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Akemi Oct 2013
Chapter 1

There was a woman. The cost to love her was your life. No other payment but a sending off, a revolver cocked to your temple’s side.
There was no spite in your death, just business.
Hell of a business to run.

I was protecting someone. Never been one to stick around, but this drag had carried for the past year. That gang-owned joint lay but two doors and a cold alley away. Popular place, maybe not the classiest but it had its patrons. Packed with your essentials: pool tables, dirt-licked walls and chairs, mean folk mixed in with the nice. Old fashioned joint with a history. You could almost feel it when you walked in. That small pressure when it’s about to rain? Felt like that had been building up for a decade there.
Some Madonna owned it. Names elude me, but she was just another front; as was the barkeep, the hired bouncers and those mean-eyed slingers that spoke loud in company, silent alone. Heh, almost like an old-fashioned saloon. Who the hell am I in this tale of cowboys and crooks?
I was holed up in that apartment block for the winter. Stiff drapes covering a stiff cold that seeped through the cracks anyway. Cold chills to wake to, and the whiskey don’t warm a **** thing. Maybe it was the ache of a past flame that led me to her. That old touch had languished and misted away in the night of some long dead memory, leaving an old kiss from a young lover on my shivering body. It grew faint with every year’s passing. I struggle to remember this keepsake.
Every night.
I was a no name protector protecting a no name ghost of a man. Yeah we knew each other. I’m no stranger to keep past talking terms . . . but, hell if I remember his name, how we got into this **** situation and why. Mind’s a little off. Been like that for years.

It was a stumble through the wrong door at the wrong time. Some spiteful voices in the back of the joint or the back of my mind telling me I’m headed for hell and ain’t coming back. See, every day is a crossroad, and I happened upon the worst one yet.
I remember that flaking paint; grime-covered white on a moulding door **** near off its hinges. That suited me, and I hated it. Maybe I grew sick of wandering the same way and turned my life on its spinning head. Spun me all the ways I couldn’t face. Saw a glimmer that fate had readied for me. Don’t think I’ve looked at anything with such eyes since; nor have they looked back at me.
The room was a cramped, dilapidated hellhole like every other room, but with her laying on that bed of hers . . . she was the only clean thing in the whole of this cursed city. Save, she wasn’t clean. No such thing exists; no such thing as clean since your adolescent innocence, and even that went up in flames. Hell, in a city like this I wouldn’t be surprised if the skeletons we kept so tightly locked in our closets outnumbered us ten to one.
Should have remembered that when I saw her, but my mind lay a blank canvas and I couldn’t help but fill it with all the details of this pretty bird. Even those that weren’t there.
No Name yanked me out quick. Never seen him so pale, ghosting further and further from a human being. He’d been running so long I don’t think he even knew what he was running from anymore. His past? Some cop chase from years back, ending with blood stains and shaky hands? A dead kid in the arms of a suicidal wife? Maybe he’s running from himself. Fear in the capacity we contain, and fear in the ways we unleash it around loved ones. I don’t blame him for running. If I was a worse man I’d run from him as well.
Now No Name has it all figured out, even if he won’t let on; and that bird in there ain’t part of the plan. Cash cash, first train out to some no name city for this no name man. In this together, he keeps repeating, like some broke down record player that only plays one song. Well I guess we share more similarities than I’d like to think so.

One night, about a month after settling in that old apartment, I hear raised voices. Not uncommon, but something about this still night woke some fear inside me. A fear I needed to meet with my eyes, a score to settle with myself. Sounded like some ******* outside was hoping to bring down the sky with volume alone. No type of gentleman, just a no ***** kid who doesn’t know the difference between command and screaming like a babe.
One gets you respect. Now, the other. . . .
I open those stiff drapes with stiffer fingers. Brush that layer of frozen breath and mist to find some mid-twenty good for nothing punk holding a struggling figure. The apartment ain’t exactly ground floor but even up here I can spot the difference between a gent and a sally. Some broad was in trouble.
Grab that six shooter, old man. The holster smooth from years of wear, small frays on the weathered jacket rubbing against goose-pricked skin. Comfort clothing that never really brings comfort. Not anymore. Guess I’m as bad as No Name. I’m just repeating routine.
Out the hall, no doors left in this apartment block. Stolen, broken, ain’t exactly your family fun lifestyle we’re living. No Name’s holed up in this fortress of upturned furniture and dresser-barred doorways. Lights flicker from between the cracks. The devil ain’t gonna bother with the door, I tell him. He doesn’t reply. Maybe he’s a religious man with one too many sins above his head.
There’s another yell and I feel my blood rise, hairs picking up static, a storm brewing inside that clenched stomach of mine. Take a tumble down the stairs in my haste. **** crooked balsa wood. Those stairs are gonna end me one day, I swear.
Ground floor. I slam that kitchen door and it cracks against the brick wall outside. ****. No Name’s gonna burst an artery. Call out for that ******* punk but he’s already eyeing me up. Only a few steps away and I can see the white in his eyes. No . . . those are his pupils. Wide, all cloud-like, he’s ******* dusted up. . . . Almost like looking into the past. Thrice-cursed ****. I’m in trouble.
This ain’t some lover’s quarrel, some twisted ****’s thought of a good way to end the night. This is a dusthead addict and I’m out of my league. His mid-snarl distorts and stretches past his cheeks and that devil grin sends an electric jolt from the wires of my brain to my heart.
This six shooter is as good as a pea gun against a Smiley.
He’s spouting some glossolalia drifts, layering it like an abominable duet. The coked-up boy in me yearns to understand again, but stiff joints and washed-out dreams have made me a cynic. Ain’t no beauty when you’re tearing things apart to see it. ******* Smiley’s on the edge and he’s ready to pounce right off. If that broad’s sobbing didn’t **** at those heart strings of mine I’d be running for my ******* life.
I lift that pea shooter and aim it straight at that devil smile.
He howls. Glass shatters from above. Some black monstrous thing comes speeding at me. I leap through that apartment doorway in time to see ******* Smiley consumed by it. All sharp, all solid that beast slams into Smiley, screaming loud enough to wake this dead city twice over. Smiley thrashes, he splays out to the ground, the beast’s seared flesh erupting in front of me. A piece slices past my cheek and I’m on the ground in tears. I hear No Name scream an incomprehensible curse above. I’m bawling now. Through my tears I spot that chunk of flesh. ******* balsa wood. Thrice-cursed balsa wood.
No Name had thrown a piano out that barricaded window of his. Tears of pure comedy, that’s what left my face. A Smiley taken out by No Name, I’ll never live this down. His mangled body lies under polished wood. Someone’s yearly worth gone in a second of frantic panic, reduced to twisted wires and cracked ivory. To see something so beautiful destroyed in seconds makes me wonder if the Smiley had gotten the better of us after all.
That broad’s in shock. Splinters covered every inch of ground save that around her; looked like a comet, trailing emptiness behind.  Should have noticed it then that something wasn’t right with that scene. Perfectly unscathed beauty sitting there with not a single scratch nor splinter on her, but I was too **** amazed I was alive. Knelt close to her and caught a whiff of some exotic scent on her skin. Some flower. Saw her face and it added another colour to that filling canvas of mine. This pretty bird from the joint. The one men died for. At least No Name had saved one life worth saving, funny it happened to be the one who could take yours in a night.
Names elude me, but the way I remember her . . . the way I remember her is Blossom, for when she came into my life she gave colours to my black and white memory, colours I didn’t know existed, and my black and white morals took a turn down some dawning grey-blurred alley.
So I’m a ******* gentleman and I walk Blossom home while No Name shifts furniture above us. Scrapes of hard wood against wood, filling that void in his once impenetrable bastion. I told you No Name’s got it all planned out already. Guess I’m just here for the ride.
Welcome to the paranormal neo-noir gangster world of Devil Smiles.
Danny Valdez Dec 2011
My mom and I went out
driving around from bar to bar
a lot
looking for my old man.
Usually we’d find him pretty early on
the drive home, with my mom yelling at him
while my four-year-old *** sat in the backseat
having to listen t it all.

