Archive for the ‘bloodwords’ Category

“dead threats or heart splinters”

Monday, 21 September 2015

sad dogs with tennis ball jaws
popsicle sticks in the trash
ants crawling over anything

the deflated Milk Dud with no malt center
overdue library books
trash bags that don’t fit the cans

clouds that don’t move
the last note of a too-long song
pissing on road trips

green potato chips
broken vitamins
stares from slow children

fat girls wearing belly shirts
abandoned nests
slingshots missing an arm

gagging spoons of cough syrup
world war 2 footage
smiling clowns twisting balloons

sweat under a necklace
mud on the treads of tanks
jammed photocopiers

bad sax solos (all of them)
political advertisements
helmets on riders dead anyway

sticky pennies good for nothing
steaming radiators
mirrorshades on dickhead cops

bones on the ground
sad Indians looking sad for Nature
spent ammunition

hurricane tracking
foreign flags
contracts signed or unsigned

dirty bathtubs
alarm clocks
final notices

flaming arrows
forced smiles
words abandoned

done.

04 Aug 06

“stars”

Monday, 21 September 2015

Never a big drinker,
that night I drank 4 shots
of vodka in 3 minutes.

I wanted to kill the woman I loved.

I walked slowly out of the bar
into black Alaskan night.

My boots crunched lovingly,
the air was crisp and clean.

Stars and light of stars,
you’ve never seen so many
in a single sky
in a single lifetime
it was like a full cereal box
of stars
had been torn apart
so that even the powdered stars
at the bottom had spilled everywhere,
a precise mess so beautiful
my tears dragged to the ground.

I wanted to kill the woman I was in love with,
the one inside my head,
so much better than the real one
with someone else.

I really wanted to cry but the sobs didn’t happen. Nothing did.

The military ship waited
at the miltary dock
like a Christmas dagger.

I rejoined the human disaster
on board.

13 Apr 06 

“poetry forever”

Sunday, 20 September 2015

I remember the moment
I gave up
poetry forever.

Clicking through the
latest online issue
of a ‘zine,
looking for
my submission
like anyone seeks
their own face
first
in a group photo,
I stumbled across a poem
I’d written
that I didn’t remember writing.

It was clever, edgy, spritely, etc., dancing like a weapon-y
ballerina
sober on sunlight and pink socks.

I loved it
like anyone loves
their own kid
most
in a school play,
except
my poem was over there
and the one I thought I’d written was written by
someone else.

I didn’t need a DNA test to know
my words were
nothing
if some random asshole could Xerox
“my” madness
“my” fingerprints
“my” unique turds
so much
I thought they were mine.

So I walked away from
poetry forever,
it was easy,
I didn’t love anyone
and still don’t.

The gods had found a replacement
for a replacement
and now that that was settled
I could concentrate on my first love:
jerking off.

Trouble is, between poetry
and
jerking off

no one can tell the difference.

Which is fine,
there’s no money
in either.

 14 Jun 06 

 

A Trip to the Market

Sunday, 2 September 2012

I wake up.   I wanted to be up two hours ago but there was no point, just like there’s no point now. I pop 1/4 of a caffeine pill and lie down, enjoying the feeling of the drug racing through my veins.

I get up, shit, shave, teeth and prepare to hit the gym. I pull on the black gym shorts and say, Fuck This, No Gym.  Wearing the gym getup, I go to the supermarket instead.

The lot is crowded, I brake often to not run people over, people who move too slowly, like they have all the time in the world. Fuck off.

I park and head for one of the two entrances, located at either end of the building like human ears on a head. I walk past the scale and think Fuck It. If I’m too heavy I’ll be depressed and if I weigh OK, I’ll likely spend too much on crap and undo all my good work.

The market is very busy. Normally I’m here when the aisles have one or two other people, now they’re crowded with 4 or more. I make my way to the greens and find a box of Muscadine grapes. They are big for grapes, purple-to-black, fat and round. The store wants 5 bucks for a tiny box. I decide I’ll try them, what does a 5 dollar grape taste like? It better fucking rock.

Circling the produce I see a mother/daughter combo. The mother is my age or worse, frail, smallish. The daughter, whose face I never see, has long brown hair, t-shirt with school slogan.  Capping the tops of her shapely thick strong legs is an amazing white ass, not too round, not too big, with just the right amount of baby fat. In years to come that ass will slouch into larger and larger shorts, but today it’s perfection. I stay far away. Society sez, if you make less than 50K you talk only to the mother.

I get to the soda aisle. A strange woman is there, I see her from behind. Six foot and rising, white tanktop pulled over either a swimsuit or gymwear, long tanned legs, not the best but shapely. As she stretches like a crane for the top shelf, her tanned asscheeks slide upward out of the cradle of black shorts. She comes back down to earth with a bottle, turns and sees me.

Her face is pinched and unpretty, and right now, mean. It’s not the ciurcumstances that bother her, I guess, it’s the way I look.

I don’t know what I look like walking around, but if I had to make an accurate guess, you would see a never-smiling older man with dark hair, tense and unhappy, glide/walking with the disappointment of someone who just lost their ice cream cone to a gust of wind and has also been told he is to fight a giant in 20 minutes.

