Tagged: alcohol

On a Date With the Wrong End of a Ciggarette

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I could stand another

I only gagged a few times

and the jock itch nostril

keeps me drinking.

Dante’s inferno mid stomach

coffee, ciggarette, shots

and I burn through the interior lining

of a twisted stomach.

I can see precipitous eyed rain clouds

and the coming of dusk

around their eyes

Writing to Routine

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Making plans

Manipulating phrases

Chiseling poetry:

Fallen, forgotten, worlds

Nostalgia, fear

Connection, obsession.

7 worded nights

Fighting after they’ve taken

Your will to live

Fighting with nothing left to lose

Fighting with fingers

Mashed into

A potato fist

Clashing batons

Whipping, slashing rounds

And I’ll stand in the middle of

The battleground

With little, but

Crippled fists

From bashing faces

Into misconceptions

Of “art”

Only the greats would envy

If they could only see

If the product

Wasn’t so impermanent

As a newly born author

Picking up his first pen

In the street

Outside his first

Wholesale purchase

Of cheap liquor.

 

Tightrope

I’m coughing on the edge
Flashes of eternal bliss
But tomorrow it will all be gone.
There ain’t much left
And the money’s all dried up.
Ram Dass said Be Here Now
That means make the high forever ascend
That means sweating, clawing sobriety tomorrow
For being a little closer to god tonight.
Cartilage collapses and the noses scab at our scratching fingers
A sickening pale glow in my supple face.
Swallow a pill
Smoke a cigarette
The college diet
You don’t need to eat when you’re speeding by on stimulants
Picking slivering morsels out of the cupboards.
We do it because it’s life
We do it because we love it.
We do it to write
And eventually
We need it to love.

We find ourselves in a limbo
Satisfy needs and finger nails fall away
Veins collapse
Sober up
Break away
And hallucinate
Mediate
Conform
Control.
I guess I’d rather fall apart as a tin man than turn into the vermin scurrying with the other rodents in the street.
That being said my teeth have yet to fall out of my teeth like a trail of crumbs following me everywhere I go.
And my gums aren’t yet charcoal crumbling away at touch
I am still alive
And for my now
I’ll chase the next high.

Knowing Love like Drug Addicts

Some mazes are found within.
Some get lost, and never find their way out.
Some have mazes with no way out.
Anxiously they run from one side of the maze to the other
Combing through the barbed wire hedge
The cracks in this primitive stone walls
Crashing like glass bottles
For a window
Into a genuine
World.

Most abysses are far from this earthen surface
The longest, hardest trails can’t be walked
The hardest struggles are not of the body
But of the soul

The worst hurt won’t be
At the end of rusty box cutters
When you refuse to hand over
Your survival
To the parasites
In the darkest streets.

Getting lost
In the mind
Where there’s no road flares
No street signs
Just a black hole
To descend further
And further into

Insanity Meditations

Helping the masses understand insanity
Just a little bit better
Disorganized
Lost
My words
Aiding contemplative suicides
And real men that don’t bother to use a mask

Only 18
And already my heart aches
Like a swelling, slowly inflating
Balloon
Far beneath my ribs, and decalcified bones.
Where I forgot
That I too am human
Pump me full of another drug
And I’ll soon forget again
Hopefully I won’t remember
How it hurts
To be real

Masturbate, music, migrate, massacre, mediate
All of the things
At the disposal of 18 years
Of rot.
These are the tasks of a writer
Changing the world with words of wonder
While asleep on the girlfriends couch.
Fighting hate and fuckery
From the armchair, blue pabst in hand.

The Drought of Rimbaud

So I’m an alcoholic
I started and I’d be insane to stop
For once in my life
I’ll finish what I started
There will be an end. A point.
I’ll drink myself straight into the grave

And the children in grown torso
Grown body
Will speak of how they tried to save a lost soul
But that soul was nowhere to be found

Well I’m here and I know
Just as they must somewhere,
Beneath the layers of rotting termite wood
That they aren’t here with me.

That they couldn’t give a shit’
If they were paid
But that’s okay.