Those were the
good nights,
the easy & calm nights.

But this one night
I remember
better than others.
My mom went inside his favorite bar
with me on her hip.
The bartender told her he had just left.
with some blonde lady.
So we sat in the car and waited.
His Harley was parked out front
so we knew he’d be back.
My mom chain-smoked,
sipping at her icy Mountain Dew
from her green metal thermos.

She had fire in her eyes,
gasoline in her veins.
My mom was really gonna let him have it
and that blonde *****, too, she said.

The bar was next door to a 7-11
Two lowlife ******* were
Standing around
They saw my mom and I sitting there,
One of them yelled at her
“Whatcha lookin’ at *****?”
“I ain’t lookin’ at you, shut the **** up.”
My Mom spouted back, flicking her Marlboro.
They didn’t say anything,
Just started walkin’ away.

Out of nowhere though,
the ****-talkin’ lowlife was next to her window.
He reached in and grabbed my mom by the arm.
I was really scared, I remember.
“Whatcha got to say now? Huh *****?”
My mom reached for her pistol
With her free hand
While the lowlife kept
talking, threatening to **** her in front of her son.
Within a matter of seconds
The black 9mm pistol
Was unholstered and shoved into his nose.
His eyes were as wide as they got.
His hands now up in the air,
he was shaking & trembling.
My mom pulled back the hammer,
it made that terrifying click.
His eyes shut tightly when
that sound came.
“I AM a *****. The WRONG ***** to **** with tonight.”
Be cool lady. Becoolladybecool. Don’t shoot, don’t shoot.”
The gun was now pressed into his sunburned, pockmarked, cheek.
“Get the **** away from my car.”
And just like that, off he ran into the darkness.

I had fully expected her to
blow his head off, right there in front of me.
She asked if I was okay.
I nodded yes and she kissed my forehead.
She stood outside the car then
Next to his Harley
Pacing back and forth
Her adrenaline really pumping now,
smoking and drinking soda
from that green metal thermos.

I don’t know how much time passed,
but eventually
a little red car pulled up.
My dad and the blonde got out.
When he saw my mom he sighed and said,
“Ahhh **** me.”
scratching his big biker beard
with his brown hands.
The blonde tried to go into the bar.
My mom blocked her entry saying,
“Uh ah! What the **** were you doing with MY man, *****?!”
The blonde looked to my dad for help.
“Danny?” she cried.
“Rhonda, nothing happened. I just got some coke from her. That’s all, now chill the **** out...”
“*******,” she yelled.
The blonde again tried to go into the bar.
And again my mom stood in the way.
Now the blonde was ******. She screamed in fear & frustration,
“***** get the **** outta my way."
“You ******’ *****,” my mom shrieked,
smashing the green metal thermos to her face.
Then she dropped it
and began throwing wild punches to the blonde’s face and head.
I unbuckled my car seat
and leaned out the window
watching my mom & the blonde
roll around on the ground.
My dad let her get in a few good hits,
then pulled her off.
The blonde’s face was
red, swollen, and bloodied.
My mom wore a lot of rings.
The blonde stumbled to her feet
and finally ran inside.

My parents argued all the way home
The old man stuck to his story,
that it was just a drug deal.
She wasn’t having it.
They told me to go to bed,
but I stayed up
peeking around the corner,
watching them argue.
The old man was too drunk & coked out.
He wasnt making any sense, the **** he was saying.
Finally she got tired of arguing in circles
and just threw a hard right
layed him out on the kitchen floor.
I ran as fast as I could back to my room.
I could hear her say,
"See? You ******' *******! This is what you get!"
as I pulled my Batman blanket up to my chin.
****.
My mom was tougher than Batman.
Brandon Nov 2012
Work is boring, I'd 
Rather be home sleeping in
A nice comfy bed 

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather be smoking a joint
And watching TV

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather be drinking a beer
And drunk barroom brawls

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather be out surfing the
Gnarly ocean waves

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather stick my arm in a 
Blender; cause some fun

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather be out banging some
Coked up prostitutes 

Work is boring, I'd
Rather dig my brain out thru my
My ears with a fork

Work is boring, you 
Can tell because I'm writing
Too many haikus
the kidnapping of the great party dude



you see brian and patrick loved to party but brian’s family weren’t into partying

and brian turned to patrick whose family loved partying and in the process brian

and patrick were being watched by hooligans who want to kidnap these 2 party dudes

and rid partying forever and ever, but brian and patrick both said, you can’t get us, we are

big dudes, we don’t have no nerdy stretch in us, so we bought pizza and a few XXXX beers

and went around terrorising the conservative town, but the hooligans liked pushing people

to be conservative so brian and patrick had to be kidnapped and ******* in a ditch, and because

it was hard to kidnap brian and patrick, the hooligans had an idea to put poison in their drinks

to lure them into the hooligans car and locked up in their back shed to rot away, brian said

we are 2 cool party dudes and pat said the same, and they went out to a club to party with the chicks

and the hooligans were there and put poison in brian and patricks glass and they played air guitar

and headbanged their heads together like 2 real party dudes unaware that they have been poisoned and

and continued to party really hard and brian and patrick wanted another drink but the hooligans said

you 2 young party dudes have had too much and they punched brian and patrick in the guts and the poison

was starting to hit on, as they fought like a couple of little babies coming out of the womb and before they knew it

the hooligans took brian and patrick to their car, threw them in the back seat and drove them to their house and

when they arrived, the hooligans got some heavy chains and tied brian and patrick up with them and locked them

in the shed and gagged brian and patrick with very snotty handkerchiefs and then the hooligans laughed saying

we are ridding the world of party dudes, slowly one by one, and patrick could see a hole which could break bigger

but was too weighed down by iron chains to attempt it and wriggled a bit saying, hey brian, we must wriggle because

we can’t give these kidnappers a sign he has defeated the party dudes, we can never be defeated, but this was going

to be tough for brian and patrick, but they must wriggle, because the chain will loosen and hopefully they can break free

but then patrick vomited green and red blood and said, boy, brian, we have been poisoned, we must struggle because

i don’t want to die either, we must get rid of this poison in our blood and the hooligans came in and said, well you kids like

the band POISON, don’t ya, but i warn you, brian and patrick, don’t struggle or we’ll ****** you and use your dead bodies

to play with on the lawn, yeah that is a cunning little plan, like the movie, weekend at bernies and patrick said, he loves that

movie, and the hooligans said, brian and patrick, you are going to the 2 dead bodies to bring that movie into the real world

and brian was scared and so was patrick as they yelled out H E L P H E L P H E L P H E L P and patrick said to brian we must

still struggle though to rid this poison out of our bodies, and brian found it hard, but still he tried but the poison was well and truly

stuck in their system, and brian wanted to give up, but patrick said, brian, don’t give up, we must show our friends and the world

that partying isn’t wrong and brian then said ok patrick lets struggle and in 8 days of being stuck in the iron chains that bound them

