"schizos" poems
And someday the truth will seep
Schizos, and friends who took too much, will be right
Truth seeping from the sewers and dampening
the carpet (basement first, upper floors later)
Then it will seep through our eyes
and our ears, some veins may burst
with all we found out
Our dark eye lidded friends holding the cigarettes
their stories will be true
There’s a New World Order being crafted
We didn’t land on the Moon. No sky
just a big planetarium around
The relatives of politicians, their children, etc.
picked out for some reason (which hasn’t seeped to us yet) from
random families at the hospital, or homeless on the street
Plastic surgery happens, so they all look believable as a family
and then everyone gets hypnotized not to tell, with pills and chanting
Cause secrets are never safe
just look how they seep
They live in satellites (watchtowers within the planetarium sky)
and wear nothing but white and clip their fingernails perfect, everyday
They think they know all
But he’s not as close
as yogi bear guru atop a peak point
that seeps up his ****** hole
He collects his bark and snow
at what the men in the tower label, 4 AM
then he sits and convinces himself
that everything’s fake, even himself
Convinces, for the least amount of reason possible
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
Shout from the rooftops
those whispers in your ear
that schizos may speak
and their followers hear.
That nutcase Messiahs
and self-proclaimed Lords
may reign in the splendor
of ****** wards.
That demons be exorcised,
angels beheld,
and the Savior restore
what the Garden expelled.
That shepherds spin yarns,
flocks be well-fleeced
with no charlatan spared
from the reign of the beast.
Until virgins are satisfied
trimming their wicks,
and we see by that light
that we all need a fix.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 5:15 PM UTC
Who is to define crazyness?
Or being mad?
Being sane? Insane?
Who?
Not you, not me, not anyone!
Would you like to know why?
Because my description of crazy or being mad or sane or insane is completely different to what your description is.
So when people call schizos crazy, it ****** me off.
Schizos are not crazy,
Maybe they just see things that are actually there.
You can call me crazy, call me mad, call me sane or call me insane.
Just think about it, maybe they see the things we cant see,
Because we could be the crazy ones who cant see what they see.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
The ****** the gamblers, the killers
And the serial killers,
The psychos, the schizos, the villains.
The streets are *****
The biggest ****** are in this city.
The streets are full of creeps.
The little shites
Walk up and down under street lights;
Licking the ***** of cheap ******
To whom money is a gun.
Dope dealers are priests.
Prostitutes that walk like wild caged beasts
Parading up and down the red
Light districts
Are desperate nuns looking for fun.
©Jack Aylward
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
All types of schizos are my friends
And I'm schizotypal too
We get together and share the crazy things in our heads
But care not about how much of it might be true
They may be a bit rough around the edges
But they're a good bunch
We focus on action; the things that we do
And try not to think too much
Most people find it bizarre
But most people bore me to death
We can't help it; we are what we are
All in love, obsessed, with insanity's depth
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC
even though, blood become
word. and the body
continues to have to
metabolize when slumbering,
till a future becomes
some moved on
parallel universe.
(mahogany-stained oak grip;
she’s the better
adventure, so don’t slip)
and the Long Dark sweatings,
unusual;
brambled-feet still stink.
(it would snow
in a raging roar)
wonder, can the crazy
be smelled?;
wonder, does the risen body
require metab.?;
wonder, did he catch a ghost
between his teeth?
and now [SELF-DENTISTRY 101]
hold on –
watch this guy
pull his own tooth.
(i’m too white
to keep this a-flow)
but Paul spoke the red, (amanuensis,
main-saint diggin’ the schizos)
and, but wait,
“Jesus spoke in red,” a lone
cowboy sang.
and colorblind, remember
and,
hold up,
guy is still working
that tooth –
some paper towels,
pair of pliers,
someone to hold the light.
“So I don’t get blood
all over my buddy’s bed,”
[brake]
“That was a long nerve.
You hear it pop?”
[brake]
“If I was straight white-boy,
this’d be easy,”
[brake]
but what can follow.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 4:06 AM UTC
Now I understand the flame of your presence
to my lofty moth wings
and my icarus heart
your sadness is sweet love potion
aphrodisiac comfort of childhood
I see the echoes of my soul
in your deep river eyes
calm surfaced with a storm underneath
I come from the same water
your multifunction brain,
Analytics and creativity
you've argued once before that only schizos
can process two complex ideas at the same time
and i wonder how deep my problems go
because that cant possibly be true
I've told you I've worlds in my brain
i process multiple lives simultaneously
I know you feel me
I see you, I've whispered crazy things all my life
you think you're bizarre
i think we are alike.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 11:53 PM UTC