Tag Archives: poetry

ThirtyEight

I would like to see

The year 1998

From where I am now

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37:2

right in front of me

i watched a man pull pepsi;

half drank; from garbage.

 

 

and i thought how we think we’ve all been there.

to justify the sight of melancholy.

 

half smoked butts, or bowls,

or a pair of jeans all week:

for week on week on week.

or hoping things are better today.

walking to the store,

“for health”,

with no money for gas.

or preferring black coffee:

haven’t fit milk in the budget for months.

 

pretending you can

sympathize with other lives

that face true hardship.

 

or watching the birds of the balcony,

seeing things are better today.

 

 

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Tiger

prose or poems.

o’holy find love!

move toward a goal.

what was that she said?

stop now.

maybe not.

continue.

rejoice.

drugs. drugs. drugs.

stop now.

what did I say to you?

I miss the mother and son who sat behind me, my seatmate, the comfort.

No one makes noise from Roc to Cuse. The Lady who took my seat eats

crackers quietly and rubs her finger tips in the aisle. She flips vanity fair reading

the ads and plows another cracker into her beaked face.

15 minutes till noon, when I’ll allow myself to start drinking the booze I brought along in my bag.

9-10 more hours until Boston. I bought the ticket, I’ll take the ride.

she refuses to

hold conversation. I hope

they sell bottled wine.

All stops went quick, hoping to get into Boston early. Slept from Albany to  Schenectady.

Too many hits of tequila in the bathroom. Just left Springfield, headed toward Wooster.

Had noodles and coffee to burn off some liquor. Both were terrible.

Dinner lady, forty something, black and from Chicago.

Hope to find a sandwich shop in Portsmouth and a good coffee and maybe flowers.

I want time to sit and enjoy a Marlboro.

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There is this dream I have…

This dream I have, begins and ends in a building.
Just me and five other men who are all now dead.
All inspirations to me but stuck doing the same job as I do.

There is Ginsberg,
Stroking his cock and balls
Explaining the benefits of enrolling.

There is Poe,
All dark and Goth
Refusing to call people because his crying will stop, nevermore.

There is Kerouac,
The ringleader even here
Smoking his joints, writing from memory and not fucking caring.

There is Thompson,
Feverishly writing
Chronicling every detail somewhat drunk-mostly tripping.

There is Bukowski,
looking like shit-drunk and lonely-
fucking some broad at his desk, groaning not talking.
Then there is me
Trying to work
But utterly failing with this cacophony so damn deafening.

This Dream I have, I think it’s telling me something.
These 5 men are sending me subliminal frequencies.
But that’s a secret that I wont let out here.

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poetry is supposed to flow, just like water: Mess

it falls from the sky, shedding

tears from heave above. provoking.

the tears hit me. such a

sensation on my skin leaving me limitless.

liquid trickles over my body, giving

me goosebumps and raising every hair it

passes over.

I am now enveloped in a hydrated

cocoon and find myself using only my

sense of feeling, as in to touch.

attempting to grab the water, it being

entirely malleable, runs over and

through me.

until it drips off of me, plunging towards

the ground.

it hits with a great velocity and plasters

the surrounding area.

I realize, just like poetry water

can not be stopped.

only redirected.

stories will never stop being told.

whispers will always be heard by those who are listening.

and dreams will never end.

 

a notebook piece by Mess.

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Soaked dreams

The thoughts which lingered within my subconscious,
Stayed a blur to be honest…
Damp from its own intensity.
What more could I do? My imagination was dipped into my cup,
Swallowed the images, words, smells, and sounds into my digestive track.
Stomaching them was far from an easy task. Liquor to ease the inflammation of the abdominal region.
Smooth sailing for this salty sea-dog.

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“sit alone on that river bank till I forget that I can talk”

I fallen in love with every book I’ve read.

I’ve fallen in love with every girl I’ve seen.

I’ll never know if I’m a good writer, I don’t think anyone ever does. I just want to write prose and have people think I wrote down words with purpose – intent. Interest in one’s self is a characteristic a writer needs to have to find importance in their writings; I’m far from interested – or interesting for that matter. I think a good prose comes from a clear mind, not excluding a drunk or drugged mind, but a clear mind in the sense of just knowing at least the next ten words you want to write before you write them. This allows you to think twenty words ahead and begin to plan for the next thirty. I’m at fifty now.

A good writer writes poems for years and switches to prose to try and prove something to himself. Or vice-versa, impossible to say. Chances are he’ll turn back to poetry (or prose), become a critic, an advertiser, a wino, a bum – whatever. He’ll write. Hopeful something might happen tomorrow.

That was fifty.

This is America, with liberty and justice for all.

I’d be happy writing if I just actually could write when I want and not just when my head is too full of words to allow for proper thought anymore and I just have to write to keep from having to carry around a bag of nouns and verbs behind me everywhere I go. Imagine if an accountant could only add numbers when he had thought of so many numbers he literally spewed abstract decimals to his friends while convulsing on his dinning room floor.

The first two lines are the best part of this piece.

I need too practice more.

I’m a long way from the road I want to be on but I’m closer than I ever have been before.

Bird Murder.

 

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