"bateman" poems
i never used to understand why people
hid their pop preferences like
they might hide a **** room...
or like: the toilet paper ran out,
so i jumped into the shower story;
what's with pop music in older people
and getting the embarrassment sticker
that says: HI, MY NAME IS JEFF
AND I LIKE BRIE POP FROM SCANDINAVIA:
nostalgic culmination? death growl
dark metal: the frustration apparent throughout:
frustrated amateur singers with their
strained veiny necks... see that aorta?
opera singers? are they even opening
their mouths, or is this opera meets Roy Orbison?
and by god, that's the case, people are
ashamed to actually acknowledge their
pop preferences... no wonder Patrick
Bateman is fuelled by it...
it's very much like that... pop's the foundation
in you actually liking music...
shame i love music more than women:
keeps my sanity... 2 months apart
and you can't hear a vacuum cleaner,
maybe once a week... maybe...
then the radio starts playing some vintage Roxette...
Abba who? that's for those aged
40 and above... Roxette is my generation's equivalent.
Roxette's masterpiece? Joyride:
the entire album, yes, you'll listen to
this album like some prog rock feast:
Joyride ( : + italics
is the same as bold:
double emphasis )
***** you will! Roxette's Joyride is the
epitome of pop!
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
phloem in your veins;
your tongue curls around
the syllables of my name
erotically, and I'm
daydreaming about
your tongue curling around
my ******** while you talk circles about
calculus and chemistry.
woodgrain and
blood veins and
gun-splattered gore-brains,
the kitchen counter
saturated in sherbet and
awash in girl-cum
while you writhe next to the
fruit bowl, in flagrante delicto.
we conquered the universe with a
steady stream of xenon ions, probing
deep into the velvety wet folds
of the galaxy, two fingers
to the laws of physics, two fingers
stretching you out.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
It’s finally Friday night
there’s not a professor in sight.
If you think I’m happy - you’re right!
My homework assignment is light,
I just have an essay to write.
We and our sister suite will unite,
dragging a couch over, so the seating is right.
We’ll binge on Ozark most of the night,
‘cause we’re all Justin Bateman acolytes.
Pizza and ice cream will be a highlight,
in an evening of lazy delights.
I wish you could join us on-site,
but a quarantine prevents the invite.
Feb 4, 2022
Feb 4, 2022 at 7:53 AM UTC
I can write like Don DeLillo in Americana.
I'll show you your personal Patrick Bateman. How childish Palahniuk is. I'll show you advertising matters. Brands. My brands. Shinola. Dire Straights. Colour TVs. Refrigerators. Blisters on your thumb.
I'll show you my shoes, this shirt. These pants. My hair.
Fist over knife. Forks over food. Jerking off into a wishing well with next month's bonus.
I'll show you when enough is enough. I'll show you what it means to be hungry. Thirst. Blood. Sweat.
I'll give you an idea and take it out of reach.
I'll find your consumer segment. I'll find your scalpel too. I'll show you who you should really be.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
Dear Mr. Bateman,
A few questions, if I may.
I have a couple dark interests,
That out loud, I do not say.
How does it feel inside,
To have someone in your grasp?
Total control through pain,
Do you prefer a scream or a gasp?
Tell me, Mr. Bateman,
How long do you make it last?
Do you fantasize about the future,
Or fondly recall the past?
Do you wish someone would catch you,
On your throne of ****** bones?
Do you strive to be feared? Punished?
Or just to shock the mindless drones?
Put down the chainsaw, Mr. Bateman.
Tell me, how do they taste?
What’s the last thing you say to them?
What part of them do you let go to waste?
What do you mean, you are simply not there?
Do you not feel for what you do?
How do you steal the pleasure,
For the sadist part of you?
Dear, Mr. Bateman.
Thank you for your time.
You helped shape the inside,
Of my own twisted mind.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 12:27 AM UTC
waiting for my dealer on the bridge
i open my second hand copy of American ******
for the first time in two years.
i forgot it opens with the gates of hell.
nihilism is seeping from the pages
just fueling my own drug addled reality
that doesn’t quite seem to mimic ‘real life.’
itake my meds twice a day but only
in the mornings do i get klonopin,
the best drug i’ve been on since
my Ativan privileges got revoked.
i used to do Xanax but that’s another poem.
Bateman does a lot of *******
but i’ve only done that once,
and it was just parental leftovers
so i don’t know about good
bathrooms to do coke in,
but i know about popping pills in front
of the mirrors, professors in the stalls,
before class, just to keep me going.
my suicidal intent has turned into hedonism
and i am living for pleasure and i find comfort
in knowing i will die, likely by my own hand
but even then, Bateman makes one thing clear:
This Is Not An Exit.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 7:12 PM UTC
If I never were to see you again
You'd join an ever- growing line of women
Who tell themselves they never heard my name before
Women I gave a piece of myself to
A kiss on the forehead and spine
A squeeze of the hand
A look that says "I only feel safe in my own skin, when yours is touching mine."
Maybe those looks are the problem
Maybe the kisses are smothering
I might be throwing up red flags to everyone
Swap spit with him and he will be upside down in love with you
Swap any other body-fluid and you might have to change your Locks
Phone number
Point of view
But it's not that
I never set out to ruin anyone's day
Or scare them into thinking i'm Patrick Bateman
It's just when I share these looks, kisses, fluids
More often than not, even if it was some kind of
Mistake amongst random strangers/lovers
I'm giving a piece of me to have
Marked FRAGILE: THIS END UP
Label me transparent and then see right through me
When I find myself giving away chunks of my person
I can't seem to tell where love and blood
Begins
and
Ends.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
A rodent’s trapped beneath my basement,
Its claws tapping out a statement of impatience,
enticed within by Bateman,
it scrats the walls with nauseous vibrations.
A skittering exertion, claws scrape into cold foundation,
the sickly scent of vermin seeps like oil in bourbon,
a gristle glob gnawed covertly by the curtains.
A tail flicks, a whisker twitch, the stare of bodies in a ditch,
its squeaking symphony at fever pitch,
I grasp and grab to scratch the itch.
A chilling cry, a rending tear,
the rat breaks through the outer layer,
my viscera its evening wear.
I try to meet its sunken glare,
as shadows cast a velvet snare,
it slinks obtuse behind a chair.
I am trapped.
The rat; still there.
May 19, 2021
May 19, 2021 at 8:26 AM UTC