brian got loose and untied patrick and then noticed a hooligan sitting outside guarding the outside and brian and patrick ran up to him

and through the chain all over him, while saying, you are kidnapping brian and patrick and ridding the world of partying, the party

in this world will never be over, and it’s our job to make sure we get the world to party aqnd you party poppers will die, real angry

mother *******, as brian and patrick l,coked the three hooligans in the shed they were in, and brian and patrick ran off down the

federal highway back toward canberra to show, the canberra city, is the party capital of the world, well at least that is what brian

and patrick planned anyway and brian and patrick were very choosey on who to muck with though they still partied, that will never

change, brian and patrick felt safe in the party heaven, they will rock and roll all night and party every day, and they did
Daniel Magner Nov 2012
Cellar door
cell
door
Sell my soul
just a little more
*****
for a cellar
that holds nothing
but an empty,
empty nothing
nothing but nonsense
sense
sense
My cents, two cents
lined up on the door
lined up
Coked up, on the mirror
let me disappear
behind the cellar
cellar door
© Daniel Magner 2012
“CAAAAMON-CAAAMON-CAAMON-CAMON. *******. *******, YOU STUPID *******!!!!”  I slam on the brakes as the traffic light turns red, the front end of my car now parked in the middle of the intersection.  

A bunch of headlights begin to move towards me, and I rev the engine, slamming the car into reverse.   Now behind the white line, I lean back and take a few breaths.  I sound like my old man.  That nasty, fat ***** was always screaming at those useless racehorses as his soggy, limp cigar would bounce from his lips, spit landing all over the paid-in-full fakies of whatever blonde ***** was cuddled up next to him for the afternoon.  Having lost everything by the end of the day, he would always plod home and deposit his soiled, checkered pants on the laundry room floor and crawl into bed to make love to my mom.  

Ugh. I need to stop thinking about him.  I already wish I could be one of those old horses who gets shot in the head.  Today was my five-year work anniversary, and on behalf of the entire department, volcano-face Emily bestowed upon me a massive dog bone, which now sits tauntingly on my passenger seat.  As she suppressed that nasty giggle of hers and handed me the bone, the room erupted with laughter, someone shouting from the back corner, “Hey, Ed! Get it?!  You’re always like a dog with a bone!”  Maybe I should go back to work and make that ***** play fetch.

No. I’ll save that for later.  Right now I am going to go get that Philly Cheese Steak sandwich that’s been on my mind all afternoon.  That is if this light ever turns green again.  But ******* is my mouth salivating just thinking about that sandwich.  

What the hell is that?

A Ford Bronco is blazing towards the intersection, directly into oncoming traffic.  It swerves onto the shoulder, speeding past the rows of stopped cars and blasting through the red light.  The driver is leaning out the window, swinging around a sword.  He notices me staring and looks straight into my eyes, solidifying his unspoken threat by pointing his medieval weapon straight at my heart.  

Fine.  If that ******* wants a duel, I would hardly be a gentleman if I did not oblige.  I reach behind the passenger seat and grab the antique cop light that’s been gathering dust on the floor ever since I purchased it at the neighborhood thrift store.  I slap the thing on the top of my car and punch through the red light, cranking the steering wheel to make a quick u-ey.  As I gain some distance, I can just barely make out the license plate.

DR PEPR

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Dr. Pepper ignores the fact that I am only 20 feet behind him and turns up his stereo, blasting a Renaissance dance tune from hell.

I’m going to end this, and I’m going to end it by sticking that sword up that Shakespeare *******’s ***.  

Dr. Pepper slams on his brakes, the sudden jolt causing him to drop his sword.  The passengers in the back of the cab burst into a slow-motion uproar, and I take the opportunity to cut off their escape route.  Now stopped, I pull out my mocha-flavored e-cig from my front pocket and look over at my dog bone as the vapor fills the car.  I snag the bone and step outside, feeling the weight of the rawhide in my hand as I approach the truck. Not stopping to bother with the driver, I head towards the back, kicking the forgotten sword into traffic.  My clothes are bathed in red from the brake lights, and the coked-out frenzy of the Renaissance men reaches a ****** as I stand before them, looking like the devil himself.

Adrenaline is surging through me.  As I take a drag of mocha, I scan the faces of the annoying pukes in the back of the truck and locate the nastiest in the bunch sitting in the middle of his troupe, completely stiff with fear.  I look deep into his eyes and slowly exhale.  I pull one more drag as I raise the massive bone and bring it crashing down, making full contact with the left brake light.  The red shards explode into the sky, and I do not hesitate to follow up with the other break light.  Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I can’t help but swing even harder.  

Wow - what a beautiful explosion.  

“Unsheathe thy sword!  UNSHEATHE THY SWORD!”

Dr. Pepper searches frantically for his sword as I casually approach his door. “Dr. Pepper,” I say calmly. He continues to desperately ***** around the truck, so I lean forward, “DR. PEPPER.” He turns begrudgingly to look at me.  Wanting to bid farewell to my defeated adversary, I raise my right hand into a 90 degree angle and wiggle my fingers “bye-bye” in his direction. His blood-shot, brown eyes widen, and it’s clear that he is terrified that his face will be the source of my next fireworks display.  Lucky for him my stomach growls, reminding me that my quest for a Philly Cheese Steak sandwich remains unfulfilled.

I walk away, the cherry light still flashing on top my car, so I take my bone and take a hard swing, unleashing the last set of fireworks in my perfectly-directed scene.  I get in the car, and as I start the engine, the oldies station is blaring Clarence the Frogman Henry’s song, “Ain’t Got No Home”.  It’s the best part of the song, and without hesitation I begin to tap out the rhythms on my steering wheel and sing along with Clarence in that high-pitched voice of his:

