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.

 

 

Lost in translation

It’s hard to differentiate the sad from the happy if both are caused by the same entity. What more can a man do but be torn through each transition, wondering how the next day will develop.
Lost in his own mind, scurrying about for meaning and reason, alas, it vanished in the abyss that is his cerebral cortex. It comes as no surprise that retribution for the pain is paid in full, yet there’s nothing to say that isn’t even creating a difference.
Let the two divide and finally maintain a differential to diagnose each ailment and treat in such matters.

The Slow Drift Away…

The slow
Drift
Away
Begins on harsh whispers
Never fully formulated
But ever present in the eyes
Violently screaming the unspoken truth
Oh so loud-
-SO LOUD it’s left creating
The slow
Drift
Away

(repeat)

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.

The Poets Wept

The poets wept
The drinkers drank
The stars bled
And the rest fled

What’s left here in the end
Is simply the best of the worst
The unknown dreams of the ones who didn’t care
And the ghosts of the dead

All the bridges have burned
With no hope no religion
All money and only fame
Everyone else elated on the med

Stuck in a loop of a neo revolution 9
Making sense of rubbish in gibberish
A doped up generation coddled under mother’s care
Taking in everything that they are spoon fed

It was always going to end like this
Ashen skies and blood red seas
Walking skeletons and fat pigs
Divided by cracks created in dread

The dread of what was always to come
but no one listened to what the fools said

Because the poets just wept
The drinkers just drank
The stars just bled
And the rest just fled.

Refrigerator Magnet Poem: 20

Refrigerator Magnet Poems: 18

Muted Experience

Those cool vocals howl in my ears as the wind whips through my hair.

I sit and stare at the sunlight sprinkling from the black vastness above as the thundering of cars roll by.

Their exhaust suffocates and chokes the little bit of beauty around like the weakening oak tree I rest my body against.

I don’t know how long it’ll be there for but I know it’ll be there longer then me.

I’m already gone.

I’m just an observer in these matters.

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.

Definition of “accepting”