"receipt" poems
Check message
Facebook
Check message
Instagram
Check message
Send message
Wait
Check
Look;
When did relationships
Get defined
By a read receipt?
Will we
Now
Only measure intimacy
By a tweet?
What do we have left,
Why can’t we
Go back
To laughter
In a diner seat
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 11:47 PM UTC
Dear Miss ********,
We regret to inform you that unfortunately at this time we do not have space for you at our company.
Yours,
Xxxx xxxxxxxx
Dear Miss *******,
We regret to inform you that unfortunately at this time we cannot offer you a place with our company as you are under qualified.
Yours ** xxxxx
Dear Miss ********,
Thank you for your application. We regret to inform you that you are over-qualified for the position.
Yours, xxxxxxx ***
Dear Miss ******,
I don’t think so love. This isn’t even a letter, this is my managerial position on you handing me your cv.
Cheers, bahbye now
Dear Miss *******,
This isn’t really a letter either, but despite how un-pc this is, we can’t hire you due to your gender.
Thanks anyway, save your paper.
Dear Miss ********,
Thank you for your application, unfortunately we had stronger applicants.
Yours, etc., aaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa
Dear Miss ********,
Thank you for your application. Unfortunately we are not hiring at the moment even though we had advertised the job you applied for.
Yours, xxxxxxxxx xxxxx
Dear Miss ********,
We had left it between you and another applicant, and couldn’t decide so we flipped a coin, and she won. You’re a lovely girl though.
Yours, fffffff ffff fffff
Dear Miss ********,
I refer to your claim for Jobseekers Benefit/Assistance at VVVVVV’s CCCCCC local office. Jobseekers Benefit/Assistance claims are subject to periodic review, consequently, I would appreciate if you would attend this office for interview on the 31/17/78 and bring the following :
1. Proof of Identity (i.e. Passport or Driving Licence or Long version of your Birth Certificate)
2. Proof of Residency (e.g. Letter from landlord/ Rent Book/ Lease/ Mortgage Receipt/ Letter from Parents + Household Bill)
3. Written Proof of recent job applications and replies.
4. Proof of job applications made through FAS
5. FAS courses applied for.
6. A copy of your Curriculum Vitae (CV): unemployed from
7. If your spouse/partner is an adult dependent on your claim, please bring his/her GNIB and Passport/Travel Documents.
Failure to respond to this letter may lead to suspension or disallowance of claim.
Yours sincerely,
**** *****
Local Officer
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
When life gives you lemons,
make sure you keep the receipt,
because lemons are a horrible gift.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
Life
is at times
an unwanted gift.
The sentiment is nice
but sometimes I think
having the receipt would be nicer.
Maybe then it could be returned.
Maybe then enough money would be given back
for a new one.
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
Machine ground days
Somehow survived by clinging to precarious plans
Die for those.
For proles are stuck in a televised gleam
but I’m barred from distractions
I’m a man of action
Spring healing:
I found a new hope to get through the day
It has a name and it’s you
Workday: animistic curses
against people and their systems and products
except animals would escape forever
as soon as they open the cage
but we stay
The beastly gnashings of overworked merchandisers
for invisible self pocket stuffers
The competition's getting to us, comrades
I feel swindled out of my labor
I was pregnant
but they sold my child before
I woke up
Addressing the solipsism of my rehab circle:
I’m Kagey, and my life is hazy
but, blunted or no, let’s get this clear:
don’t trust your senses
and that goes for all my human peers
Body is a cage full of defenses
Still, I’m suspicious of reality
whether it’s façade society
or the wooden chair in front of me
Still, I enjoy the virtual scenery
I ain’t talking about on the T.V. or phone screen
I mean the willows, buildings, and faces
But all these mushy green acres are fakers
blobs without our eyesight
Still tho,
me and the universe are tight.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 8:00 AM UTC
1203
The Past is such a curious Creature
To look her in the Face
A Transport may receipt us
Or a Disgrace—
Unarmed if any meet her
I charge him fly
Her faded Ammunition
Might yet reply.
