Tagged: hopelessness

Share a Shake before the End.

Hanging Smoker

To see the world through a haze of smoke

To see the dirt, the hate and the H

Under hungry, haggard finger nail

he’s choking (in) the street

he’s lying (in)to the street.

They stand around

Insectile, rolling withdrawal

Like the turtle crushed the world

Between his shell and the concrete

like a sigh, head hung low

deeply and profoundly insulted

your proudest, deceased relative

that’s all it was

but they hungered for it

clawing off his skin

decaying

tenderloin rack

stripped from the bone

penetrate, barbed cone

slurping marrow marshlands

just to prove

that it was the genes

that’s what made the addict

and that’s what made him weak.

Fingertips cutting off the circulation

one cigarette at a time.

Could I reach the page end?

before gnat beating

unconscious aortic corridor

gives out

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Ted Bundy the Poet

Ted Bundy was as much of a Poet as a killer. He playfully crafted words knocking down walls, potential growing, with a jury dedicated to justice. Would the women, and daughters die on the page the way they had at the end of his fingers. I fear we’ve lost the literary giants of our time to the literal. They kill off their characters off of the written page; terra.

Could the cults, blood thirsty, writhing with union hold the Allen Ginsbergs, the Walt Whitmans, the Franz Kafkas? In a time where the only thing to fear is your own children, to be a genius may mean insanity. 

          What beautiful tragedy lies within the confines of John Wayne Gacy? What were the last thoughts before the planes hit and bodies fell from the sky like unfortunate hail?

Laughing Electrical Chairs

I told him that I’d be great.
That my words would soar and I would dedicate each breath
To changing this world of angst

But read it back to me
Throw me a line
You’ll know how impossible this is
This must be

The shit I put a bow on and call gold
My platinum predecessors
Know this path
They know how far behind I lie

They sit on thrones, burning electrical chairs
Laughing at me.

I am so many years from the gun
And when I reach the trigger
It still won’t be good enough

So what’s the point in trying?
What other option do I have?

Corrosive Concern

Now she is concerned

Breaking me down
Peeling back layers

A fire in the rain forest
Ravaging, pillaging

A tree remains
The sun shining through green
Fluorescent leafs
Pictures of lost children pinned to the oak
And guitar lessons
From old
Tired
Sexual predators

The last of its species
defiled

Now the fire stops by
“Are you alright?”

Even the words are hot
A plastic leaf falls
And crumples in the flame
Toxic vapors emitting

What words are there to say?
Giving mercy, after there is none left to give mercy to

After this genocide
Thank you for your kindness
Thank you for your bountiful love.

I’ve never had a friend quite as noble as you.
To break me, torn glass in the gutter
No one has ever been so good to me

To pick up a piece of that glass
Cradle it in your palm
And ask “do you know how we love you?”

I know not of something that can hurt you enough
To be a valid response.

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.

Inadequacy

It’s only in the mirrors that I see ghosts
The image shrouded by shadows

When it started
Surreptitious spirit blending into the background

Spending back word days
Peering into the mirror

Gradually it grew near
My reflection drained as it rose in stature
First it stood with a hand on my shoulder

Like I was
Someone for him to mentor,
to mark

In this instant, I can see it in me
My eyes are bushed and bitter

Eyes I’ve never known
A carnage of my character

A cleaving of my humanity
Check the reflected corners
Giving up
The feeling of smashing a fist through the computer screen
And jumping over the edge

The feeling of inadequacy
Like you’ve ascended thousands of feet
But looking up you realize

You’ve only just started.

Like Whores

I work until I’m blistered
Like stockings on Christmas eve
My esophagus is filled to the brim
With toys and a curiosity
That reminds customers
Of a child

My sentences are no longer coherent
What good is my voice
If I can keep that cock standing
Under the tip of my tongue

But I never have problems
Putting plump fingers
Where they don’t belong
In the body’s
Dark alleyway

Yank up the skirt
Be proud of this boiled bitch
Hopping
On the senator’s
Pogo stick

I know how honorable
anal plugs
and swallowing
a stranger’s
steam
can
be.

House Wife

red apron
with the
Supple perks
the body works for
plump benefits

medical, dental
and flossing with too much skin
salivating eyes
turned me to stone

But you can keep the apron
to conceal strained gut
soaking rust
clings to
Rocky Mountain curves

The topography of your
moist with sweat
form.

Toe Stands
under the intoxication
of repetitious first kisses

feigned love
can drain
like little else can.

The halls
still sings
with your voice

I lay awake at night
and wonder
with you
fetal curling
under my arm.

How many poets
have you stricken
with heart induced
insomnia?

They mark their sheets
with your name
written in blood
and cum

They Call It You

In a world of gilled creatures swimming in their puddles of shit and piss
We’re beings anchored to their ocean floor
Guests in a broken home
Salvaging the air from the lungs of those less fortunate

Surviving by the mercy of the common man’s air pocket
Their hands clasped over your crackling independent squeaks
Screaming salvation from injury and pain
They’ll crush your unique lens
A rock through your only window

They’ll hold you back
Trudging through their grasp
Each pleasant memory
Breaks away
Like Pigs
Ripping apart slop
With greedy snouts
And desperate demeanors

They’ll poke and prod
You’ll keep swimming

The pieces that break off
Seeds planted
Growing to an unseen consequence

A tree breaks through the surface
Reaching up to the heavens
Praying for change
Our last savior crawling

They admire, you inspire
A panting observed, then ignored
A grey canvas with a drop of color
A beautiful Petri dish
Enduring their critical minds
A dissection

They call it you

The shattered Remains of a visionary
Placed in my palm
I’ll keep swimming
When it’s my time
And I drown
Use my broken hope
And make a raft