I just want some time away from war and anger in me. It feels like WW1 in trenches across no man's land forever bleeding and crying going mad in moments rats wake me chewing on me and I begin to just let it go as normal. I'm no longer myself.
I still see you in the garden strong and bent over tearing weeds from the fragile flowers keeping our children safe. We're Jews in Berlin in 1938. A dragon's breath is on our necks. A crooked cross beckons to nail us to some wooden hatred.
Walked the dogs across the bay from Gatsby's place. Dark as sin tonight. Rumor is Gatsby was shot dead by a jealous husband. The party's moved on and taken the lights and tents and champagne and laughter. Nothing is ever one of a kind. We're interchangeable. Another rich Gatsby a mile away with the right view.
They were bigger than life and moved mountains to bend time and possibility for a future we never imagined. They're long gone but we still know e=mc2. We all orbit around sun and God might or might not be dead.
You haunt my dreams at night. You hide in mirrors and corners while I go from here to there. We were lovers and never were. You ride cold air up my back whispering until I sleep with you.
It was a place where I escaped my self pity and guilt and breathed ocean air and entombed my body in yours and slept at peace finally. You were in all men's dreams, the centerfold in the magazines.
Seagulls crying over who knows what riding ocean breezes we'd all die for. We fight drunk in our room, a prelude to ******* on the sheets with anchors. I hear the 9th symphony when we mend. We lie as one and hear seagulls laugh.
The clock scratches its way to 11 pm. I'm deep in my cups and celebrate. I'll wander into bed and dream of the lovers and enemies I slayed in their time.
New York Times said it. God is dead. Heaven's empty. Hell is cold ash. The devil's in the details. Heaven will be Timeshares. Hell will be for Geologists.
New York Times said it. God is dead. Heavens empty. Hell is cold ash. The devil's in the details. Heaven will be Timeshares. Hell will be for Geologists.
Lawyers always get paid up front. Victims are buried, killers in jail. Plea deal for living, prayers for dead. Children offered as sacrifices to laws. In cold light of day sins are laid bare. We dark souls pray to godless heavens.
I had a marble that looked like the earth I kept in my pocket. It was never worth spit except I knew how God must fear the Earth in his jeans. Worn pockets tear we roll out of sight. He panics it's gone lost in a bang we're unexpectedly done.
We forgive you for our sins. If we never lived in your world with temptations forbidden we'd never suffer birth and death. You created suffering for laughs. Some blow their brains out instead of living this boring day to day. You must be pulling wings off fly's.
I see him in my dreams. He's not an old god on a throne. He's an eye in my mind's eye. I see him as he sees me and His creation vast and alone wanting to understand what's behind the great curtain of OZ. He died and we're his dreams.
He works in a toll booth taking cash and lifts a gate to let you pass. God's a librarian lending knowledge. He's president of an Ivy League college. He sells pieces of heaven on corners to smoke. She rents herself out for a rub and a stroke.
I checked out last week without notice. I took what I needed and disappeared, family and friends good as dead to me. I followed the tracks to horizons. I met other lost souls just can't take anymore. We live under bridges and sleep in fields in good weather. We help fellow travelers and share when we can. We died killing others. They were the enemy. Just not mine. I'm gone.
I'll drink your poison tonight. It was not your fault but mine. Forgive me but you can't because you don't know how. Maybe in my mourning I'll nail me to your cross and die for you one final time.
Fragile Genius He died undiscovered by his own hand at 26. He left 3 albums to the world. It was as if Nick Drake simply faded away, a victim not of excess, but of some profound, deep-seated unhappiness. Like Vincent the painter he rose from his own ashes to set the music world on fire.
Crown of bobby pins and bandana, she hoists a beer bottle scepter, dime store paste royal necklace, moth holed sweater Queen's cape, her well worn lawn chair throne. She keeps watch from her tower, surveys her realm on Alcott Lane. Nothing escapes the queen's watch.
I hope we did you proud. Mike died young of cirrhosis I live on in alcoholic haze no connection with the living just a **** or two and meet another **** in some dive bar where your ghost cheers for conquests without a heart.
Poison flows from the grapes of wrath. It spoils the soil with its honest path. You're hated for your poverty and bad luck. You'll do anything for a shot and a buck. Anything for a crust of bread and a beer. Sleep with me. Keep me warm. Hold me near.
We're born into a tiny slice of history. Dropped into roles in small orbits around each other and we're caught and spin in our gravity falling in and out of Love.
I was always second string. Red shirt dummy for practice in summers of Spartans glory. Bacevich was a legend coach. I shone one hot August day hungover and craving nicotine. **** these poseurs of fame. We scrimmaged and played our usual parts, but I was angry. I stopped the blockers like stone and tore the runners down. Over and over I was a Hero for an afternoon. The Coach said I'd be a Gridiron Legend. Just for one day.