4.6k
Let me to the Incarnate Mother must
The Eldest of Sudden Truth understand
One Day, which shaky Candles will delust
The Object's Manner of a Blackened Hand
I deliver Forceps to which Heart grows
What Heart's own Attrition dares to admit
The Mum of Three Promised Knights beknows
The Receipt of such Devotion permits
Verily, Age is a Factorless Sum,
Easily enclayed by a Donkey's Foot
And when the Festival lays down its Lump
It locked the Door to keep the Sorrowful.
Now, Elder-Mum, try to lift your Wise Head
This Extended Son, wishes your Love be fed.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:37 AM UTC
The unanswered phone calls,
the unopened mail,
the half pack of cigarettes,
all witnessed the tale.
The half eaten sandwich,
the fully drunk scotch,
the out of date calendar,
the unticking watch.
The smell of stale sweat,
and the stains on the sheet.
The small empty bottle,
the drug store receipt.
This is the story,
of the unshaven guy,
alone in the bedroom,
escaping the lie.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
The representative from Ohio
wipes his *** with Jose’s brown
palms after a bout of verbal defecation.
Luckily, Jose’s food truck houses
a small sink in the corner where
he can wash his hands in between
baskets of chorizo prepared
for rich politicians.
Sometimes Jose scrubs so hard dream flakes
rub off of his skin and he throws them
into the wastebasket to be picked
up by the sanitation workers who
eagerly jump like frogs in orange vests
into the waste of Americana. When
the Representative stops by for
a plate of carne asada, Jose’s
dream specks pepper the beef
and his salty sweat flavors
the inside of the burrito. He grills
the onions and green peppers with
a dash of minimum wage and
boils the rice in a mixture of blood
and pieces of his heritage.
He serves the meal in a white Styrofoam
tray and drizzles it with cheese flowing
from an open wound. The receipt is an unpaid
medical bill, the drink an icy reminder
of his future sipped through a straw.
The nightly news tells Jose
the Representative is bedridden
with a stomach infection. He
complains his insides feel like
a million ***** feet kicking the lining,
like unheard mouths with rows of
sharp teeth gnawing at the liver.
Jose to the tv: tonight we’re not starving.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
As the time is passing through
From the present to the past
The moment is all wrapped up .....
....To be ....put away at last!!
A GIFT-----
From some future time
When all the signs
Will show you
That you now have
A need for seeing
Past the thing you already know
When the present
Becomes history---
In a past thats not yet opened--
To be seen for what it is ---or isn't
Depending on what you're hoping
While the past ....
.....is time passing
And time gone ....
.......is going faster
Now is the time for you...to
Re-- examine
A GIFT THAT WAS
Once your master
Its so hard to take
Even a single step
To know now
That the thing you fear
Stands before you
As the lost and found
So the only question left is right here
Will you see the past
Whenever
You choose to lose
Or gain by seeing....
.....The past
That you've kept
All wrapped up inside
That is now your future---
If it is presently----
Being Opened and Examined
But if you can just imagine
Some mi'nute past defeat
As the thing that is now....yours
FOR - GIVING
So rather than.......anonymously
Presenting it to you .....yourself
By your own past deceit
Make sure that you return it
UNOPENED --- Along with the receipt.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 5:03 AM UTC
Pick a cause, any cause, and slap your receipt on your bumper.
Everyone is doing it.
Everyone needs something to be passionate about.
What's your disease?
Not a one of us has it but **** if we don't act like it.
Walk it off.
Blame federal taxes.
Blame the government.
Why not your cause?
Why not your ailment?
Cus' you know Johnny is going to die if we don't do something,
and Susie's just runnin' outta time.
Buy a teddy bear to show you give a ****
Donate that extra quarter.
It all piles up somewhere.
