Archive for the ‘bloodwords’ Category

The Dawn of Zen

Saturday, 20 May 2017

When I was a liberal, nothing changed except for the worse.
When I was an anarchist, nothing changed except for the worse.
When I was a Libertarian, nothing changed except for the worse.
When I was a Conservative, nothing changed except for the worse.
When I was a Trump Voter, nothing changed except for the worse.

No matter who’s in charge, taxes go up.
No matter who’s in charge, prices go up.
No matter who’s in charge, freedom fades.
No matter who’s in charge, the bad guys win.

God is in control.
Satan is in control.
You are not in control.

It’s always been this way
Will always be this way

So relax and get those dishes
done.

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“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.

“when it goes to shit”

Tuesday, 22 September 2015

 

when it goes to shit
you will feel the teeth in each drop of rain
you will see steel shine
as bones filled with blood
break against it,
you will see a flower killed in battle, now floating down the gutter
toward the sewers.

you will think of her and put meat in her memory
but your hand will pass right through her.

you will never keep a movie stub again.

you will look in the mirror and wish for something else
you will see rain in the small frosted window above;
pattering paws
on cold glass
and think, ‘that has nothing to do with me.’

you will quietly put the lesson away
as a wrinkle, scar or gray hair.

you will never keep a movie stub again.

“and the horse you rode in on”

Tuesday, 22 September 2015

 

a bone lies stripped on the sidewalk

surrounded by nations of ants

under orange streetlight moon.

 

Another night shot from a cannon,

your innards sucked dry,

what’s left

burned by radiation.

 

little girls dressed like whores,

it’s logical, they were taught from birth they

are nothing, pumped full of filth

transmitted from glowing eyes.

 

they will never be nothing,

the ants will carry their bones

and yours

to gods waiting underground

as the next evil night waits in the shadows of

urine dawn.

08 OCT 07