Tagged: alcoholism

Defeating Bukowski

Sometimes I kiss her
The one sitting alone at the bar
Looking over her shoulder as the men pass
Desperate for attention
Desperate for a fuck
I give it to her
And she asks for my love
I’d give that to her too
If I wasn’t so sure
That the human strains from my voice
From the shared moments
Wouldn’t later be weaved
Into a noose.

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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.

Drunken Checkers

Drink in hand
Eighth one since I got here
I search the bar

Playing my game
Looking for the next chess piece to move
I pull off my rounds
Find another bird to sit next to

Small moans
Gentle caress finger tips
A murmur in her ear
Asking where she wants to go tonight

Who’d she rather take out
The King or the Queen
Would she win or lose
Will I go home
Or will she play for another round?

I stumble away
When I’m done eating palm
And your raging rejection’

I can barely recite the sentence
The one playing on repeat
Since I figured what my dick was.

I see her across the bar
Hiding beneath curtains of hair
I don’t blame her

Her Small craters
Extra-terrestrial black hairs growing out of bulging moles
Zits on lumped cancerous, brick in a Ziploc bag tits.

If I hadn’t been a shot away from death I would have gagged
Even she sent me to another board
Saying “not tonight pal”
For another game of chess

As the Blade Grows Dull

An opportunity has opened itself up to me
But I haven’t the power to bewilder with the sounds of consonances and the arsenal of synonyms and similes

I haven’t the alliteration to make malevolence or malice meander or to minimize how much I abhor assholes with affluent bank accounts basking in the dimes and dollars that surely must define their quality of being.

The words lack a certain finesse.
My metaphors are small grains at the bottom of the sand box
Untouched by hands or urine
Unheard and left unattended

My personification cannot bring life to the sad cup of pencils on my desk staring at me, pleading with me for a caress.

I’ve never
Had the
Line breaks
To stay tuned
To the pitter patter
Of rain

On shaking hand and knee in front of sanctimonious espresso stand, begging for one more cup of coffee I don’t understand the addictions the literary greats went through.

The Sermon of Christ

I have something to say
Words to flow from the lips
Like red wine in the gullet
The blood of Christ

I have new lands to conquer
Achievements to conspire
The boldest of moves to make
The manifest destiny
Of poetry

Tearing down the house
And building a new foundation
Raping the earth and God’s creation
In His holy name

The children beaten, maimed
The bull brandished, bruised
Can never be tamed
The indecency inspired by name

Hemingway and a Hand Grenade

It’s 30 below
In the valley of Mount Kilimanjaro
The plane crashed moments before
The departure from the runway
Like the spreading knees
From the flaps of skin pulled back
Push bitch
And he never understood the pleasures of the peak
the mountain top
The feelings of inadequacy
That they’re all so better than me
Better than I
That’s the way to die
With a red pen
Mightier than the sword
Correcting and critiquing
All the way to hell
But reassurance
Dwells
In the bottom of the bottle
At the end of crooked spliffs
The King conquering the corners of the world
Too tired
Too pained to leave his throne
To guide his throng
The slave
That would rather take the dirt
In the wounds
That stains his shirt
Than to stand up
And dedicate his life
To a cause much greater than he
Or anyone else
May ever understand.
I wish to be this slave
I wish to grab the teeth of the nine tails
Of his sordid whip
And pull him forward.
Knock him off his feet
Or at least stumble
futile rebellion
Then die
Knowing I took a stand to a power
That as far as I could ever foresee
Is
Or was
Entirely unstoppable