Posts Tagged ‘bad poetry’

“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 

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.

Struggling for second place

Wednesday, 20 May 2009

“I have found God, and he is insufficient.” -Henry Miller

Henry, I feel the same way. Earth is just a giant waiting room and I’d feel better as a ball of energy than a meatsack human being. This body is nothing but trouble, a festering cesspool for the ego to roll around in.

The mind is a crumpled paper airplane in a hurricane, but the ego thinks it’s a fighter jet.  The capacity for self-delusion is bottomless.  The mind is its own worst enemy; why it throws fear at itself I understand, it’s a survival mechanism. But why does the mind attack itself with doubt?

Life was brutal for the caveman but far simpler: at any given moment he was either alive and afraid or unaware and eaten. Attempts at poetry or deep thought were ended by saber-toothed tigers.  Now there’s nothing to stop bad poetry.

Sorry God, but I’m ready to go back. I won’t learn anything else here, life is all reruns now. I’m too lazy to meditate, I’d rather sleep.

I’m having trouble remembering why I didn’t commit to suicide when I was an atheist.  If it was all meaningless, why didn’t I end it?  The Satanist proclaims pleasure the greatest virtue.  I couldn’t extract pleasure out of anything except being an observer and surfing over others’ hypocrisy.  Obviously I survived.  But lived?

I was alone then, before then, and now.

My pal Hal swears if he won the lottery he’d build an underground house and never leave it.  Everything would be ordered and brought to his door.  I don’t blame him.  “Hell is other people,” is the greatest line ever written.  Everyone else with a pen or keyboard only struggles for second place while the moon shits cold fire and the women sleep with other men.



eating a mirror

Sunday, 9 November 2008

She had big tits, freckles, was dumb.
Too-tall, big ass, big hips, a goofy sort of giant.

I was obsessed with her, but calmly.

Though married, she talked about her sex life with the other guy at the job.  He could’ve fucked her any time except to him she was “kind of ugly”.

I reminded her of her brother.

She moved away.  I left the job.  Life went on.

Lately I found her again, online.
Teaches 3rd grade at a Christian school in the Carolinas, still married, one son.
Signed her class home page, In Him,

Shit!  She was religious back then but not like that.

Half of all marriages fail (I hoped hers did though I had no chance) but not this one.

And now Jesus is getting that pussy!

Ah well, such is life in this world,
eating a mirror
with a hated image,
every day 12 rounds
with both arms tied
behind the back.

Love forever pissed off a cliff
and even lust’s chromium cries
going unanswered.

I’d kill myself but it seems even that
wouldn’t be enough.

In Him.

Fuck.


Love poetry, or Trying to Turn Shit into Chocolate Cake

Friday, 4 April 2008

You can write love poems—even good ones—for specific women as long as you don’t expect the words to work. Because they don’t.

I have a friend who already has self-published one small book of love poems. The cover looks cool, it looks like a real book, but the poems within are the opposite of good: riddled with clichés and trite expressions like dead bats hung on a clothesline of pretension.

Worst of all, they beg.

A wise woman already knows a man who confesses to love her is completely vulnerable, no matter how tough he acts. Supplicating makes a man seem weak. Really, if you want to do well with women, remember they are Klingons at heart. The few that have hearts, ha ha.

Sad to say the woman my poor friend Can’t Live Without™ whom he’s known for years, is an Asshole, a sanctimonious, “spiritual” cruella who hates him for some reason he’s never quite explained. Judging from the fury of her words, you’d think he raped her and left her for dead; I think he deceived her about something, but nothing close to cheating on her.

I’d offered to edit his first manu, but halfway through he up and self-published it, full of spelling errors and all.

I suicidally offered to edit the 2nd one and heard nothing more about it. Then out of nowhere, last week he asked if I’d looked at it. When I told him I never got the file he flipped, then sent it.

Now I’ve flipped.

Love Manuscript #2, aka More of the Same, almost 140 pages of short-yet-hard-to-stomach poems. I don’t even envy the prodigious output, it’s all terrible.  I’m trying like hell to make his stuff work, but secretly I hope he ignores my editing. I love my friend and hate his needless suffering, and not because I have to suffer his poopoetry. If I could magically erase the cruella’s horrible personality and reprogram her or create a magical fuckbot in her image, I would. I’ve already dared tell him in a 500-words-or-less essay why I think this woman is a disaster, that even if she saned-up he still has no future with her and should be glad for it. But he can’t listen to reason any more than his poems can un-suck: the poor SOB is in love.

Some people are just fucking machochists, I guess. Like me, trying to turn shit into chocolate cake.

(If you ever find this blog, my friend, you’ll have to forgive me. You’ve suffered enough).