I play with your neck and pluck your strings and make the room dance and act fools in love and when the noise dies I need pills and ***** to come back to Earth. My fingers dance in my dreams.
I thought I knew myself. I walked into a hall of mirrors and found me in the looking glass. I didn't like who I saw. I was shallow and narcissistic. I thought I cared for others but I only wanted to see my kindness reflected off them. I put change in the poor box so the noise made me heard. Enter Hall of Mirrors and you can never be you again.
She seems so real and perfect I want to be with her forever. Don't take an ice pick to my brain. Please don't make me better. Let us live our wonderful life in my head. Why ruin true love as rare as it is?
Life's a tragedy wrapped as presents we take for granted like birthday cake. Years tick by and we blow out bigger fires. We know death happens, just not to us.
Another year killed in cold blood with nothing to show for it. Tick Tock. Maps always lead nowhere. Directions are puzzles. I'm 71 years old. I still have a brain and a heart and courage. Dorothy died awhile ago and I miss her and her little dog too. We laughed too loud not long ago. She'd be 98 and giggle like a girl.
I can still hear her voice and her laugh, her lust for life! She died on my birthday in March. Just saying.
They know the finish line's in sight like Christmas morning running down the stairs to discover new treasures. Will they dream into another ******? Will the flat line alarm be their final farewell to a vast nothing? We'll see.
We're on the beach while the sun surrenders the horizon to the Harvest moon. I'm stunned by the display. My world is swallowed by saints who sin for sinners.
You seem to hate me. Have we met? You call me horrible names and wish me dead. I'm not a ****. Have we met? I reach out. [email protected] Dare to touch my soul and talk to the devil you think I am. Let's be friends.
I was ****** and drunk at 3am. My conscience called my phone. We ****** and never answered. I crawled back to my quiet womb with black light and little room. I woke in hell's fierce sunlight.
She was my most demanding. Claws always at my throat for attention. She ****** me into real dreams. I needed that *****. Mother's milk and first **** but always the final shot.
I was a hippie in 1969. A long haired barefoot freak with yellow stains on my white carpenter jeans. I had a lover like no other. She bumped around my brain like a pinball machine in pain. I wonder how she's doing now.
I know I should repent but I gave that up long ago, like candy for Lent. Mortal sins have been my savior. We joined ***** drunk and fell in love for a week or 2.
I'm always hoping without an ounce of it. I'm always in love with no waiting hearts. I beseech the Almighty without truly believing. I'm just a ghost. A sheet hanging to dry in a breeze flapping about alive like but just full of hot air.
I wanted to make you proud. Your first born boy namesake. March 23,1949. You were back from war nerves on edge and work was scarce and you kept exploding in rage and we all vibrated with fear and felt your pain and war's hell and pitied and loved you always. Mom closed the windows in summer so the neighbors wouldn't hear and we went to our rooms and mastered the art of disappearing.
I wake each day in a house of mirrors. I stand inside a different me. I see me leaving a wife who begs me to love her for the kid's sake. I can't. I want a mirror to fool me. I see my kind friend Joe who always saw the good and was killed picking up a hitchhiker after all. I want a mirror to fool me. I see my father still wet behind the ears flying a bomber in a war as a pawn for them who don't care. I want a mirror to fool me. I see my cousin with ancient broken heart, the wound that never heals, choose slow suicide by *****. I want a mirror to fool me. I see a man who doesn't know how to love a wife no matter how many times he tries. He writes poems. I want a mirror to fool him.
I wake each day in a house of mirrors. I stand inside of a different me. I see me ******* a ***** who begs me to love her for the kid's sake. I can't. I want a mirror to fool me. I see my kind friend Joe who always saw the good and was killed picking up a hitchhiker after all. I want a mirror to fool me. I see my father still wet behind the ears flying a bomber in a war as a pawn for them who don't care. I want a mirror to fool me. I see my cousin with ancient broken heart, the wound that never heals, choose slow suicide by *****. I want a mirror to fool me. I see a man who doesn't know how to love a wife no matter how many times he tries. He writes poems. I want a mirror to fool me.
Gather types of people together and tell them group B hates them. Trot to group B and say A hates you. Tell group C they all hate you and tell all the groups the same thing until the rainbow catches fire.
We ***** these poems faster than HP can handle. You need a fire hose to keep up. We're a chatty bunch with endless sins we need to confess into your priest hole. We need to know our penance so we can wipe our slates and fill them up again.
We hunger for our own kind. Ordinary people touch us not. I yearn for the broken and bent like me. We color outside lines. We are on a spectrum invented by some cog in the wheel of boring.