"escapists" poems
ever since i was young,
my gaze was drawn skyward.
i could tell you the story of orion,
and how to brush bernice's hair,
before i could tell you that two plus two equals four.
i know more about our vast universe,
than i know about many of my friends.
if you are not well acquainted with a pisces,
let me give you a bit of an introduction:
we are compassionate, imaginative,
we adapt to whatever is thrown at us,
and my personal favourite,
we are unfalteringly loyal.
however...
we are full of self-hate,
prone to laziness,
we are escapists
and horrendously easy to manipulate.
i believe my horoscope today is complete ********
i do not feel utterly lovely,
i know i will not score a date
because no one feels for me romantically.
i've nothing to flaunt.
the horoscopes are saccharine lies,
but, those traits? those are me.
my soul is ancient,
i feel the pain of struggles i have not faced,
or rather, have not YET faced;
i will split my soul in two
i will break my bones
i will give every drop of my blood
i will breathe my last breath
for those that i love.
i spent two years of my life giving my heart and soul to a sagittarius.
philosophical, adventurous.
i admired him so.
but his negatives--
inconsistent. overconfident.
careless.
he was a burning house.
my mother, also a pisces, when all was said and done,
told me to stay away from those sagittarius boys.
they're dangerous for wary, fretful fish like us,
who ask 'from what bridge?' when we are told to jump.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
I **** the mood in a sour June,
opulent misery, scorched Earth,
exchanging platitudes with old faces,
full of ******** full of hot air.
Both sides of the fence
at war with themselves,
feigning inner peace and profit
across the beer garden table.
I talk of hangmen and floods,
child brides and dressing gowns,
my hometown under the mythic spell
of collective memory loss.
We have forgotten our place
in the comfort of our urban sprawl;
sirens caterwaul past the high-rise,
past the vacant church with locked doors
and the homeless on the street.
A commonplace emergency,
young male suicides, women *****
in the safety of their homes,
taught a kindness through physical force,
the way the gun drops to civilians
in countries saved through the filter
of television screens; of dust and distance.
I sit and write and think of ****
of old loves, anxieties-
they call me crazy all the while
for not committing to the scene.
Now Afghanistan is a blueprint,
extended diagram of steady-state destruction,
a conspiracy of white man dreams,
farmlands bruised by machines of war,
by the Big Black Boot,
the feeling we have been here before.
All the while, the illusion persists,
car parks filled with smoke, professional escapists
with their 9% lager, bags of tobacco,
and the megalomania of art.
I **** the mood of a whitewashed June,
advertised freedom, a mortgaged Earth,
exchanging currency for a chance of peace,
the zen garden smoker, the looted mind.
Both sides of the fence are collecting bones,
at war with themselves, whilst my eyes are red
and my philosophies, ******
They call me crazy for dreaming of escape,
whilst never leaving the confines of home.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
a quote from the movie "The Big Short"
~
*a screen provocation,
you laugh out loud,
mime hating yourself
that you are joiining in
tacitly acknowledges the truth
of abbreviated wisdom
you,
disguised minority of
modest disagreers,
c'mon, admission submission,
more truth in it
than deserving of argumentation
a one liner throwaway,
neatly designed,
leaves you disturbingly
probed,
thoughtfully tormented and
aroused
poetry just a vehicle,
your vice for revelation,
the critical door to open is this:
do people hate the truth?
inescapable reality
ironical probability,
truth well disguised,
in plastic shell of lying
from the Hollywood's would be poets,
an escapade from the escapists
let us not pretend
that you and I
uncaring, for by virtue of
your reading this, you are
poetry aficionado,
required to deny the lie,
and yet,
accept
the
granular view
that we are rising writing thru the wronged end of
a telescoping microscope
so I scare scar a tissue sample from my tongue
and the cells spell
this rejoinder:
all your lies are poems,
incomplete truths,
and that's why people hate poetry*
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
electric impulses knaw
at nubs formerly known
as finger tips,
worn down to bits by
the desire to drench
this world with one
simple thing that may
or may not be
everlasting
i'm in search of
a replacement for
flimsy false hopes
and finicky heart pokes,
for flat lined finite
chopped up bits
flying up nostrils
in hysterical hits
even escapists smack
walls from which
they can't slither
through silently,
walls covered in
mirrors full of
faces fueled with
hostility
all the faces are
my own and it's
time i find some grace
before i finally
pull my last astonishing
escape from this place
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 5:36 PM UTC
I'm waterproof positive:
This may be John Hawkins's ship
But I've no idea why that matters.
This is disease infested waters,
And piracy is highly contagious,
I should know.