“I ain’t got no sister,
I ain’t got a brother,
I ain’t got a father,
not even a mother,
I’m a lonely boy,
I ain’t got a home.
Whoo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo!
Whoo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-­woo-woo!”
softcomponent Feb 2015
It was six in the morning**: I sat in a cab dangling on small-talk with a middle-aged white male cabbie basted in the demeanor of the over-friendly uncle. He asked me about school—I'm hyperawake, paranoid, body pulsing, feeling loose, depersonalized, and lightly psychedelic—my vision wavering as if someone had entered my skull to punch raw brain. I did a gram and a half of ******* that night; mixed lines with ketamine to simulate a proto-psychosis, but am convinced I may very well have driven myself past the point of no return. I'd been doing this strict mix for over 2 straight weeks, landing myself in out-of-body experiences and coked-out drawls on the floor like a sad, puckered monkey chewing on a lemon it mistook for an orange. Why I led myself to this existential precipice is both beyond me and totally within my rational sympathies if I pretend I am on the outside looking in.
When I was 18—drawn, for the first time—away from smalltown Powell River and into the Vancouver suburbia of Port Coquitlam, my only successful job-find was a McDonald's arched inside a Wal-Mart. The double-insult this presented me as a teenage anarchist pushed me deep into my first true emotional crisis which I only turned to accept after a particular phone call with my father in which he appealed to me to think of this stint as a 'temporary social experiment'; a chance to learn and breathe this proletarian experience from the inside out. During the pre-Christmas night-shifts, the only customers we ever had were the dark, apathetic silhouette-people Wal-Mart hired to greet the absolutely no one's walking through the door. I incessantly cleaned what was already a mirror-wet floor and made sad conversation with Rosario—the slightly autistic shift-manager with a prickly-shave of a face and an awkward sense of humor I could never come to appreciate and yet always managed to humor in polite obsequiousness. Regardless, it was a form of spread and endless boredom that began to fascinate me; it brought me to a darkness I had never quite known. It was an experience—like all experiences—to be had at least once, to the fullest and truest intensity. To be pushed with reckless sincerity.
Ever since, I have found myself pushing every limit to disembodied extremes—on occasion, to points of such profound irresponsibility or feigned responsibility that I break a particular streak and wind-up on the other dichotomous side of whatever line I unintentionally (or intentionally?) crossed (or broke?) because everything is a social experiment and I've touched the multifarious lives of overworked modernity, residential care aide, dishwasher, Christopher McCandlessesque wilderness jaunt, melancholic Kierkegaard, psychonaut, and now: a short-lived ****** inspired by the excess of Burroughs and the early beatniks all willing to **** their darlings for the sake of blood-stained posterity.
And yet meanwhile—in the cab—I can feel my headache grow perceptively wider from my left temple. Almost like a mushroom cloud over Bikini Atoll I am watching from as safe a distance as the physical body can withstand, according to some calculable hypothesis drafted by Oppenheimer himself. I am constantly amazed at how lucid I am in conversation with this friendly cabby; given that I feel as if I'm about to go ******, focusing so deftly on the way the streetlights glide across placid puddles moving only with our tires intervention—and the way I keep imagining insanity in the form of a zombie-likeness of myself strapped into an electric chair, skin melting and eyes rolling back in my head as I seizure to metaphysical death—I still laugh away short quips about the blind-leading-the-blind (he has no idea how to find my destination, and keeps pulling over to check a book road-map for 4143 Hessington Place). The only reason I am with him now is that I am venturing to see my girlfriend at her group-house past Uvic where the door is always unlocked for friends and friends-of-friends, she being the only solution to this crisis with her stash of .5 Xanax pills.
I remember those tense moments—with my body and brain as taut as a bow—he would pull over or pull out and my entire existence seemed to move through space and time as if against a wind that was perpetually in resistance—as if my entire consciousness was going to capsize into some form of overdosed darkness. Even when I exited the cab and waved a friendly goodbye to the old man, I could feel my dopamine receptors attempting to fire on empty. This caused a latent buzz that was only solved with two milligrams of alprazolam and my eyes wide shut until my head shut down.

I held her close. I knew she thought I was an idiot.
originally written as a project for my Creative Nonfiction class, Jan.2015
Trevor Gates May 2013
Pearls falling
on the stone steps outside
Neon lights reflected
in the rain puddles
“Bang, Bang” Nancy Sinatra sang
“I shot you down…”
The music faded as I walked away
Movie posters lined the brick walls
Framed lovers embraced
One another
Between frozen portraits
Of atomic monsters
And art house flicks
While looking away at the box office girls
Slender and fixed
Up for the customers
And troubled youth;
Their tenacious allure
for a requiem
for the living
Cathedrals replaced by tower records
And Chinese restaurants
Withering, zealous loan sharks
Feasting on squished dreams
Licking their teeth with their tongues
Smacking against the laughter
Of festering sodomites and
Plastic-injected food
Basking in pools of molten gold
And sliced actors
I was in the middle of this
Me
Enforcing the invisible layer
Of success in the city of Angels
Where demons of entertainment
Pull the strings
Like Bela Lugosi said.
Moving through the Hollywood hotel
I hear moaning voices
Creaking beds
Loud televisions
Shouting and blaring beats
I open room 314
And walk in
The wallpaper peels like a corrosive blister
Mr. Poe sits at his desk
Waiting for me
He pours a drink
I abide
He passes me an envelope
I feel its thickness
I open it up and flip through
The bills, placing it in my inner pocket
I nod and swallow the bourbon
And leave
What pulp magazines tell you
Of the underbelly
The style, the glamour
The women, the one-liners
And thrills are replaced by
Shattered morals
Broken bones
***** stained stool pigeons
Slaughterfest racism
Taxi backseat *******
Where joints and blood
Spent napkins, clean the mess
Of the seats.
Through clubs and social abundances
I find coked-up fiends and producer hugging
Sycophants.
Laughing, smiling, drooling, kissing
Any who will profit
Able to get in line
To be the next big thing
On the silver screen
Or at the bottom of the sea
Under
Santa Monica pier
Watching the group of
Empty flattery, heartless groping
I follow and keep my distance
3 hours later
I knock on their fancy hotel suite
Just when the door unlocks
I push it through
And pull out my gun
They scream but they know
Who I am
And who I work for
I instill fear back into their
Comfortable lives.
They have debts
They own their luxury to to others
That was the price
They sold their souls and bodies for fame
And they will all eventually pay
I remind them what could happen
I shoot through the mirrors and glass
I pick one up and dangle them over the balcony
I find one member of the social party who does not belong
Who is not worth any thing
Who is expendable.
I grab that one and exercise my warning
My superior’s warnings
I bash his skull on the ikea coffee table
I pick up the vase of flowers by the side
I dump it all over him
I pick one white rose and
Dip it in the collecting blood
And watch it stain the flower
I lift it up and show it to the room
Still eyes and sweating faces look at it;
At me and what I represent:
A winning hand
A knock-out punch
Wrath personified
Callous, methodical, professional, indifferent
Mr. Libestraum is who I work for
Mr. Schyman is what I go by.
My point is made and I leave them with the body
I walk out and call my people
My part is done.
I walk out unnoticed and paid
Pay a vendor for coffee
Sit along the bench and wait for the sun to rise
On a new day.
And think back to what I was told when
I saw my first hit,
“Welcome To LA.”
The Jolteon Nov 2014
Smoking *** can make you lose your job
Drinking liquor can make you lose your liver
Smoking tobacco can make you lose your lungs
Eating McDonalds can make you lose your heart
Drinking soda can make you lose your feet
Snorting coke can get your high(ered) in congress

You can lose your feet, liver, lungs, and heart while coked up in congress
But you can't smoke ***
Pen Lux Mar 2014
we plant the seeds of our own destruction
"everything in moderation."

here I am in backlash station,
braiding my hair
with poison in my lungs,
on my breath,
in my stare.

my silver tongue has an alchemists tooth
a lung for a lung and the whole world's done
anti-smoke anti-drink anti-fry
diet coked, diet thinking, diet guy
yes, he's gonna die

bleeding through his finger tips
we touch lips, hips? say goodbye,
maybe take him home next time.
he's got me in a bind
stuck in his rhyme
he peeled me from the core
though I had a rind
but the fruit which I drink
is GMO such as he,
the fluoride in my sink.

a love poem made me think
a tag is such a drag
because a label isn't me,
a price could be
innocence
mystery
a held too close and you're history

he sent to me
late night called to see
if the aches from which I break have calmed down to be
more of a lesson than a test,
more of a sleep than a restlessness.

there's no one who should have to witness this...

"I'll be okay."
maybe I'll say it again...
"I'll be okay."

For once and forward because I want to,
a lot of people said I didn't have a choice but to
and I don't want to hurt any of you,
with the insanity of keeping things in
with the feelings that I simply suppressed
thought he made me happy and undressed
foolishly traded my tears for alcohol
sweet words for smoke, true love for a joke.

I've lost all I could lose
let him take all that I thought could be took,
and now I finally see what was to be had all along,
what was there all along...

you all were right and I was wrong.

I ran away, that's not okay,
but I'm back and here today.
I love you all, I love you most,
I wont push you away, so hold me close.

I'm breaking and aching, I'm shedding out tears,
I'm sorry for masking and mashing my fears.

