"escitalopram" poems
with a little bit of dust
under yer skin, you
sense something ancient
and dead-yet-still-living in
everything. The love tapestry
on the walls of your mind beg
to differ, complete- who was
that sunuvabitch and what
why did he stop the music?
is he waiting for a drivel?
or a smile?
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
Doctor, tell me:
What do you believe of a woman who envies
not the placement of the ******* sword
but the expectation
placed upon the glorified weapon
to penetrate the holy blossom positioned
between two soft mounds of rosy flesh that
she would die to run her mouth over?
Faceless textbooks whisper
of specialized jealousy
that I, for a lifetime,
will never comprehend—
instead:
Red rouge cheeks plastered against
a clear pane, staring at the winged
angel behind the counter;
Doctor, I hate being a consumer—
I would much rather use my hands
to create a small squeal from
behind her silver tongue
revealing what she thinks
about my manner of exclaiming desire:
writhing lust, ***** thirst,
with weighty spit and heavy breathing
again an instrumental soundtrack:
her movements, mattress creaking—
But Doctor, do you think I am sick?
What is my diagnosis if I can only find beauty
in this societal No-No,
if I have never been an artist
but I always find myself painting
wonderful masterpieces
(a protégé’s standard)
with a cut lock of her hair as a brush,
dipped in white crushed powder,
fresh from a plastic orange bottle
that fell off my desk—
Must I confess to another sin, as if this is the church of
my grandmother’s rosary-laden hands?
Yes, I am reluctantly in love with my Escitalopram
so I have flirted with Acceptance
but he did not seem to like me.
Look here—
Just yesterday
I tried to sell her portrait
to a blonde woman in a pristine art gallery
who peered at my matted hair and how
it fell over the sweater I was wearing,
stained with dark muck,
and I was sent away with the canvas
clutched loosely by my
trembling fingers so that it
barely escaped being dropped.
I do not have nails anymore, Doctor—
What do you make of that?
I have plucked them off their
respective beds and that makes me
feel a little sick but
all is well because it is infinitely better
for my girl's fragrant little blossoms
when she comes into my arms
and allows me to pick them,
one by one, as I roam her field—
Doctor, I would sooner live
in the crumbling pavements of Hell
for an eternity than lose the dreams
that I freely, frequently dream
regarding her and how my nubbed hands are held so dear.
Anyway, Doctor, you need not worry:
I will always have my Escitalopram.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
so ****** in the face of it
at the end of it, your perception
on the nose of it
this feeling in my nose
this tingling wall
this numby crunchy face on my face that blocks out the light and the truth and the life .... that's how it feels .... sorta
how crazy does that read?
i'll bet it reads ugly.
i'll bet it reads sick.
it should because its a description of drugs crazy people, ie. people like me take to try to feel less crazy
they make your god **** face feel like it jumped rebellious,
eyes, ears, nose, throat, turned traitor.
Escitalopram
Buproin
Nuvigil
Lithium Carbonate
Quetiapine
Abilify
Risperdone
Harpoon IPA
Johnnie Walker Red Label blended scotch whiskey
it seems there can come a certain special kind of time in a man's life,
when he can feel weird and lonely enough
to type a few words
and call it poem.
******* Bukowski.
this is his legacy. the possibility to do what I'm doing right now.
without that disgusting, self-centered fool
I never would have thought to try and write these weird feelings I'm feeling.
a little attention,
that's what strokes this need.
a few incidental internet readers,
to read this strangely pointless pontification
on the bits of sadness that are me.
i wish i could find an open field
and lay back comfortable
in the crisp cold air
and feel the stars shoot through me
my heart pounding in the dirt
and waiting for *** or sun or wolves or rain
or anything else you might call "love."
i wish for more death
or more life
I can't stay here.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
I'm alone here
I'm alone
Would you just stop
WOULD YOU JUST STOP AND LISTEN TO ME!
I'm alone
And I just repeat that again and again and AGAIN
And it always seems to be true
And I keep thinking
I think I think and I THINK
But nothing seems to happen
We're trapped
WE ARE TRAPPED
And yet I'm free to roam
You're free to go
You're free to go just go JUST GO
But I'm running away
From what from who FROM WHERE
Freedom freedom freedom OY
Freedom freedom freedom OY
Quit pestering me
Quit it YOURE NOT EVEN HERE
I wish I could go
I need an adventure
I need to go
GET AWAY FROM ME
Oh god HOW DO THEY DO IT
blank memories
blank thoughts
empty files
empty plot
scared frozen
scared free
scared forever
scared me
Meds meds meds
Drugs drugs brain
Empty clear fuzzy
Gone
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC
She's screaming at me
from the tile floor of the bathroom
and there's sick in her hair
so I just ring her mother.
I'm disgusted at her,
it's pathetic. I'm sick of listening
to this, and holding hair back,
and stuffing my hand down throats
to feel the ***** crawl back up to catch me.
I'm standing in a house in a bad estate
and it's 8AM
and how did I get here?
I left my friend behind in a bathroom
because I can't bare to see her and remember
crying in a nightclub bathroom in Carrick
and not knowing why.
The room is spinning, but at least I'm smiling.
I think this boy is quite pretty, really.
Where is she? Sprawled out, puking
in the sheets of her bed. I'm not sympathetic.
Take your medication you headcase,
we need it to function - just take it, I swear.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
so ****** in the face of it
at the end of it, your perception
on the nose of it
this feeling in my nose
this tingling wall
this numby crunchy face on my face that blocks out the light and the truth and the life .... that's how it feels .... sorta
how crazy does that read?
i'll bet it reads ugly.
i'll bet it reads sick.
it should because its a description of drugs crazy people, ie. people like me take to try to feel less crazy
they make your god **** face feel like it jumped rebellious,
eyes, ears, nose, throat, turned traitor.
Escitalopram
Buproin
Nuvigil
Lithium Carbonate
Quetiapine
Abilify
Risperdone
Harpoon IPA
Johnnie Walker Red Label blended scotch whiskey
it seems there can come a certain special kind of time in a man's life,
when he can feel weird and lonely enough
to type a few words
and call it poem.
******* Bukowski.
this is his legacy. the possibility to do what I'm doing right now.
without that disgusting, self-centered fool
I never would have thought to try and write these weird feelings I'm feeling.
a little attention,
that's what strokes this need.
a few incidental internet readers,
to read this strangely pointless pontification
on the bits of sadness that are me.
i wish i could find an open field
and lay back comfortable
in the crisp cold air
and feel the stars shoot through me
my heart pounding in the dirt
and waiting for *** or sun or wolves or rain
or anything else you might call "love."
i wish for more death
or more life
I can't stay here.
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 4:25 AM UTC
Wake up just to go back to sleep
Later I'll take some antidepressants, but this **** ain't cheap
Waiting to feel good, I'll play some DOOM
**** them all in a dark dead room
Life is basically like an illusion
**** it, life's giving me a mental confusion
Time flies and it's already 11 at night
Everything is black and white
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 2:40 AM UTC
Xanax is the devil
When mixed with too much drink
And so is escitalopram
That is what I think
These things conspire to change your vibe
And now it seems if you imbibe
The smallest teensy tiny touch
Of ***** it’s ...still a bit too much...
Seems my Dear has disappeared,
And swaying in her place
Another person, as I feared,
Without the charm; without the grace,
I cannot stand my latest role:
Authoritative scolding troll
And I, not knowing what to do
Retreat into a deep dark blue
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 6:12 AM UTC