There was this one time
When nothing mattered except
The next draw of smoke
The next sip of wine
The next sappy kiss
Under the sappy starlit sky
On the pier at the beach
The next loud "fuck you!"
From someone who didn't mean it
Or the next "I'll see you soon"
From someone who did
The next headache and recovery
The next closing of car doors
The next surging of heartrates
And the next fidgets of fingers
When eyes, vaguely familiar, next time meet

I guess that last one is incomplete, oh well.

Who do you like more?
She asked me yesterday
And how could I answer?
Even if we were married
I don't think that
I'd like you better than
Your sister...

And how could you ask
A question like that
Anyways? How could you?

A yellow toothed tourist
Passed by as I was saying
All of this to her
With a fat wife by his side
Carrying a pathetic
Little shopping bag,
A sad little thing.
And shop cleaners and
Maintenance men were
Walking around too and

How could I like her
Better than any of them?
I didn't think to ask
Her this, though, I
Don't think that I'd
Know how to...

That sweet little thing
Who loved everyone
Without any judgment
Wanted me to love her
The most, better than
Her sister at least
And that was it...

she slaps

tender boyish skin disturbed,
shaking side to side.
her pebble in my puddle.

ripples flowing down my neck
my needle quivering.
small tsunamis, crystal clear
sweep red across my eyes.

a freight train,
choo choo chooing between us
smoke transforming sight.
contorting grimey features,
tempting toothless smiles
too many suicides.
--------------------
obviously unfinished and unrevised.
spontaeniously written just now in the message board reply box.
some good ideas, some words need changing.

Sexual, then not.

Beauty
Beauty lies naked on my bed,
Beauty is dead,
I seem to not care,
Her eyes are murdered dreams that life commited,
The moon wept last night,
The stars fade for her tonight,
And the sun is a disaster fueled with envy,
Beauty died a virgin,
The few who knew her personally, called her the virgin bitch,
I seemed to not care.

That's kinda neat, Vic. I like it.

i'm climbing the half of the valley where only pesticides are needed for natural growth
waiting for the hot arctic summers
and cold sahara nights
while the balkan orchestra plays
only stopping for the cries of merchants and babies
please buy this or give me that
because natural selection really only happens
when at least one is just a plain and not a canyon.
but i guess i'll just have to wait for the tambourine
and the wails of the drummer boy
during the cold arabian winters and hot alaskan nights
wondering why there are no more parties

Jade: *See response above*

Here's a couple that sort of tie in together...
Damned Machine
knowing nothing's better than never knowing it was nothing...
sheep in wolves dress, mask the musk; the foul, aching reek of a dead-ass century...
knowing it never happened, fucked on not knowing it was ever around

the queen, denounced
trance in public, eating steel wool, break the yolk, throw-away

knowing nothing, not the truth, + not the end...
naked sheep, damn the breath of an endless year...
grab the machine, damned endless screeching halt
god damned endless screeching halt

Trained Box
DON'T ASK ME TO BE A PART
DON'T ASK ME TO COME APART
rotten wiring; duplicate veins
doubled silence; let it flow, pump, whatever
sideswiped, grating blasts of dosages (too big)
DON'T ASK ME TO PLAY ALONG
DON'T ASK ME ABOUT YOU
the minute has failed
null, drop out
notice i don't function
everything falls with my head
i
i'm equal for a second
in my insignificance, i am human
in my wretched, futile, mortal, putrid, trivial last moments
i'm a fucking real boy

not a poem "per se".
it was at first but i thought it suited prose more than verse.......
tell me what you think...



The Lunatic

I have sat one too many evenings in this cafe, watching angelic old men sit and eat their last meal.
One of their eyes seem always to be casually fixed on the dreary city outside. A glass enclosure on the other side of the window, an tasteless exhibition of swarms of sneering women with their pinched, sour faces, glaring down from skyscraper windows, playing cat and mouse games with their tongues. Streets and streets of sexless buisness people in suits bouncing and billowing along with the wind.

And the other eye, always on the dessert.

To me, they always seem to have a sort of "Christ-like" understanding (although I am not at all religious), an almost sympathetic rapport with humankind, with a grey beard, a tattered jacket, skin, peacefully creased, and soggy, colourless eyes.

Their eyes seem to be so soft and fragile that if they were left out under the sun for too long, they would easily become soft and melt, just like chocolate, and smoothly run down the cheeks like a snotty nose,
drip down the trouser-leg, and gather at the feet in a slimey glob of jelly.

But to be honest, I never think that they truly understand the grim reality of their situation.
They never seem to realise that the meagre slice of drizzly lemon pie
that they are poking at with indifference, is actually the last
slice, of lemon pie that they will ever have the pleasure of devouring. I'm pretty sure that they don't realise. I think that perhaps I am the only one who realises.

You know, sometimes I catch them staring at me, probably with harmless inquisition, as if they are trying to figure something out, or that they know something that I don't. It's all very disturbing, poor fellows.They must be at their wits end, I think to myself. How awful, though, it must be for these men to have death creep up behind them, like a cruel, mischievous child, without any sort of warning and announcement. Especially since I have, over time, grown to possess a soft admiration, a tenderness, if you will, towards these men. Life is terribly cruel sometimes. I sigh to myself.
But at least, (I think reassuringly) at least when my turn comes I willl know of it's happening a good while beforehand, I think to myself comfortably.

Having succesfully cast off the unpleasant thoughts, I settle myself in my chair.

And with a sudden shudder and a fearful glance towards the fated faces floating at the tables all around, I tuck in, to my slice,
and absent-mindedly gaze out of the window.

Shit, racehorse. Check rep, awesome.

thanks so much, glad you enjoyed it :)

Kafka is dead, he was run over by a fuzzy noise,
His veins where shaken and splatter thru the wall,
His brain was transported to UCLA where it is studied for future dreams of the world,
Kafka Died walking his pet goat,
And he read The New York times and laughed,
Just as he was run over he screamed "Words are lies."

some improv on Kafka.

The Butterfly is dead,
Green eyes are dissheveled,
The roots of her hair are wet with tears,
The drugs the sun took take him further into death's breath,
Metal angels melt under hipsters lies,
And the words of god fall unimformed to the masses,
Swinging trees battle the elusive train of thought,
At the end, the end the river is a watery grave to suicide virgins.

ThrowiN up my gat
homiez wHERE itz aT
wiNd blowZ in trees
and bugz eat lEavEs
s0ciety is a h0Le
iM goNNa smOKE a bowl

PHAZE II
im dA shadow in HaLL
climBin on w4lls aNd tipPin b4llz
in BaffROOM stallz
-hOmie