I know I don't know and I wish to learn quick,
there's not that much time and there's no love in a ****,
excuse my bad language for I do not speak  French...

I'll stop with the jokes and go for what's true,
there's no more emptiness in the words "I love you".
I have the most amazing friends a person could ever ask for and I have been abusing them by abusing myself because I felt worthless for so long because of the very first heart-break that took me alive, which no words could revive.

I'm done drinking, I swear it, it's hard but it's true.
that poison is wicked and I have hurt you.
The person I thought I loved most in this world told me,
"Words mean nothing in this world, only actions."

I agree to an extent... it's both.

you need both action as well as communication,
language isn't dead.. it's just abused.

thanks for reading.
Brycical Dec 2012
Mind body lump
sushi tastes people
blanket's warm sausage
loopy plaid pants
mimosa fueled mathematics
map making pancakes
waffles don't know ****!
Add chicken and enjoy.
Dance like a coked up Napoleon
ecstatic to heard Vincent Price reading Poe
while Moby **** writes rhymes opined to killer wale
princes and lords.
Service the dinosaur's automobile
when you get a chance
don't dance on like a midnight acid FLOWER
power of the hour scours the loud crowd
to life after death.
and even then, a sweaty barracuda knows judo.
Pedro Tejada May 2014
Nails the length of javelins click on countertop
with the speed of a coked-up woodpecker
as this goddess of the night with bullets
of caked foundation sweating from her forehead
awaits her fifth free Long Island of the night.

Safe to say, she's a little high maintenance,
like all treasured centerpieces
of a local museum deserve to be.

She is your generation's Mona Lisa, trust.
Her sneezes will be dissected for coding.
Like the rust on buried Babylonian armor,
she lives sandwiched between myth and reality.

A Frankenstein of queer iconography,
door-knocker earrings designed by Adrian.

Stilts for heels clack on blinking dancefloor,
balancing a hermaphroditic echo
that charges through hieroglyphic binaries
with a four-on-the-floor precision.
I've recently started pursuing drag as an art form, and the queen's name is Goldyn Dylicious, as indicated in the title. This is basically just a lil thesis that lets you all get to know her. Still a work in progress :)
Megan Milligan Aug 2011
HANGING WITH THE GALLO(W) BROS.

Coked out
Strung out
Flipped out
Had my share of friends
Blow their brains out

But still I went back out
And hung out with the Gallo brothers
And the drunks and the druggies and the homeless and the insane
Downtown at two in the morning.

Little did I know,
The Gallo Brothers were leading me to the gallows
Dead woman walking
Hanging out with them,
I was killing myself slowly
Too cowardly to flat out pull the trigger and get it done with,
I just squeezed it a bit
With two, three, four visits a day
From the dynamic dastardly duo.

Sometimes we hung out at Sutter Home
I remember the plastic thunk of bottles
In my purse on the way there.
The glass-laden Gallo Brothers sometimes made a bit too much noise
When stealth was called for,
So no one else would catch on to what I was doing.
So no one would catch onto the feelings I tried burying,
The demons I tried to drown,
Who were squeezing the life out of me
Feeling horrible, unworthy
Always going back on my misery.

Tremors, delirious
Delirium tremens
So shaking I can’t even double-fist
A single can of soda
I reached for the only help I’ll accept
I grabbed on tight to their hands
Even though my body turned it down
Rejecting, ejecting
Spewing, spitting their help
Back in their faces

“I wish I knew how to quit you”
My body told them

But the Brothers were a violent lot
Beating me into submission
When my mind was under their influence
Sometimes I’d do the craziest ****
For friends who didn’t know better,
Didn’t have my best interests at heart
Were -bent on my personal destruction.
Talk about peer pressure!
Doing, saying things I normally wouldn’t!
They made me go against the grain of everything decent and good about me.

Some friends just aren’t worth having
I learned that lesson the hard way
Cutting ties with the Gallo Brothers...
The hardest thing I ever did!
But... the only way to keep Dead Woman Walking
From becoming Dead Woman Hanging around
at the morgue instead of the Gallo Brothers’ house.
© 4/28/2011
KC Hoye Aug 2010
Amazing how the bubbles make
Each.
Word.
Stop.
Easier to ride each wave to completion
Than resist and escape as the wave departs
Lethargic
Nervous
Coked up and tripping over words
Until the muddy field, the proving ground
Marks the beginning of reality
Merge preconception, misconception, and perception,
Into one bright shining lie

Young dry brittle contradictions,
deep like gravity wells.
Losing sleep while pursuing the hand held sun.
The out.
The goal.
Reality knocks twice.
Once to break the tape.
Once to cross the line.
(c) KC Hoye 2010 cargohold.blogspot.com
Clem N Tine Sep 2015
I stood in the musty, off-white bathroom of the hotel and grinned at myself in the mirror. I was drunk and in my boxers. I needed to shave. Mitchell was asleep on one of the beds, snoring, a beer balanced on his ever growing beer belly. It was an impressive size for Mitchell only being 25.
He was in town for a court date. I was ecstatic when I heard, I hadn’t seen Mitchell since we were about nineteen.  I took his beer from him, set it on the nightstand, and shook his shoulder.  I said, wake up *******, come smoke a cig with me.
We stood outside freezing in the winter air, chain-smoking, watching the ****** do their rounds. Mitchell said something about finding one to score. I exhaled my smoke and snickered in reply.
“You don’t wanna stick it in ***** ******,” from behind me. Surprised, I turned around. A petite girl, puffing her non-menthol cigarette, with a slender nose and tattoos on her arms. Mitchell smartly replied that what if he did want to stick it in ***** ******. I wanted to know her name.
I asked what the hell she was doing at such a run-down hotel, why I had never seen her around town before. Between exhales she told me “I’m living with this guy but I hate him… I don’t even know what I’m doing with him.” Mitchell had gone inside. I invited her up to my room. While we walked, I studied the way her long, dyed red hair graced her plump ***. My god, that plump ***.
“I’m trying to get into some **** tonight” she said, “Are there any bars on this street?”
I was still thinking about her ***. I opened the door to our room.
“Um, I think there’s one,” I told her that we have drinks, though, and tossed her a beer.
I talked her ear off for a good hour. I can really get goin’ after a little alcohol is in me. What’s her name? I’m too drunk to remember to ask. I’ll call her red. She played with that long *** red hair and looked around a lot, antsy to…get into some ****.
“I’m not gonna *******, you know” she said.. I was taken aback by such a blunt, matter-of-fact statement.
“Oh come on,” I said, “My girlfriend’s ****** two different guys this week. I’m just trying to get even.”
“You *******!” She got up from the bed and hit me with a pillow, laughing, “You mother ******* *******!” A mouth on this one;  I liked her.
We goofed around for a bit until she suggested we walk around the hotel. We were halfway down our hallway when we saw and smelled a group of people ahead of us with a doobie. They gave the rest of it to red and invited us in their room. I met her eyes, blue, swimming in excitement and thriving in the spontaneity.
We walked into this room and met the strangest group of people I’ve ever laid my eyes on. There was a skinny, tall black boy with chains and a big bag of herb, two gothic girls with every lip piercing known to man, a preppy high school girl who kept losing her lipstick, a short black boy with a sizeable bag of white stuff; he told us to call him Doc. I think there were some more people there too.
Anyway red is chatting away with the high school girl, found out they had went to the same high school. We were sitting beside each other passing a doobie from the guy with the chains. Next thing I know, the shorter boy slaps a heaping pile of the white stuff on the table in front of red and I. Split it, he told us. That we did. Red did a few lines and sat back and closed her eyes. It was alright, she said. I did some myself. Now, I do forget whose idea it was, probably red’s. Somehow it got suggested that I do a line off her ***.  I mean she obviously had a nice ****, who wouldn’t want to snort a line of coke off a round ***?
Next thing I know, she is *** naked, face down in front of me and I’m trying not to get hard, which is difficult when you’re as ****** up as I was. The tall skinny dude was behind us, asleep, using his bag of *** as his pillow. We laughed at this. The girls smoked in the corner, and the other shorter guy watched a little too closely at me spreading the powder on reds white ***. It was as white as the substance. I couldn’t believe this girl; she won’t let me see her naked but insists I snort drugs off her bare ***.
After I was finished we all drank and smoked more, got more ****** up. Red and I eventually left and walked back to my room. Mitchell was open-mouthed snoring. I was being drunk and annoying; I rolled on top of her and just laid there. I rolled off and walked to the other side and lit a cigarette in our nonsmoking room.
“I’ll get you, you *******” she said, “You just wait!”
“Just don’t bite it off,” I said, “or you’ll make a half dozen women very unhappy.”
She climbed up to the top of the bed and perched there, cross-legged, watching the small television which illuminated her face. The news was on. Why is she so intent on the news? Now I know you aren’t sane I told her.
“Be quiet, she said, I want to watch the news!”
And there we sat at the top of a ****** hotel bed, coked out, watching the news. She held the hand with her cigarette in the air and let out a laugh. I accepted her like this.
I used a few lines from Charles Bukowski!! Story of how we met.
Emily Aug 2014
her grandmother’s hand feels like an overripe peach and there’s not much behind her glossy eyes. the nursing home smells like disinfectant and the powdery smell of old women. jane tucks her feet under her chair as she watches the vacant stare on her grandmother’s face and wonders if her grandmother will notice when she stops coming. the soft buzz of television and the chatter of nurses feels very far away and the room feels too big for the two of them. jane’s grandmother raised her when her own parents were too drunk or coked up to remember they had even had a daughter and her first, second, third stroke had left her soft and empty. jane kisses her forehead, leaving a strawberry-colored mark on her grandmother’s pale skin and she slips a paperweight from the nurse’s desk into the pocket of her dress