I guess a ladies’ man, so inclined, would’ve SMILED at the woman, said something about the weather and went from there. I pass soda lady and thankfully do not see any more fuckworthy tail, just fat black women and fat white women and asians and other assorted random jerkoffs, extras in the story of my life as I am background noise in theirs.  It’s noon in America and I feel…not good.

As I load up the bags a sweet voice says, “Finished with the cart?”
It’s a young girl in the supermarket’s costume, come to take the empty cart away.
“Yes, thank you.”
She takes the cart away to join other carts for their field trip back to the cool of the store.
As I pull away, I watch her. She’s dumpy, blonde, sweet, just out of high school if that.  We have nukes all over the country ready to launch, to protect her.   I feel sorry for her in a way only the old can pity the young.

I drive home, load the food, fire up the fake chicken nuggets made of mushroom meat, change the cat box, take a bite of powerful cannabis-laced granola bar and settle in. Fuck the grapes, they can wait.

There’s work tomorrow, at a nowhere job that pays well only in how much the higher-ups leave you the hell alone. I think of our fat-faced CEO, who looks developmentally-disabled.

At least I know the name of the prick I’m making rich.

Today is an understuffed pillow while I try to dream of a better world, a world that isn’t this one.

 

 

It’s Too Late

Tuesday, 21 August 2012

I have no fans, and that’s fine with me. Much has happened since I last picked up the keyboard for more regularly blogged bullshit. As filmed, the story would be minor happy events in an overall tragedy as opposed to some bloodless low points in a comedy. Sounds about right for almost everyone.

I’m slowly dying of some rare blood disease that damages only the kidneys. Really, I wish my kidneys would fail already. I would quietly collect SSD and get dialysis 3 times a week if it meant not having to ever work again, facing the ugliness of the human race every fucking day.

There are still a few good things left in life:  Oreos, cannabis, taking a shit, internets, reading history, jacking off. There are even hookers that will come to your door!

Contrary to what salesfolk are forever claiming, there is a time when nothing you do or try or buy will save your sorry ass. That time is called “It’s Too Late” and for me, it’s already here. I never try to tally up the reasons I have to live another day, there really aren’t any. I’ve abandoned this life…the mp3 player is still counting the song from both ends but the music stopped long ago.

I told the Guru I HATE God, but I told him in an email.  No response.  That was years ago.  When he does answer it’s usually with, “Have you tried meditating?”  He’s not being a smartass.  God is.

Sadly, there is no Satan to worship. Don’t matter who you cry out to; no god—good or evil—returns messages.

I want to get black t-shirts made with IT’S TOO LATE right across the chest in bright yellow. More than any demon, those words frighten people, with truth.

Who will hold the nail while I hammer?

Saturday, 10 October 2009

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bloodwords: We will not be undersold!

Sunday, 27 September 2009

The bum on the corner holds his sign: ANY AMOUNT WELCOME GOD BLESS. Whether he’s scamming or not he’s superior, he can toss away self-respect or dignity long enough to collect coin, and everything he makes he keeps, no tax. What good is self-respect if it doesn’t pay off?

*******

Welcome to The world’s shortest love story! I found a matchbook in the street. I ignored all of the matches still intact, noticing only the space where one had been ripped out and used. That was the match I wanted.

*******

Kayaking. Why?

*******

Frisbee on the roof, neon orange plastic bleached white by the sun. What does this have to do with winter? It’s over.

*******

Giant tortoises never write books, or maybe they do, they just procrastinate the first 100 years.

*******

Why are you surprised by problems? So much of our economy is based on people that never learn.

*******

I read the obituaries, aka People You Will Never Meet. It’s the only part of the paper promising an end to suffering.

*******

Only very still fish prefer to swim in formaldehyde.

*******

I can’t cry.

poetry cornered: “At the strip club”

Sunday, 13 September 2009

Tits, asses, elbows, necks.

Women are women.

I’ve got nothing more to say
to any of them, while they have never had
anything to say
at all.

Dance around the pole, Lucite high-heels kicking through a litter of dollars.

Fat Asian loser, Fat Indian loser, Fat White crewcut loser. Bashful smiles of nerd losers, blushing redder than the hideous lights.

The vagina always looks like something half-finished and who’s to blame for that? The gaping asshole nearby.

I wonder what they clean it with.

(The pole, not the hole).

Stripper Windex?

I try to smell women over the music. Nothing.

Their skin is so smooth,
like wetsuits without zippers.

Red lights, blue lights, yellow lights, green lights, the music one big thumping seizure. Why has no one ever killed the DJ?

Too many tattoos, too many hair extensions, too many hard drugs, too many one-year-olds at home.

Souls like pancakes soaked in ketchup.

Take the fucking dollar
and get lost.

Life Explained in 6 words minus the ending

Wednesday, 20 May 2009

“Satan is King!”

“Sometimes He is.”

THE END

Congeniality

Friday, 13 March 2009

It’s not that I hate people

I just don’t like seeing them

or having to say Hi to them or driving on roads with them

or talking to them.

As the Poet said, I feel better when they’re not around.

As you read this you’re the perfect distance away.

Now we can be friends.