I can’t depend on masturbating assholes
Penetrating
Fisting
Torn like carved turkey

I have to be alone
It’s the only way

I have to strip back the skin
And the love
And find the reality within

The reality of self-loathing and to give up eagerly
On everything I’ve ever “loved”
The truth being I never loved it
I never loved you
I never loved.

I just waited for you to stop talking
So I could get back to the written word
And write my own little truths
And my own little shit piles.

It doesn’t matter how much I write
How many wrongs I right;
It’ll never be enough
I’ll never achieve the impossible
Impossible only to me.

Only I know the passage of inadequacy
I gave up the best
So I could learn what it means to suffer

I gave up love and happiness
So I could scratch shitty poems into human flesh
Maybe eventually flesh other than my own
But I doubt it.

Early Morning Aspirations

rivulets
circle heavy eyes

you sink into bed
tearing self
from the warm sheets
like debarking Douglas fir
the desire for dismemberment grows
Into the intricacy
of the stream beds
within

not all battle scars
originate from war
tap the tree at the base
drip sap bitch

How much is drained
before the weight
becomes too much?

sometimes
the only thing
to keep you alive

nicotine
gas station 40’s
and enough weed to get
all of Africa
stoned for a week

How writing takes its toll
I’m a child
And already
I dream of death

A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose, et cetera.

An excerpt from a novel in progress about two homeless teenagers struggling with addiction and the destruction of loving an addict. More to come!

Another cigarette, a bottle of wine, and another cigarette. Walking through the boulevard, the neon lights casts my shadow upon the pavement. The letters spell out death. “Nude girls” another way to numb another sense. Budweiser on tap, another sense dulled, “rocket donuts” eating away reality, eating away suffering. Each sidewalk is a pattern, repeating, but differentiated. Cigarette buds, gum steamrolled to the pavement. An hour until the next class, another arbitrary declaration of my “knowledge.”

The vices vary from person to person. Drug, drink, caffeine, food, sex. I think, you think, they think, I think, we have a freedom of choice, but if the only choices given to us are A, B, or C, how much free will is there?

We walk, bus, ride, run, to the same classes, the same grocer, our routines are cemented like the walls of the catacomb. Sealing in a predestined fate, we walk down the same halls, purchase the same goods, read the same text. It’s like we’re all pieces to a puzzle we’ve finished dozens of time before.

The repetition is enough to make you nauseated.

Even vagabonds, unrestrained from day to day routine escape to the same locations, eat out of the same dumpster, always eating a similar morsel, the unwanted can goods that once again, weren’t eaten.

To rebel from the conventional is to follow a path that’s been treaded a thousand times before. We rebel to join the other rebels conforming to black clothing and angry music. We rebel in bright vibrant colors from all the other rebels sick of hypocritical rebellion.
Variety is as limited from switching from A to C to B, but at the end of it all, we’ll always have to return to one of these options. In the end variety is deception. In the end there are only so many paths to walk down, only so few words to choose.

As members of this redundancy, we must fool ourselves into believing that the next wall of this cage is different from the wall we stared at before.

But every bit of ash flicked from the cigarette tip is indecipherable from the next. In the end even colors, even art returns to the primary colors.

We’re born, we live, we die. In a way it’s beautiful, in a way it’s confining, but more appropriately,

it is.

The landscape to repeats on a reel. Life is limited to the categories we give it, and in the end if Torbin walks into a bar, a strip club, a book store, or a restaurant, he’ll always return to Samantha’s side.

She is as much his as the hair fused within the fibers of his scalp. Even in her final monologue she’ll fit into the warm python palm of his hand.

“Do you have to do that?”

Torbin stares at a dark cloud, in an otherwise blue sky.

“What?”

“Stop cracking your fingers.”

Torbin holds his hand in the other slowly popping each knuckle out of place.

She clenches her jaw, slapping his hands out from in front of him.

Even in anguish, he likes to watch the contours of her face contort. He’s in love with her soft balled fist. Samantha hears a “POP” from Torbin’s side.

“God dammit Torbin, again?”

Another of Torbin’s smirks and he nudges her off the sidewalk.