I grew up on the same street as money,
But he migrated to Los Angeles,
Where there was greater curb appeal.
This life is a house of stairs,
And no one walks
The plank better than me.
But all too soon
This old vessel is firewood
And tread board.
It might be the new world,
But the pilgrims are covered
In Spanish moss,
Mixed warning signs on their hats.
We pirates are forgetful escapists,
Doing high wire acts at sea,
To harbor regret is to mutiny
In thy heart,
I should know.
But I don't.
Seems my mind has gone
And given me the slip,
Meet me for a pint
At the Crooked Wig
And we'll talk shop...
Maybe.
Jun 21, 2023
Jun 21, 2023 at 1:57 PM UTC
I feel the dirt,
and it's not as easy as washing it off to get rid of it.
It's been piling for years
up, in, and around me.
It's in my nails,
and I feel it pumping in my blood.
But worst of all,
I hear it in love.
It makes my attention weary.
And as I'm in the midst of it's dirtiness,
all I can think of is how I can put more strength into asking God how do get rid of it..
'cause I can't stop it.
But I won't stop trying,
it's not worth another option.
I'm no super hero,
so who believes dirt doesn't shine ?
Because i can see,
That It's glaring in your eyes.
Memories don't live like people do.
So just like that,
the ocean lives in my living room.
I sure hope I can fall into it while I throw myself around.
.. At least to cool off.
And why deal with the problems,
when you could just deal with the symptoms right ?
Throw it to the back of my conscious for the time being ?
I hate having to do that.
I hate living with dirt.
It's like a secret, mostly.
We talk about it cautious.
I think of it, grossly.
Even though it hangs, closely.
When it is in mood,
you'll hear it.
Somewhat ghostly.
This has got me shaking my head a lot.
Crap out of luck.
Like some average Joe smuck.
Like I can buy it.
But I'm crap out of a buck.
Life is a storm,
It won't miss me if I duck.
It tempts my strength to soften over time;
i just won't have that on my watch.
Dirt belongs only in certain places,
on the footprints of your guilty traces & in the past of professional escapists.
Usually on the end of a pick.
Life is a garden I hope you can dig.
Joe Dirt said we just gotta keep on,
keepin' on.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 4:29 AM UTC
I fumble for my next dose
Blue chalky circles spill
Onto white linoleum
Clicking for every lost meal
Bounce like My shaky hands
No interest in obeying
Nobody ever stopped asking for an answer.
My first vice
Dependant on malnutrition
addiction, in fear
fists coming down, off the high.
there is no such thing as a familiar crash
Always a new drug.
hands struggle without muscle
We shake together.
Indulged in recall
Dissolved in water.
I sometimes feel bad for my first upper
Too quick to cheat
Carbonated me fat
Made my teeth fall out
Drew me into television
Tom and Jerry became my bedtime
I gorged myself on escapism.
After a seisure I would regret that much of this new drug.
I ration just enough
She forces my shaky hand
Insist I never talk to her while the show is on
the show is everything.
a vacuum, dusty room, spotless television
There is never a crash.
Only crippling mania
I won't **** this new addiction..
Her absence is a gateway to new powders
this Killing drug gave me the power to stop craving more.
There is closure in calling a poison by it's first name.
We call ourselves poison from the very beginning.
the little blue pills are my escapists cure.
I always go back to coffee
kept warm, by an indulgence I can hold around family.
I've a curious tongue, an educated pallete.
Seven years slinging uppers, black.
Before I learned how to read a clock
All I wanted was for it to snow
In maine, I'm skeptical when not frozen.
If I made a snow angel, I would never come down.
Snow makes beautiful quicksand.
It's hard to inhale when drowning.
I am also more likely to expand my pallete on oxygen alternatives when drowning.
The ocean has infectious curiousity
Sirens dwell there for a reason.
if I had a boat.
I wouldn't make it past the poppys
Thankfully, I do not have a boat.
Only weak Coffee
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 6:28 AM UTC
1.
The scent; amber
The color; pine
The touch; echos
The sound; blind
They are
All
of the senses
Intertwined.
2.
Sweet Robin, alight... takes to wing
Bruce's laughter, a booming thing.
Mark serenades, Michelle My Belle
Rog recants exploring tells
Scott japes, and keith's ad libs
Karen oh Karen, heaven forbid!
Artists Dreamers Escapists Poets.
Jesters Lovers Genius Knowers.