the coat is heavy and camel-colored and hangs off jane’s small figure, nearly obscuring her. the collar nestles under her ears and she’s warm, even in the chill of the dusty second-hand shop down the street, with the watery-eyed cashier who watches her suspiciously and waits for his cigarette break. the weight is comforting and she hugs it in closer to her before removing it and stroking the shiny polyester lining. jane waits a few minutes before she pulls out a bundle of carefully stacked bills and quietly buys the overcoat without making eye contact.

at home, jane’s neat handwriting fills the last page of the journal she’s been keeping for the past few months. from her desk drawer she pulls two more of the same. the details of her life coat the pages and it occurs to her how small, how ordered, how utterly unremarkable her days have been. this elicits no real emotion and jane pours herself a half glass of wine and lies on the couch, fully clothed, and breathes so slowly her chest hardly moves. she wonders if it will hurt.

she places the coat on her neatly-made bed and stands in front of her bathroom mirror. her hair is long enough to touch the waistband of her skirt and it tangles over her shoulders and back like a mass of seaweed before she gathers it into a ponytail and snips it off, just beneath her ears. there’s nearly ten inches of her soft hair in her fist and in the mirror jane looks sharper and meaner than before. she takes the same scissors and cuts a slit in the hem of the coat and drops the hair into the space between the lining and the thick wool. next falls the paperweight, the journals, a bottle of pills she will no longer take twice daily. the coat is sewn up with small, neat stitches.

down the road from the home is a wide stretch of anemic sand and silvery water. the breeze off the ocean tugs and twists the coat like the hands of insistent children yet jane walks solidly on, feeling more opaque than she has in years. the rocks along the beach are smooth and slightly warm from the sun and she slips the most beautiful into her pockets as she nears the sleepy waves of the shore. jane never stops walking. her shoes are the first to become soaked but soon the water infiltrates her hemline, her waist, her chest, her neck. the short strands of her once flowing hair float momentarily before the water slips over her head like a sheet. jane’s body does not float, does not struggle, does not resurface.
He rolled a tumbleweed of chaos hitting the floor like a ton of bricks.
**** that really looked like it hurt the voice said at the top of the stairs .
The man paused only to light his cigarette and begin his decent down the stairs.

**** please look tell MR  O'Bannon I'll have the money next Wednesday I promise.
The beaten down ******* said blood slightly pouring from his mouth .
Yeah and I thought last time we gave you a week you would clear everything up pal.
With that the man drove a boot into the man on the floors ribs you could hear whatever air was left in the man expel from him a balloon popped at a child's carnival.

It always came to this he thought and it was the **** he hated most as he took another deep drag and blew the  smoke a dragon amongst the lambs.  
the victim was Tommy Owens  he was a first class gambling fiend with as much luck for betting
as a blind man would have for driving a car on the interstate.

The orders were clear either collect the money or close Tommy's marker.
Jack had known the dumb ******* half his life just all the other stupid ******* who saw hope in swimming with sharks.'

MR O'Bannon was a ruthless scumbag who  fed on his own kind and controlled this beaten down neighborhood  and Jack was one of the reasons for it.
you think any business mans going to ***** his hands taking out his own garbage?  

Jack was the trash man and his hands were permanently covered in his bosses ***** deeds.
Jack hated his job almost as much has he hated himself.
But sharks has have no other choice but to swim or die and he dam sure wasn't checking out anytime soon.


Tommy coughed in agony trying to breath and trying to get past the pain of a fresh pair of surely
broken ribs.

**** Jack!
He said in a  voice more broken than his soul.
Please we've known each other since back in the day please just get me some more time please
What about my son?

He always hated when they used that card but if he were in the same fix jack knew he'd do whatever it took to get out of the certain outcome.

It's not like a movie when it comes to doing what has to be done .
In fact it's far more ****** up than any coked out movie director could imagine.
People cry they beg while others just go silent there the ones that always get to you.

Jack stood Tommy up  .
I'll get you some more time alright just this is it my friend you know what happens if you ***** this up.

Jack thank you man the tears welled up in Tommy's  his eyes.
walking him back upstairs jack could no more tell you what Tommy babbled about than if you asked him a question about the worlds economy.

You have to be able to turn that switch of all humanity off in your head and that's what sperates the wolves from the lambs.
As he sat Tommy down in that drab old recliner he could only recall just how silent he was as he turned to leave .

And how even though he could feel the barrel of the pistol to the back of his head he said nothing.
Everyone deserves at least a  grain of comfort and privacy even in death.

It was always that moment before that killed jack.

And as he left the apartment building the another scar and grain of dirt left under his nails and tarnish upon his soul .
He still recalled the sign he saw from the church that read.

Yes he loves even you.

Somehow jack thought to himself  that wasn't probably meant for him.
And if he loved Tommy so very much he sure had ****** up way of showing it.

Sometimes you have to realize you cant play the game against a man who holds
a loaded deck.

And luck is just false hope for suckers.

                                                       ­   The End.
As harsh as this may seem there is no hidden message in here.
I'm a story teller at heart  and not everything in this life is easy or safe.
Devin Bardot Feb 2014
Her mind spaces out through a broken glass

An inverted dream catcher, only nightmares last.