But who, I mean who ever bothered to cure anything?
A million lab coats are workin' on your answer.
Just give em' a sec,
this stuff takes time.
In the mean time throw another buck in like your the only one.
Like this is the only problem left.
Like Santa only cares about breast cancer
or the church only cares about Alzheimers.
It's got one of their own you know.
Uncle Jim's got cancer of the liver,
where's his save the children fund?
Timmy's got cerebral palsy.
Sara's got Aspergers.
Randy has the Typhoid.
Pick a brand any brand and show you give a ****
Like the only one who gives a **** about the only thing that matters.
Forget them, what about me?
What about my issue?
What about my family?
Does the take a penny leave a penny in the seven eleven make you feel important?
Good.
Look here, buy this pin. 10% goes to Katrina victims
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 8:49 PM UTC
Never trust a Florida boy,
In that muggy, humid heat.
I'm telling you, little girl,
Your heart will soon taste defeat.
Them deep fried southern marshes,
Raising mosquitoes and deceit.
The greatest place on earth can keep its ************* receipt.
The air as thick as my blood was,
When I met your eyes.
And yours met hers,
And your monster claw,
Tore her smooth skinned thigh.
I felt that painful scream.
Boiling up. Melting my chest inside.
What's the point of being still while my mind is feeling fried?
So I packed my heavy load of anxiety,
And headed for the coast.
I watched the orange sunset,
As I brought up a salty toast,
From my eyes.
Solemnly, spilling into the sea.
And I felt the spirit of an old friend.
Leaning rigidly against me.
So I turned on heel and didn't speak a sound.
As I turned to leave the now known ghost town.
And I gave one last grim look back out at the sea.
As I write these tattered goodbyes,
To where my feet have rambled me,
And I let my tongue wrap around the ribbons of goodbye,
Escaping my parched lips.
And I shutter as I listen to the sound of my heart as it rips,
An angered storm of sea,
Flooding down my eyes.
Knowing this is where the memories of escapades in our days, lays down and dies.
I feel the faint.
Bleak pain, blanketing us,
Weak and weary.
And I know our story has a melancholy mood of dreary.
And this is where I end it.
And cast it all out to sea.
And I leave the tragic bays of what I once called Rosemary.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
THESE ARE YOUR HANDS AND THIS IS HOW YOU TELL THE FLAMES YOU'RE NOT ALL BAD.
THESE ARE YOUR THIRD DEGREE BURNS TO SAY YOU'RE NOT THE ONLY ONE WITH BONES MELTING IN TRUST ISSUES.
THESE ARE YOUR WRISTS, THOSE ARE YOUR KNEECAPS, THIS IS YOUR STORY.
THIS IS HOW YOU BITE YOUR TONGUE BUT STILL MANAGE TO LEAVE THE WORLD WONDERING HOW YOU COULD MATCH UP TO THUNDER'S HARMONIES,
THIS IS HOW YOU WHISPER TO MOUNTAINS AND KNOW THE PEAKS WILL HEAR YOU.
THIS IS HOW YOU TELL THE VOICES IN YOUR HEAD TO SHAKE HANDS WITHOUT STARTING AN EARTHQUAKE,
THIS IS HOW YOU TELL DEPRESSION TO LIGHTEN UP,
THIS IS HOW YOU GRAB ANXIETY BY THE SHOULDERS AND SING LULLABIES TO ITS LUNGS.
THIS IS HOW YOU WALK UP TO GOD AND RIP OPEN YOUR CHEST WITHOUT INTRODUCING YOURSELF FIRST AND ASK "WHY?"
THERE'S PAPER UNDERNEATH YOUR PILLOW,
THOSE ARE THE NOTES YOU PASSED TO YOUR BEST FRIEND IN THE THIRD GRADE WHEN YOU TOLD HER ABOUT YOUR FIRST CRUSH.
