Archive for September 23rd, 2015

“I wish heartbreak was fatal”

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

I wish heartbreak was fatal
like a gunshot
or puffer fish.

I wish a doctor would enter the room
and say, ‘I’m sorry, you were
too sad for too long. There’s nothing we can do. You’ve got six weeks.”

Shit, Doc, I only need a day.

I wish heartbreak killed you
without warning like a drunk driver or
falling piano.

I don’t want this burden, this grief.

It’s a tragedy when everyone lives.  

“48 numb”

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

 

48 days numb and rain 3 days,
my car’s small tires slurp through puddled soup.
radios have no news for me.
it’s cold, then not, then cold
as the weather moves furniture.

shaved monkeys ruin every corner of the gym.
weights in my hands lift themselves, counterbalanced by the crush-weight of life.
food tastes like dead fat.
angry shampoo burns my eyes.
my hair keeps getting longer
but not from growth: my brain lowers it dead down the tower of my head
to make its escape.

Richard Brautigan brought a gun to The End.
one day he’ll be dead as long as he was alive.
one day I’ll have lived without you
the exact number of days I knew you.

For 7 days a Band-Aid covers a minor scrape on my right elbow.
I’m afraid to remove it, afraid to find the wound
healed.

“slungshot”

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

 

tired of torn tickets
sneak previews
waiting for others’ suffering to catch up.

words can’t bridge the gap.

I should be asleep
but sleep means the end of freedom and
sticking out my chin for the
fist of another day.

trying to skip
to the end of suffering
is like trying to commit suicide
with a slingshot.

I just shouldn’t be here no more

grammar

be

damned. 

“Complainers”

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

 

broken over the knees of phantoms
bleeding resentment
angry at what can’t be changed
angrier at what can,

not giving a fuck or taking one
hearts afloat in bitterness
like sponges at a high school car wash
raising funds for the funeral of hope.

they don’t want to hear it
they already know it
they’re eating themselves
with needless rage,
fine,
except they always
chew so loudly.

“cupcakes in a locked iron chest”

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

 

“There’s nothing to write,” he said,

sounding like

a teenager scanning the cupboard for snacks.

 

And it’s true,

there’s nothing in here

out there

even over yon where Shakespeare shits quill pens.

 

nothing.

 

No inspiration

No motivation

Not even

 

(wait for it)

 

masturbation.

 

There’s nothing to do, write or say.

 

There are no E-Z snacks

anymore.

 

You’re finished, all that’s left is to

Die,

bitter that someone else

will get paid to

write about it.

“Second effort”

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

 

Eh, this one’s
O-K,
solid in places
but
I kind of liked
the first one
better.

I wish this was more like the older piece
and things were like before
when the first piece you’d written was
your latest one.

You know?

“ordinary”

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

 

guts torn one way then the next
heart slinging blood like hot cards in the alley
you are the fly here
in a spider’s web of crosshairs
as time swings on a chain
as bats dip their wings in splashing blood.

hope runs out like cut rope falling
skin refusing to hold this fury,
bursting like a Styrofoam cup of gasoline
creeping toward flames
as guns empty arguments into meat
as glass breaks over skulls across town.

you wonder are your hands killers
fingers chattering keys, pulling cigs from a pack,
ordinary everyday horrors
the frightened manager asking you to
please leave
as the moon falls into the laughing ocean
as the sun throws knives at blind-folded earth
as this
as that
as is
is

is.