windshield of your vision,

The streets wake up to the smell of

Alcohol and experience

It’s all rubble in dumpsters, and

Spray paint that swears 

Oaths, to bands and bandages

Singing the praises of 

Stolen promises, their swiftly

Prying minds can’t understand

And you’re standing

In front of the truck

Arms outstretched

Pistons firing air through your

Organs, that vibrate with the

Trepidation of nightmarish resolve

It’s all battlefields and accomplices,

The kid that kicked you down so,

That you’d eat the dirt,

Place your teeth in

Leather pouches,

And taste defeat for decades

You’re pleasantly high on the 

Smoke of your still-burning debt

You’re a supermarket superhero

You’re the queen of the Gasoline Dream

It’s in the way that

Your outline is

Edged out

By your insides, and the

Arms of the chair have become

Wings, that unfurl over

Valleys and oceans, of headstones,

And nursery wards

Tinted windows promise nothing

Regarding secrecy of soul

What would your wisdom teach me

About sentience?
The Queen takes her name. She is: the love I give, without respect to direction. She is: the numbness I fight, in my own body. She is: everything... I'm not sure... I want.

StanzaS (plural) are based on photos I've taken. 2 & 4 specifically. DM me if you want to see them.
Apr 2014 · 606
Dylan and Heyworth
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
I want this to be about you, 
But it's not

It resides in the hours
That I spent wide awake
When I couldn't sleep so I smoked
And I couldn't dream so I wrote
What I hoped I'd see

For the metaphors 
I couldn't keep churning out
So I smoked some more
And I spurted out
Lines about lines

For the driver on the dented highway
With the window cracked
To feel the chills of the air blowing past
Listening to Bob Dylan tell her
The person she was supposed to be but
Never was
And never will

I want this to tell you how I feel,
But it won't

And if she drives far enough she'll reach that
Looming exit
The one she knows she must take
Back to the life she's sick of living
But fights through the pain
For the same reasons that I
Fight through, because
I want to meet a pretty girl
With great vocabulary,
And a smile like Rita Heyworth

I'm still looking for that girl
To drive me across that highway
And recycle old Dylan lines
As if they were personal dictums
She had synthesized herself
And we can freewheel this road together

See I'll never be that great poet that
Three hundred and twenty-nine thousand people
Have watched on the Internet
And that is a comfort

Because the truth resists simplicity
And in my heart of hearts I am a simple man
And telling the truth through words in meter
Or in stanzas
Will never come as naturally to me
As it does to Dylan
But in my acceptance of my ignorance
I become more powerful
Than I'd ever need to be 
Poetic.

So if writing is always my hobby
And never my workhorse
If I can self-satisfy through 
Strict stanzas that I will
Seldom share
If it is only to a girl 
Driving on a highway
Singing songs about formerly-modern America that I
Recite these rehearsed thoughts of mine
Than I will have succeeded

Because my career will have been love
And maybe I can write this 
About you.
And then, and only then, it will be.
Again, years old.
But different. I wrote this... almost like people write in their diary.
The Genesis of the Queen.
The day I knew I was a poet.
Apr 2014 · 330
Never
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
You never sing to her softly
Letting your voice carry more
Than the lyrics
I'm not saying I do
I'm not saying I'm any more deserving
Because truthfully, I'm not.

You don't look out at the waves and
Wonder why those work,
But peace won't
And the pieces of your heart
Don't wane as she walks by.

You seldom shut people out, or
Smoke yourself to sleep, since the
Haze is perfect for
Hiding your inhibitions.

And I'll never be drunk enough to
Tell her I love her.
Silver-eyed stories that
Send her on trips of 
Simple joys
And me, on
Walks into abysses
Which speak louder than her words.

Breaking bottles in the streets
Shaking off the beat of the
Buttons of the wrists 
Of the shirt you were wearing as it
Struck the wood of the guitar
And lighting up once more
Even though I know I shouldn't,
And you never would

Brown paper battle scars
Listening to the rustle of the
Running shoes against the 
Grain of the stories I'd been told and the
Lessons I was supposed to learn
But you told me not to

If I were to send you off
Into space with the aspirations of my ancestors, 
My predecessors
My most appreciated poems,
Would you celebrate with me?
Would you dance?
Like your best friend's parents
Have left for the weekend
And summer vacation started
Yesterday?

I'd hope you would.
Because you never used to.
And it kills me that I inhabit the same housing as you, 
When I want to be nothing like you
Eviction would be a drug for me
Letting go would be a killing
But like the records in which I
Invest my time
You just keep spinning and
Spinning and
Spinning and
The only way to stop you is to
Acknowledge that you'll never.
Years old. Not worth explaining. But I'll say, I wrote this about myself.
Apr 2014 · 549
The Greyness
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
There’s God in this rain.
And he’s washing out the colors.
There’s a Greyness, worth noting,
That steals your spirit through your eyes.
There are cigarettes in the amp.
I’m home.

There’s a blur, surrounding the line
Between the edges of him,
And where they meet everything else.
His arms flailing, brain on fire,
Jamming to the song,
With just the drums around him.

She’s broken, but a non-believer.
The bane of her existence being that
She’s bearing existence, but she’s still 
Smoking union butts
She had no intention of
Signing up to receive.

I find myself longing for
Fall’s warmer whispers.
Too dried out, I’m 
Sweating through all my
Summer shirts.

We stood stateside to ******,
Saddened and somber but still
Awake, tailed by cops that were
Bored, and our parents. I remember
He wore red a lot that year.
It was all that would hide the blood stains, on his sleeves,
From where he’d stitched his heart.

Looking through cabinets to
Find old winter hats,
And auburn-stained reminders,
Of past seasons 
You’d loved and lost.
And the drives to 
Second states, for
Finding friends in unfamiliar
Circumstances, when the air
In your face is cold enough to chill,
But bitterly addicting.

And divines have prepped their
Snowy canvas, blowing the
Corpses of the crops
To the floor of their woody settings.
A fresh start for all of us God-likes, 
To crunch leaves under our 
Brand new boots.

And he’s got his records, and
Some books to go with them,
And a drawing from a bus ride that
Took longer than he’d planned for. 
And he can’t wait to show it to everyone, and
Embellish the story it told him.

She’s got her thumb out, somewhere.
Praying for a chance to write the Bible down 
On the inside of a Buick.
She hasn’t loved her mother in weeks.
She and I don’t talk much anymore.

But I’m praying too, to the
Gods I keep. And spending each Sunday
Still, all-set for snow.

So bask in the glow of your cell phone light.
Dance to the unrepeatable beat in your head.
Tread lightly where the ice is thinner,
But fear not for lack of hands
To pull you back up should you fall through.
The Greyness shall not claim us all.
I re-read that and almost cried.

Every stanza came from an honest place.

Some of them are specific to certain people.

The Greyness is the super-villain of my poems. It comes back a lot.
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