Tagged: drinking

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.

 

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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.

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

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

Parasitic Thoughts

I’ll be the man
At the dive down the street
The one your wife wouldn’t walk into
If you paid her.
The one you go to
When you want her to think
You have overtime
The tavern
Armed with more weaponry
Than the American military

Sitting lost in a memory
Of the way that things used to be
The way the sun could shine without
Smog or the blood in the sky from
Waste and carbon monoxide
Before the pets we play with
And love as a child
Are skinned and cooked
To keep us alive

Lost in the cloud
That protected us and fathered
From the blade
At the end of that firing
Oak rifle