Her mind stays racing, always running so fast

Trapped in her own mind, haunted by her past



She screams and cries

Of the dreams inside

Her broken home’s history never lies



Seeking so much more

Coked out on the floor

No hope left in store

She’s lived it all before – And will again…



Shattered this time

No more room for pride

Nearing the point of ending her life.




Seeking so much more

Coked out on the floor

No hope left in store

She’s lived it all before – This nightmare never ENDS
January 2014
Reece Nov 2013
Through peach coloured faded blinds, you watch him type on ashen keyboards
Low music playing, he used to cut her hair, she was breathing
Words from a soul, or words from dictionaries faded as the blinds and walls and clothes on his back
A team of typists, all in a line (factory work and the repetitiveness of city living)
You notice the desk, cheap and flat-pack, worn markings exposition of veneer and wood
Did you spot the reference, or did it pass your eyes,
- are you a fan?
His derivative verse of Bukowski and the like is painful to eyes and corroding of the soul
Have you seen the bees flee?
Watch as the lights turn dead, and the oven burns red
I'm not sure if one could call it homely; his home
The way darkness arrives early each night above that house alone
and the way rabid foxes walk in large circles to avoid the shadow cast
You hear him cry at night
(and I feel ashamed at noticing you)

He sets himself alight, to feel something new
You watch from your couch and flip the channel

Are the old haunts getting older still,
by the night's final adieu, a wild dog scampers home
To lay beneath the old car with grass in the engine
and we both know the house is burning

The flashing lights in the street and the coked up vagrants dance rhythmically
Smoke contortions over the grassy morning dew
A girl with a vacant stare, from a bench afar, watches and flicks broken nails
Everything you are is nothing you want, still watching from the window
Pacing. Pacing.

(I am on the rooftop, and I saw it all.)
Daniel Magner Mar 2013
You never did **** like that for me
chillin in my lap, with a lighter and a sack
tickets to shows and suckin' it clean
Funny little nicknames, bed games,
thinking about head thangs.
Trips to Chico, down south, or left and right
two lines in the morning and two tabs at night
decided to be a bad ***** now, come freestyle
and I'll put you in your place
run laps around you the whole ******* race
leave you in the dust without a ******* trace

Step back, breathe
dry heave, dry heave
Switching lanes like a drunk man
swerving on the highway, I'm ******* my teeth
coked up going 90, 0 in my sheets.
Blown out bass busting out **** beats
Thought those 2 years made you a hard ***** *****?
You're a lie ***** *****, you don't even try ***** *****
I'm glad I got to know ya but now I'll kick your *** to the curb like a ******* state patrola!
© Daniel Magner 2013

I don't even know what to call this but here it is.
The city spikes that peer out over
rock-spires in the distance taste like
coffee grounds and finger paint.
They're bitter, but they matter.

Maybe someone north of Washington will
read our S.O.S. and send an airplane full of
urban-types to gentrify our graves.

And maybe Jesus saves.

Or maybe Jesus raves with coked-up
Gandhi up in Jersey, when the
winter turns to mush.
Jabber Alexander Aug 2015
Ill **** the ink right off the hemp of the constitution
Just to spit dark remarks like coked up John Belushi
at officials ***-hats enduring constant mood swings
as the hormone pendulum
signifies a revolution
war drone generals,
pimps for hire, lefty tool kits.
hefty duties levied on the public, getting flooded
yes I shot the tariff, but I never quit consumption
off fake happiness
so apathy's getting toothy
Lucidly
give historic figures
clues through dream.

Now thats nifty networking who do you know?
A yeti befriended a spaghetti monster
and got together to spin a blue globe.
Michael T Chase Mar 2021
Reflection is an object just like an atom or a wall.
When this object reflects nothing, there is no object at all.
Nothing is so disgraceful for a writer, except to hearken to its call.
No life is there save by this word, a letter, or a number even.
Only appreciated when the song birds sleep.
During the day I replace it with something, so that I may reflect some object.
For "nothing" is as sleep except for one still awake at 5 AM.
Coked up you could say on dark chocolate, green tea, and nutmeg.
Spaces held together by cigarette puffs.
Waiting for sunrise for another day of the Baha'i Fast to begin.
Hollow is how I feel from concentrating on vipassana alone.
But what is peace if there is no knowledge?
"No knowledge, no peace," there I've said it.
Already missing the winter, though I dreaded it.
Or is it "Know knowledge, know peace," I play with it?
So here I hold the philosopher's stone.
In a month I'll question if I really did.
This thing, a thing it is, though it is a chameleon of sorts.
The trick is to never make small talk with myself.
Though at this a seasoned person would balk.
What is left but a heart beat and a nerve?
A silence that will soon be warmed.
Oh yes, at a new day I must restate what has proved the tests of time: what is consciousness?
I think what they really are asking is what gives humanity our level of abstraction.
Why it's been proven: our large brain compared to our body's size.
Why must consciousness be a surprise?
DNA that formed from the elements: is this a more abstract conclusion?
Or, should it be found in a vaccuum: where no one can socialize, so only one team of scientists can win the prize?
Is it in God, to which I say a Prophet has said we will never ever know.
Within reason, to know God, our DNA would have to further differentiate.
By this, I mean, these mutations is what we are after.
To evolve, could this be consciousness' answer?
Without sleep, no meat (for a year), what other memories could rhyme: deer?
Rabbits and squirrels, mosquitos and trees all sleep, but please: I'm on a numbered clock not a clock of the sun.
Remember when the Braves won?
Remember when the pool was no sport, but fun?
There I go in frivolous pastimes.
Insight, insight, insight, my superego clamps down.
Produce a pearl for Hello Poetry to muse.
Although sometimes these poems I think confuse.
Humanity's joy shut down by a virus.
But an introvert's paradise, what consolation.
To the news half of the ears surmise.
Why is the news about dollar signs?
Capitalism is the Holy Ghost of some.
Give all my money to the Church and Republicans.
Tell us "only Jesus" when only half your gospel you follow.
Tell me Jesus is love when you think hell is beneath.
What grief!
Have you ever heard of the sweet sparrow of Baha?
Calling all peoples leaves of one tree?
Saying every person is equal, no more righteous, nor exalted?
Setting the hearts of the followers of all religions on fire?
They all are One, we say.
You practice yours, I'll practice mine, but never say "hell" to one another, and you'll find:
a better Earth, hearts of heaven too.
A better neighborhood for me and you.
*
But I know some have searched the hearts of Baha, only to find we're "one wayers".
If you cannot find the mercy in us, we're happy for you to join another religion too.
Thanks for inquiring, and if Baha rings so true, but find it's not practiced right, then Baha has said truly no religion is right, no religion is true.
anonymous Jan 2015
min far har altid sagt at jeg skulle tage det sure med det søde
at jeg skulle nyde livet, og de morgner som er røde
dog så jeg kun natten sort, jeg så det hele galt
mit spørgsmål er, hvordan jeg kunne ende så fortabt og fatalt
ikke et barn, endnu ikk’ en voksen, døde øjne og coked op på lykkepiller
hvor længe lever jeg endnu
og fortæl mig, hvornår er det tågen forsvinder?
jeg prøver at ånde ud fra den røgsky jeg mig befinder
men det er bare som om jeg mangler en stifinder
kærlighed, siger de
kærlighed, håber vi
men idag er det penge og analsex
og selv de fattigste i DK har råd til et kompleks
vi er bundet på hænder og fødder
skatter og politi,
for de første ord vi snakker i dk er
egoisme og “pansersvin”
selvorienteret, disorienteret
vi er alle født så uendeligt privligeret
opvokset med en guldske i røven,
vi spiller alle så fandens civiliseret