THERE'S A PAPER THAT'S BEEN IN YOUR BACK POCKET FOR A YEAR AND A HALF,
THE ONE NEXT TO YOUR RECEIPT FOR A BOTTLE OF WHISKEY AND STAIN REMOVER,
THIS IS THE NOTE SHE WROTE YOU A WEEK BEFORE HER FUNERAL.
THIS IS HOW YOU WASH YOUR JEANS WITH TWO CUPS OF 'TODAY I FORGOT TO REMEMBER TO FORGET'.
THIS IS HOW YOU COPE.
THIS IS HOW YOU LAY ON MUD STAINED CARPETING AND AND STARE AT YOUR BROKEN DOOR,
THIS IS HOW YOU CONVERT TO HARDWOOD FLOORS AND STRONGER DOOR HINGES.
THIS IS HOW YOU WIN A WAR WITH ONE BODY ON A BATTLEFIELD,
THIS IS HOW YOU SHOW A BLIND MAN THAT YOU CAN PAINT A GOD **** MASTERPIECE.
THIS IS HOW YOU REACH HEAVEN WITHOUT DYING, THIS IS HOW YOU KNOW HELL WITHOUT LIVING THROUGH IT.
THIS IS HOW YOU UNDERSTAND THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE, BY CROSSING PATHS WITH THE GUY THAT MADE YOU HATE WET PAVEMENT AND THE SMELL AFTER IT RAINS,
THIS IS HOW YOU HELD HIS HAND THE SAME WAY YOU HOLD A KNIFE, THIS IS HOW YOU LEARN FORGIVENESS.
THIS IS HOW YOU SMOKE WITH THREE LUNGS AND LOVE WITH ONE.
THIS IS HOW YOU STUFF THE PERSON YOU WANT TO BE IN A FORTUNE COOKIE AND LEARN PATIENCE.
THIS IS HOW YOU TELL PEOPLE YOU'RE NOTHING LIKE YOUR MOTHER. THIS IS HOW YOU SAY YOU HAVE YOUR EYES, NOT HERS BECAUSE THIS IS HOW YOU UNCLENCH YOUR HUSBANDS FISTS.
THIS IS HOW YOU LOSE SOMEONE THAT NEVER KNEW HOW TO BE ALONE, THIS IS HOW YOU WORRY.
THIS IS HOW YOU CONFIDE IN A HOSPITAL BED TO TEACH YOU HOW TO LET GO.
THIS IS HOW YOU LET THE NURSE WITH SHAKY HANDS TEACH YOU HOW TO TRACE THE STRAIGHT LINE ON YOUR HEART MONITOR AND BE OKAY AFTERWARDS. THIS IS HOW YOU LIVE AND ACCEPT DEATH.
THIS IS HOW YOU UNEARTH YOURSELF,
THIS IS HOW YOU STOP EXISTING,
THIS IS HOW YOU STOP FOCUSING ON LIVING AND BREATHE FOR YOURSELF.
THIS IS HOW YOU STOP THINKING AND FEEL.
THIS IS HOW YOU SPEND A LIFETIME TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHAT 'THIS' IS.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
Hooked and hung to the chair,
tethered by a strap-
colour akin to your hair-
you sat and stared
at another essay to be handed in
by three pm, next-week-Wednesday.
A-future-whatever is another
lustful thought, failed and
let down by little taught.
Again! Why a wife is so hard to find
in brambled streets or box hedged
squares, rectangular and receipt like?
Give up and give in,
walk drunk drinking sloe gin.
That way love is but blackthorn berries
the controversial, speechless adversaries.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
So it wrinkles, this Righteous Heresy
All due to Flavours spat-out by your Youth
To lose that Touch; Then amend Destiny
I guess after all is the Proper Truth
And notice your Baggage all Night and Day
With the many Props you have to carry
Since, this Cage, the Kingdom's Letter your Way
You found the Mole to a Mountain he'll tarry
So, Fortune's East beg for your timed receipt
Though a Million shy it is not enough
And cope this Passage with your Conceit
To join the Mob and level your Thoughts rough.
