1.

do Drugs because without Drugs
there is no inspiration
without inspiration
there is no Drugs

this is all said with wide distant looks
with swinging wrists
fingers comb the hair
fingers pick at the skin

without Drugs
there is no poetry

no music
no ambition
no sleep

there is no awkwardly standing there
as he tells you,

little bee, joust teen mean huts

there is no biased observer
watching the Drugged tumble
like laundry
down stairs.

surely this can’t be a good idea

don’t try to leave
don’t be awkward

surely

2.

do Drugs because you will see
finally see!
things no one else could ever see

so swallow that joint
eat that pill
smoke those shrooms,
but for the love of GOD!
not by themselves
place them strategically
in a peanut butter sandwich
like stars in a constellation

you will know better next time
he tells you to smoke shrooms

you will feel your bare feet
but you’re wearing socks!
you will feel like you’re crying
but there aren’t any tears!
you will see your curtains take the shape of your mother
folding her arms
looking down at you
wearing a dress
that isn’t her color
or her size
or her style
or even her at all

finally you will see these things
that you were never able to see before

question the experience
and he will sigh
with sighs of such size
that say you just don’t understand

3.

do Drugs because you will realize

Alex Grey paintings
in that pin-up calendar
will mean so much more

which painting is brightly looming over your birth month?
oh, so, the one that looks quite good
where the subject’s skin is transparent
revealing muscles and veins and organs
a stock buddhist symbol glowing on their forehead
their mouth agape
a misty sort of energy
radiating from their body
swallowed by neon

what a coincidence

mine, too

he’s a Grey-t artist, isn’t he?
don’t say this
despite how clever it sounds

4.

do Drugs because
there will be a moment
when that cartooned weasel
with his too-appropriate leather jacket
and lollipop stick ***** from a snaggled lip
and Nancy Reagan
her wild hair
her eyes that seem to be sinking inward
will seem like the same person

this is just your guilt
your incessant questioning
of what is right
and what is rite

your wanting to just say no
and to just do it
resting in the same swaying sweaty hammock

your waning spirit to overthink

and he will just look at you
as though no one feels
the way you do

you will never understand

5.

do Drugs because you must understand
because you’ve always understood
because you’ve always been understanding

intangible ideas will whisper vaguely at you
that you thought you knew enough about

you just aren’t feeling the love like we are
you just aren’t seeing the universe like we are
you just aren’t feeling the energy like we are
you just aren’t seeing the beauty of things like we are

love universe energy beauty
these things are simple
when gruffly whispered
over a slice of space cake

this space cake is out of this world!
don’t say this
despite how clever it sounds

6.

do Drugs because
you will have the perfect disorder
for your flaws

flaw and disorder

I’m out of it because
I might of inhaled a little
too much

I’m thankless because
of a pill I should not have
taken

I’m jittery because
I swallowed a couple
extra

I’m sleepy because
I would rather feel this way than look
at you

I fell down the stairs
because it’s Cinco de Mayo
and I can’t find my grinder
and I’m surprised that you’re sober
and I can’t feel my shoulder
and I’m surprised you’re not older

I swear I’m not always like this

Long table laden in lace
mismatched silverware
chipped plates
cloth napkins and crystal cups
beneath a canopy
of knotted branches
framed between two hallowed trunks
snaggled twigs cling
to lanterns and ribbons
strung across the foliage
for the Moonlight Feast.

When the sun sinks
the guests begin to arrive
with their flowing gowns
thin veils and hats
lace gloves
masked faces
shaped like wooden birds
slender heeled black boots
daintily stepping through grass
to find a seat
at the Moonlight Feast.

As they sit
drinking their wine
tittering through
frozen smiles
one man walks
wearing a frown.
the woman by his side
pale as the moon
hair like the sun
they sit at the head
of the Moonlight Feast.

They look nearby
at the less traveled road
where a young man
walks with not a penny
they run like wolves
on their hands and knees
and strike him down
limb from limb
he is torn
and brought
to the Moonlight Feast.

The frowning man
gave a toothy smile
and as well did his queen.
The guests all ate
of the flesh of a beggar
who they slaughtered
alone on the street.
Their titters all turned to
shrieks and howls
while the moon shined bright
over these Moonlight Beasts

We are the fleshy pit of a wooden fruit that remains lodged
inside the esophagus of a nameless office building,
too historic for corporate enzymes to break down,
too fibrous for second grade impatients to digest.

Pass me your torch—I’m getting blackened today.

Remember when we took our undressed crayons
and grazed them across white paper
over the embossed plaque outside
and the story of this place
spelled out before our very eyes?
And our very eyes, how they widened.
Yes, you do.
Yours was red, and mine was blue.

Remember when you spelled SALSA wrong at the spelling bee,
and the whole cafetorium began to hiss and judge
as the judge bellowed the L-est L ever to be L-ed,
and your ankles were too rusted from embarrassment to get away,
and away you went,
and I called you Mr. Sasla for weeks?
Of course you do.
You were ten, and I was, too.

How after that we ran away like bandits to this place on South Main,
and we picked and we plucked at the locks,
and scratched away at the ashy continents on the walls,
etching oaken paintings of our names married to profanities
even though we didn’t know the meanings
that made them so profane?
I know you do.
You wrote ****—I wrote *******.

And that time when you tried to kiss me
in the corner by the condemned yellow jacket nests
that sagged like hard candy on the splintered walls,
but your empty lips tumbled into the tentacles of a cobweb,
and the moment snuck away
with the stagnant smell of mesquite and adolescence?
Ha! Look at you!
You were laughing—I was, too.