-Cathrine Berendt
Jodie LindaMae Nov 2015
I brought you my still beating heart
In a bismol pink bedpan,
Your hands lifting from the gurney
Awaiting salvation through my touch.
In my visions I am seventeen.
I am seeing you for the first time at my work
And you make me laugh.
You reiterate the scarring in your soul and down your back
And I ask, rudely, if I may see some time.
You say sure,
But your face wishes that I had never asked.
In my wonders
I am eighteen and telling a group of people my age at a party
Why I am sober,
Because my body is weak
And I am not tempted.
Thoughts of you and my future swirl in my mind
But they do not connect.
I will try in vain for another year
Before I realize that maybe I need to sober up from you.
In my recent memory,
I'm sitting on the side of your bed
Hoping that you do not die.
But I'm half naked,
Underwear and undershirt the only things I have on
And your skin is too hot
And your voice sounds coked over
And your breathing is not a slow hum
But a ravenous wheeze
And I'm scared
And my breathing becomes torn.
I'm nineteen again
But now I am saying goodbye
Though you are still living
And a week earlier I had pledged myself to you forever.
You cry to me that you were saving for a ring
And I had hoped to hear that
But now that you've said it,
I can feel my stomach toss
Into the bedpan
Which houses my heart
In your hands,
I've taken my place among the dreadfully unbalanced
And the perpetually sad.
I have come to the conclusion that I have made a mistake
That is too late in the making to be remedied.
ray Oct 2015
they say write, say write, write
all i hear is 70's french music and static.
all i think of is you,
      last night i took shots until i couldn't hold a steady glass,
      remember thinking this is it, this has got to be it.
      this is how you forget.
contemplating calling you- dreaming that i did
      on, on and on
my english teacher said to write for poignancy,
i wrote on a coked out father,
sometimes i dream i see him at a grocery store, a church
he's all screams, i'm all "you have the wrong person, sir."
i've forgotten how to write,
maybe i'll call you in a year or so, maybe i'll forget
Lunar Luvnotes Apr 2016
What business do you have getting jealous over me. You already have a wife, you ******* fiend. You ask too many questions. So I mention my non-boyfriend and the crazy in your eye catches me off-guard. If nothing else, maybe I've deterred you. And still there's questions. I never anticipated your coked out reaction. I don't need to be the victim of past life regression every time I enter the kitchen. I never gave into the chemistry cuz I could feel this poison coming from eons away. I never let myself joke with you unless I cracked. I never let myself care for you, and that's a fact. I always avoided eye contact at all costs, I pretend not to hear you when you scoff, cuz its not my fault. I tell myself it's not my problem when I ignore your attempts at connection and you look lost. My rejection is all you should have expected. You're ******* married. Even if you weren't, we have bad juju. It was never gonna happen. You are your wife's headache this life. So leave me out of it. How glad I am that I get to walk away and there's no us, and no children for you to hang over my head anymore just because I want out. You couldn't dare touch who doesn't exist. There's no cowards way to keep me oppressed. How relieved I am you cannot touch me. We are in public, I will never cower to you ever again. Your not my keeper, your just my boss. Get past the past lives. Get over yourself. If you do not, I'll just **** you again.
My soul's take on past life beef. When the ending of a poem reveals one of the many times men made it into its a you or me situation,  if I don't bludgeon you to death in your sleep, you're probably gonna **** me. Once you put that threat on my babies,  its your head your plating. Touch me again, ***** I might be as bad as I had to be.  I didn't understand my deep rooted Aversion to this person til this just came out. I didn't even realize I suffered all that berating about something I didn't even do last shift bcuz of jealousy til the crazy eyes kept flashing in my head then this came out. I never figured my boss was my past life oppresor.. I didn't mention anything about men til today cuz i dont talkabout my personal life with people im not friends with, i did today cuz i thought the thought of me with someone else would be a deterrent, and then i get the metaphorical **** kicked out of me by someone who yes can be ******* but had never once stepped to me, he was the sweetest even when i ignore him cuz he's so intense i feel like ihave to or if it was going back and forth itd just be flirtation. Or maybe I'm just bitter for whatever life I actually got the crap kicked out of me. Alls I know is I'm always a ***** despite the fact that I'm not a ***** to other ppl.and when I'm extra ice queeny, even tho I'm not trying to be, this tuff guy looks intimidated by me and says sometimes your looks could ****, it makes too much sense now. I'm starting to feel bad tho thats two guys from my work I've murdered in past lives that I know of so far, I cross checked myself with multiple psychics before I let myself feel bad :/ i always figure it out on accident. Ishould probably get used to it idon't even want to know how many ppl i killed for petty reasons in that Egyptian life that everyone hired me to poison everybody. No body ever suspects the glorified *******. Well i wasnt that bad i only slept with you if you bought me better jewelry than ubought everyone else and if we had enough past lives for me to care. Even if idon't show poems to whom i wrote them it gives me insight on myself. I always felt like the biggest ***** for never wanting to commune with this person til now. Now i dont care. You do not disrespect me. You don't ******* touch me. I need a new second job.
Stu Harley Mar 2015
hey big daddy dude
i sure like
your baby blue eyes and
i sure like your lean style
i wrote this
little drug poem somehow
hey broham
can you do
a little something for me
right now
just bring me a phat bottle of
that cold ****-juice and
some of that
smooth dom perignon
oh yeah
something is going down
at the Paris Hilton Hotel Plaza
can you dig it big daddy
my crazy cat brother
where life is so grand
man i am just sitting
up on top of world
riding up on six white horses
as i drive in my pink-****** cadillac
so welcome to my world
inside the big white house
full of diamonds and pearls
the whole enchilada girl
yes white coke in every room
this ain't some coke in a can
yes we are having a big fundraiser
yeah its party time up in the cut
fifty thousand dollars dreams but
brother man
set it out on the red carpet floor
turn on the groovy and the juicey
psychedelic lights somehow
roll out the big bowl of chili now
the big bowl of white coke and
you are still a bad girl now
have some white coke and a smile
taste some white coke with your fingertips
then snort some white coke up our nose
add some heron with some blow and
through your veins is where it goes
your eyes open then close and
you come riding up on six white horses
look man this is so groovy
like a ten cent movie and
no more **** pain
when we get coked up again
roll out the Benjamins
to climb up that phat hill
Jack and Jill
can you do
something for me
let the white lady in
Tristan Neve May 2010
The
Shes the sky and the ultimate waves
Persued and fried, you and I can't sleep
The seven animals outside won't be still
There's glass in this drink
And its all covered in pride
But if i would drink it
Colossus and the party
Will dance until the knights sit down
Coked out faces shining in the cupboards
Worn throughout the ages by preachers and worms
But the lakes will back up
And the trees will grow to the sky
The rivers will run pure and clean
And men will be there too
All we can do is think back
Justice will be a mighty song
Ringing through the telephones
Too all those ducks and salmon platters
That wait in the upstairs lavatory
Someday I'll spin you a tale
Of ships
And of sailors
And sunken treasure
But thats not today
The cobra den hisses and moans to the radio man
He won't hear a thing until he's spaced
"Send him to the gallows" shouted the crows,
"Rip his skin with the axe" yelled the bag boys
"And crush his thoughts with the rocks" screeched the roads
But alas his tale is mixed in bowls of negativity
And his body is now in the shoes you wear
So now i'll say these words
And frown upon your face
Because we're all gone now
And tomorrow we'll be back
But we'll never be the same.

— The End —