Alarmists minimalists
Extroverted introverts
Fighters flighters
Together
Loners
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
I am a French horn, a bottle neckless hourglass and butterscotch tape
You're a red harp with veins painted on the side
When I come home, you see me as an acrylic heap with chips of lead and belly aching homing words
Scotch sticks and smoke smells and the stitches are uncomfortable on my neck where you often warm your hands
I am a masquerade of shellfish clamoring on about the epitome of burlesque humor
You’re alien to anything other than sourdough and design
I have structured my thesis around burlesque and you fail to see the humor
When I fear the apologists
You fear the escapists
I am the tigers of the world, borrowing viciousness
You’re a long pause, loved and disquieted, painting my stripes as veins
I’m freaked out now because the apologists are escaping and the escapists are apologizing
At this clear impasse, you pity and press on until my fingers at the French horn drain to my sides
I am an island in a puddle of sand
Jul 16, 2020
Jul 16, 2020 at 1:14 PM UTC
We smoke dried leaves
And drink fermented fruit
To try to escape the prison of reality
Even if it's just momentarily
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
I try to refrain but retch
And my thoughts splatter the paper
True conversation, simple as
The twig caught up in our river
Meandering along
Strips us of the shell they covet
Within layers of their own
Shining opaque splendor
A beautiful visage
That disturbs even the casual passerby
We are not the first ones.
Careless escapists frequent our haven
And their troubles vanish
As ours ooze from our pores
A vile sludge that falls and
Squelches between toes
Leaving us clean, relatively speaking
Upon our exit, we scoop up some of the stuff
And fit it back inside
Determined, the impure
Resolved, the imperfect
To sink further
Into the madness
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 11:26 AM UTC
we're all good at escapism
we hide ourselves in books
we live on movies
we breathe music
we devote ourselves to anything
when will we step outside
and take in everything
the people, our environment
look around
and see humanity for what it is
rather than conceal it all
we can't spend our lives scared
let's be
let's not rely on other things
to keep us temporarily absent
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
We smoke by the canal,
getting high;
lamenting our lack of a decent broken home,
British hip-hop in the static of the upper classes.
They're doing more with their time,
old analogue transmissions, sleep-filled afternoons;
a paperback revolution, a snail's pace progression,
those ancient roads of forgotten travel,
the routes we had given up too soon.
I am too impatient now,
seeking The High
over inner peace, those new-found techniques
in favour of old habits; instantaneous retreat.
It's okay, this interludal existence, high-wire dependency
for a feeling ill-placed in sober routine.
We give up on chasing women
to chase heights we know we can never reach.
We smoke some more,
an artist's tomb;
the coffee table piano, old acoustics
with malformed necks, waning ligament of string.
Let's fill the emptied social scene,
appear red-eyed in the daylight,
pawing for a comfortable release.
We talk about hitting those unsung chords,
then we roll another, another,
until we cannot sing anymore.
Two escapists converge
to hustle the prison;
get high on the prospect
of getting high in the future.
We smoke by the canal,
feeling low, unstrung.
The out-of-tune white man blues,
pleading for acceptance
from the crowds we love to criticise.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
Think that the dolls in houses
get mad
or depressed
shoved in closets
untouched till the day they are shoved into the attic?
I opened my doll house
and all that I found
were porcelain skins
sprinkled dust
on the plastic
they got out
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
An endless turn,
A silent burn,
He slips away,
Won’t e'er return.
The flesh is raw,
The lady saws,
I wait her call,
She fights, withdraws.
Escapists flee
When fear draws near,
They toss, they turn—
Nothing is clear.
Confused, we bind
Tormented hearts,
What we will find
Is love in shards.
Oct 8, 2024
Oct 8, 2024 at 1:26 AM UTC
We are all escapists
one way or another
moments overcome us
to our moods we surrender
comfort to seek
wounds and bruises to heal
courage and patience to renew
while past scenes their unwelcome presence reveal.
We are all escapists
one way or another
life is indifferent and takes no sides
we laugh and we cry, we rejoice and we suffer.
Believe not those who proudly declare
they are the invincible optimists
when the tides of life rock their boats their hearts sink
overnight they would turn miserable pessimists.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
Over by the corner the bandstand plays on
next to the cotton candy wagon and the clown
Its a circus act full of people and acrobats
and tallish men on walking wooden stilts
One tiny red balloon dots the sky as I espy
juggling acts leading to the garden path
it ain't over until the fat lady sings
so I better not dally, I need a glass ring
Fire eaters and sweet ladies that stretch
ventriloquists with two sided mouths
magicians that stage with props, and coins
cats on tight ropes, hawkers and escapists
Silver hoops and fast delivery guys
life is changing right before our very eyes
Give me the candy but don't tell me lies
of course I want the red balloon, untie!
Feb 12, 2023
Feb 12, 2023 at 6:09 AM UTC