As for me, to the House I contemplate
Whether to abandon or shift my Fate.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
Scribbled in a pre-sex haste
of hormones and awful
music taste,
your name on the back of a receipt
is no way to treat
a one night stand
that you met at the bar;
held hands with in the street;
and subsequently left when
the night became light and neat,
tidied up in a 10am alarm clock
call.
Could’ve waited until
we were both awake,
that way the alcohol would’ve warn off
and we could take this major issue
for what it was-
excitement;
and much anticipation; and placing into
action every lesson learnt from Nick Hornby books,
or pieces of information tucked
deep within our internet bookmark lists.
At least stay until after
Desert Island Discs
next time,
because then buses shall be running
on time, and you won’t have to risk
the public transport roulette table
that spins around this town,
this great noun in the Anglia east.
Now it's the news, and the news
is you've gone. For a moment
I slipped back into a sleepy cement,
making for rough fingers-
that last night made the ascent
up to warmer climates.
And now back to lonelier nights
and Nick Hornby books,
afternoon wake-up calls
from Mum, back home,
asking how to download
the latest Google Chrome.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC
I want to protect you from the storms of life
I want to be your umbrella in the torrential downpour we call tough times
Though my fabrics may be porous and the water I shield you from may cause splash back
I want to be there
At times it may seem that no one loves you
I’m **** sure that’s not true
But I am not always sure that anyone else has a good enough grasp on the word to know
That it by definition means you have to be there for the ones you claim to love
Otherwise it doesn’t mean a thing
Otherwise you’re just the dope standing in line at the store trying to get a return without a receipt
But why would anyone want to return you?
You may have come straight out of the package only to be a busted toy that fell into bad hands
But as a porous old umbrella I can assure you
In my life you are the best that I have got
I’d rather shield you from the rain than any naïve, gleaming package
Whom has no comprehension of how ****** life is beyond the store walls
And you are far more beautiful anyways, with those missing bits and nicks in your plastic
In fact I thought you were so beautiful I wrenched myself from my owner’s hands
So I could protect you from the pain within the rain instead
You were just a toy that had been trashed but I was willing to lose myself for you
Willing to lose my time inside my cocoon of ignorance in someone else’s hands
Just so that I could be blessed enough to call you my best friend
I wanted to bear the weathers over our heads so that yours wouldn’t feel a drop
And the only weather I can’t protect you from is the flood of your tears
But when they surge upon us in times of trouble I prefer to invert myself and collect
Allowing them to pool in the basin of my memories so that one day when you’re stronger than that
We can take the time to look back and laugh
At the broken toy that couldn’t see that her worst problems
Could be fixed by a leaky old umbrella
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC
My Grandma had a purse shaped like a cobbler.
It was Blackberry and soap with a good dose of thyme.
She kept it close to her side, but behind her
so as not to impede her graceful march.
At some point the original strap had been lost
and replaced with a cherry red confection
that swirled around her arm and latched
onto the top crust that is always the most crunchy.
A few buttons were picked up along the way
and dotted the top layer like ladybugs dancing.
The zipper was never fully shut and there was often
a receipt sticking out, or perhaps her pink comb
that waggled in the air like a tongue in delight.
It wasn’t a big purse; just enough to satisfy
a healthy craving but big enough to care
were you not to see it present at dinner.
I have almost forgotten the healthy craving,
the smell of Blackberries, and why the ladybugs
should ever want to dance.
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
She meets a man at In-N-Out.
He sits down, and she quickly tunes out.
Moves phone from the once vacant seat.
Don't worry, he said
I won't take your things.
Oh — I was just moving it...
from your seat.
Averts eyes. Looks at feet
It's my first time here — I drove from Ohio.
Closes open apps.
Wait — you drove to LA to try In-N-Out?