And remember when you got your braces off
and I just about cried because I hadn’t seen your teeth
in days—in weeks?—in months?—in years?—
and through the snaggled gate of your cuspid
and incisor that no amount of metal would ever fix,
the medicated steam slipped, and spilled like milk?
That was last June.
We sat right here, where were you?

And that night when the fugue of sirens tugged at our ears
and we frantically clogged the seams
where the light seeped through with our socks
and our shirts, try try trying to keep the haze from sneaking out—
only to find it wasn’t us they were after, it was the
bank robber next door—and we swore to never come here again?
Our faces changed, too.
Yours was red, and mine was blue.

Yet, our torch melts to ash, and we become blazed as one.

We are here, reclined against rusty limestone as smoke
forms above our skulls like question marks, as red rivers
meander closer to our pupils, as the taste of our memory becomes
too salty to swallow, yet too sweet not to taste just one more time.

Storyline/storytime....by me... Are we doing time? Or is time doing us all equally? What a disgusting question to ask such an unpaid slave, where snow falls tear dropped to all snaggled brains! Du-rag heavies, untamed, unashamed levies to be breached!

Young ones to teach not to come where we are. Where the birds meet the bars, where man and woman leave in cars, as we shall not!!! Where emotions run dry, smoke runs high to clouds that don't stop.... Share with another you selfish generation, you greedy of celebrations, you hold to thy god no feast!!!!

666 is your name, fires you've tamed, as on thine own knees you worship the beast!!! Blizzard time sledded children's fun is naught to be found, just shackles around to frighten your inner cold! All stories here go untold, for you are apart of that story! You yourself are the story!!!

it’s fresh sticks of vanilla deodorant,
cap’n crunch going on sale,
ladies selling mangoes in midtown,

it’s the pictures of baby cows,
the most specific dream tattoos,
documentaries about unsolved ******,

it’s an oxymoronic vegan cheeseburger,
striped shirts with a graphic one layered on top,
the clear memory of pacific air,

it’s all of robert smith’s hair,
prodigy kids on cooking shows,
stinging sunburns quickly fading,

it’s the perfume of onions and garlic sautéing,
smooth sidewalks where mom’s back is safe,
well-loved shoes that used to be white,

it’s an avocado perfectly ripe,
girls riding skateboards alongside boys,
rings that don’t turn fingers green,

its bras that won’t make memory foam of me,
jars full of change -- saving for something,
still going strong senior couples,

it’s an anthem that came up on shuffle,
the last clean socks without a hole,
chipped tooth smiles, snaggled ones too,

it’s just the word hullabaloo,
three new albums in a day,
someone else’s king sized bed,

it’s the **** pieces of loaves of bread,
an empty train after a long night,
dog tails that are just teeny nubs,

it’s sour candies and numb tastebuds,
weezer’s ever expanding discography,
end-of-day hair thrown into a bun,

it’s cobalt.
it’s b flat.
it’s twenty one.

it’s whistling.
it’s goosebumps.
it’s serendipity.

it’s getting out of the sound of the city,
untangling tiny necklace knots,
reuniting with my long distance cats,

it’s tongues to the tune of soundcloud rap,
learning a language even a little,
finally seeing real lighting bolts,  

it’s tourist dominoes when the train jolts,
finding keys -- being able to leave,
breaking in the most stubborn shoes,

it’s the empty after puking up *****,
flirting with customers and getting paid,
knowing every word and singing along,

it’s not breaking my friends’ bongs,
still doing cartwheels because i still can,
getting a thirty but taking an hour,

it’s waking up first, getting the warmest shower,
cutting my own hair, well, when it goes well,
having an umbrella when it starts to rain,

it’s getting out a demon stain,
taking pens from work, they don’t pay me
enough,
walking in to no lines at trader joe’s,

it’s picking things up with my toes,
learning the chord i’d been looking for,
tacking knick knacks on the walls,

it’s loitering in suburban shopping malls,
frosting cookies during christmas,
laughing for the first time in a while,

it’s getting told someone likes my style,
feeling a heartbeat other than mine,
sneaking in a second to breathe,

it’s witnessing every single thing,
picking through the good and bad,
and letting the little guys win,

it’s seeing.
it’s living.
it’s taking it in.

I have this friend monstrosity
He is the worst of company
Each morning when from bed I rise
His snaggled grin greets my eyes.
Together we clump down the stairs
I brush my teeth, he sheds some hair.
Next our breakfast we partake,
Mine is pancakes, his is steak.
We go outside to attend the chores,
He dawdles away until half past four.
I begrudgingly take him to the park.
And let him loose until almost dark.
When I call him back to take him home
I am greeted by snarling, blood chilling moans.
Getting him back to the yard is a fight.
My only blessing is he's afraid to bite.
Once in the house he must be cleaned
That is when he gets real mean.
Keeping him in the tub is a life or death struggle
He likes dunking my head until he sees bubbles.
Once cleaned and fed I bid him good night.
His howls keep me up for most of the night.
I have this friend monstrosity,
Would you kindly steal him away from me?

Are we doing time? Or is time doing us all equally; what a disgusting question to ask such an unpaid slave. Where snow falls tear dropped to all snaggled brains. Do-rag heavies, untamed, unashamed, levees to be breached; young one's to teach to not come where we are. Where the bird's meet the bars, where men and women leave in cars, as we shall not. Where emotions run dry, smoke runs high to clouds that don't stop. Share with another you selfish generation; you greedy of celebrations, you hold to God no feast. Six-six-six is your name, fires your game, as on your knees you worship the beast. Blizzard time sledded children's fun; is none to be found, just shackles around to frighten your inner cold. All stories here go untold; for you are apart of that story.


©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poet's poetry
©prison poetry/written in prison dec 6th,2013.