Well, no, I'm headed to Vegas, but I
was curious what all the fuss was about.
It's 4 hours from here, and I have time to ****
Opens Instagram.
You mean to Las Vegas, not Ohio, right?
Oh no — yea, Ohio is a 24-hour drive.
Tapping feet. Two people in line.
God, it's crazy here! (said w/incredulous chime)
Busy? Hah — try dinnertime.
Tags @innoutburger on marquee.
They told me I'm number 26 in line.
Misses his smile at the receipt.
I'm number 18.
Looks at feet.
But I just heard them say 23.
They'll call me.
Checks the time.
NUMBER 18!
I gotta run — that's me.
Well it was nice...
Leaves
meeting you.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
Do not lance your hair
Just to satisfy those men in suits,
Or your woman, sat there with that expectant gaze
Reserved for only you.
Let your image be cultivated
Through the culture of the downstroke.
The lazy thick steel on the neck of the guitar
That shudders at your touch
And responds with the readiness of one thousand ******
Cooing their broken sounded and false approvals.
I see your fingers fumble across the chipped mahogany
And I recall on the benefit of all men
The first and forgotten lovers,
Buried beneath years of clumsy ***
And vicious disregard.
And from the shadows in the archives of your grey matter
You remember every wince of self-doubt,
Etched across the faces of your women
That you never cared to notice in the dizzy ecstasy
Of your youthful wantonness
And the hardness of your ****
So age will bite at your features,
And you will squint in the wind,
Cowering at the cold that clings to your bones.
At some age you will cut your hair
And iron your shirt.
Nurse your whiskey
And find yourself in receipt of all those women
Still tangled in the hotel sheets
In the back lodgings of your mind
And everything they did to shape you.
And you pick up that old acoustic
And play the tune of one thousands odes.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 11:39 PM UTC
I.
On the blue bridge behind the honey slide,
a little girl dreams of see-through lingerie.
She wants to surprise her husband with her *****
to greet him at the door after his long day at work.
When her friends exile her from the playground,
she runs home to pan the television static for *******
When the red numbers skip ahead,
she runs to the bookshelf for the medical dictionary.
II.
“There’s something about Sunday night
that makes you want to **** yourself.”
When she said this, her homework was finished,
and there was no God.
III.
If pride comes before “The Fall,”
I wish it would get off quickly.
I’m waiting for the stunt man to trick
the bushy-browed girl into stealing morphine pills.
Everything he stands for lies on the cutting room floor.
No one had the guts to tell him.
IV.
Once you think to sell the free books
out on the table, only Word Perfect 8 for Dummies
is left. You’re doing it wrong.
V.
She lays face down on the carpet.
Her scalp burns from the pulling. She can’t breathe.
If only she could make them turn around
in time for the blood, but they don’t come when called.
VI.
You were at the right place at the right time.
It could have been me. It should have been me.
VII.
When the deli forgets your chocolate cheesecake,
you’ll ask if it’s because you’re black.
You claim you’ll eat the cookie they sent by mistake,
but you knew it was coming.
There was no mistake.
Take a look at the receipt.
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
Text her. Send her messages that she won't know how to respond to. she'll read them and put her phone down. Stare at the read receipt for hours until you realize she's not picking the phone back up, she doesn't have anything to say to you.
Eat lots of chocolate. It has serotonin in it, the happy chemical. When you cuddle with her, your brain releases oxytocin. As long as you eat enough chocolate (and throw it up) you won't miss the oxytocin one bit.
Bleed. When she tells you that she cuts herself, cut deeper. This is guerrilla warfare now, and for every shot fired you must fire back.
Read your messages. Laugh at the nicknames she used. "Princess". "Baby". "Darlin". You were never her princess, never her baby. She was the child and you were merely her plaything.
Make art. Write dumb poetry about falling in and out of love, take photographs of your ****** thighs, paint a picture using only shades of red. Let her figure out what all these things mean.
Drink. Green tea, ***** over-priced lattes. Stay up all night crying. Wear stilettos. Sit in art museums all alone and wonder if being a starving artist is as much fun as it sounds. Take long showers and harmonize with your favorite songs through your tears. Use heavier, blacker eyeliner. Spend time on yourself. Adopt a cat. But most of all, remember this:
You can only love one person. Choose yourself
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
Obedient and so well trained,
And I’m a stray,
It’s a shame,
Maybe I like it that way…
I’m happy for you anyway
All you have gained,
All that’s gone away,
It’ll cost you your name,
Yet you haven’t had to pay…
I’m happy for you anyway
I’m paid up with my pain,
Come whatever may,
I’m through with the game,
That meets ends everyday…
I’m happy for you anyway
I’ve spent time insane
Paid the bill on the due date,
Put the receipt in a frame,
And hung it as a light to show the way…
I’m happy for you anyway
Too much on my brain,
I should leave it where it lay,
With whip and chair I tame,
With lip and air I pray…
I’m happy for you anyway
So many things have changed,
Since back in the day,
So much is the same,
And all that I have to say…
I’m happy for you anyway
There is a time,
On both sides of Midnight,
When it’s not late
And it’s not early
There is a time,
On both sides of Midnight,
When it’s not evening
And it’s not morning
There is a choice,
On both sides of Midnight
One is happiness
The other sorrow
There is a grey area
On both sides of Midnight
Where it’s not quite today
And not yet tomorrow
Circling the drain,
I’m earning my pay,
I sense that I’m lame
Paralyzed by the weight…
I’m happy for you anyway
I’m feeling the strain,
Of this day to day,
Of this same old same
All work and no play…
I’m happy for you anyway
I guess I’m dry in the rain,
Just getting-by, Okay,
At least I remember all the names,
Of those I don’t betray…
I’m happy for you anyway
So now you can claim,
It will be used to sway,
If you’ve got your fame,
They’ll believe every word you say…
I’m happy for you anyway
You take the champagne,
Right off of the tray,
You’re not to blame,
You wouldn’t feel guilty anyway…
I’m happy for you anyway
It’s not like you’re vain,
Or that you’ve got to have your way,
Or that you came,
From some privileged cliché…
I’m happy for you anyway
There is a time,
On both sides of Midnight,
When it’s not late
And it’s not early
There is a time,
On both sides of Midnight,
When it’s not evening
And it’s not morning
There is a choice,
On both sides of Midnight
One is happiness
The other sorrow
There is a grey area
On both sides of Midnight
Where it’s not quite today
And not yet tomorrow
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:28 PM UTC
Movie ticket,
cinema stub,
two halves torn apart
by the fickle fingers of the screen attendant:
he looked up at me with a smile-
one learnt from a handbook compiled by the words of some corporate type,
who dislikes his job, you can tell from his vibe.
“The receipt's in the bag”,
I requested it to be in my hand,
customer service fingers are always painted a day-glow green,
hideous talons of the fake queen,
traced from the princesses of the TV-silver-shitty-fake-TV screen:
she looked up at me with a smile-
one learnt from a magazine of ink,
nothing more than lies disguised within the wholesome typography imprint.
Carrying nothing but a wallet,
“would you like a bag sir?”
I am carrying nothing but a wallet, of course I would like a bag,
what do you take me for:
she looked up at me with a smile-
Wait.
Her intriguing trapdoor smile concealed
perfectly straight teeth that,
through the gap in her mouth,
spat out the shop floor script,
as if a Shakespearean soliloquy
equipped for the stage,
not this retail trade.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
439
Undue Significance a starving man attaches
To Food—
Far off—He sighs—and therefore—Hopeless—
And therefore—Good—
Partaken—it relieves—indeed—
But proves us
That Spices fly
In the Receipt—It was the Distance—
Was Savory—
2.1k