the Destruction of word(s)

Beat to the tribal drums

I never did coke even when he offered
The Kinks played in the foreground
Finding myself a stringent sequence
The subculture of genre was out right
The booze took the edge off to just walk around
Without following the beady eyes

The days
Run away
From me
As we all grow
And die
Rotting flesh
Molecular disintegration

She took your virginity from the bathroom stall
The communion with flesh and cum and blood
Iggy Pop had nothing on her crimson lips
The acceptance of when things fall apart
The foundation slowly began to crack





A Bad Night

Sometimes the words won’t pass
I have to say something
To make me feel less bleak
And when I felt like every shade of grey
The drinking from last night lingers
And I think about her
She told me how she read what I wrote
And asked about me
I felt insulted it took her this long
And she wanted to say the right thing
So I might not write the wrong thing
Because she does not want to be looked at badly
Even though when she sees me I feel weak
The only power I have is words
That is all I have left
Maybe I should just try to float by
And lie to myself daily delusions
I never could take the blame she would say
But I am taking full responsibility
And it pains me when I think about
What could have or should have happened
I think she watches the phone when I call
In weakness there comes clarity
I resent how I pick up when she calls
She uses that to her advantage
That it is not in my nature to ignore her
But it is in my nature to cling on
And not let anyone else in
To block out the full reality
And just dwell on the unpleasantness
I just heard a statement on artists
often make art out of social miscomings





Bash My Head In With Truth


I have a problem often accepting things as definite truths

I accept a force of creation
A small flicker or flame
Did not come just at chance
I can accept dolphins that walked
Monkeys that evolved
Science is often a dish best served cold
Hard boiled snake eggs






Problem

I have no problem but that might be it.
By me being unnecessarily non-threatening
That is my hang up.

There are days when even drunks do not want to drink
Rather just think about their problems
Until it boils down to bottle
And they sit in front of the tv
And the bottle calls them from the kitchen.

Some days when terrorists just have no reason to reign terror
To play ball with his oldest son and talk about the bomb
Another time, another day
It will probably still be there when the sun rises.

Everyone seems to have a problem with something
We plague each other with them until they eat up
And cause a thermo nuclear meltdown
So I am just asking I have enough, no room for any more.





The Self Proclaimed Boss

He though of himself as
This way but maybe he wanted to be thought of
As a genius but he was compelling in the way he spoke
He had people following and believing
Yet he never had much follow through
But it was scary when people would follow him
And his half coked up schemes
Somehow we all followed him through the many depths
Yet often ended our association out of just disgust
At how dirty the filth we had wallowed.






Ode to Spider

Watching me while I shit
You cower spinning your web
Rejection of any symbiotic relationship
We could foster
Yet you wait for me
Wait for the light to come on
To spin by my face
While I wash and soap
You want to be there
To get one last bite
Before your ultimate death
The giant slays all in his way
You stand on my shoulders
Hoping your poison will one day slay
Every giant that has hit
Swatted with newspaper
Sprayed chemicals in your eyes
One day revenge will be sweet







Sobriety

In order to be poetic I need a pint
In order to be a writer
I need to keep my thoughts in order
Reflexes need to be sharpened
Not blunted in booze
To script and mold words onto the page
I struggle to keep the booze down
The typing cannot be a blurry daze
Of drunken nonsense

I never made any claims at being the poet
But just a man with a burden for words
The Catholic guilt sets in the next morning
Making an oath to never spill a sip of booze
To be blunt – I require the parched lips.

My editor told me to write in a younger voice
To appeal to the college generation
To shape my words to conserve space
To fully equate my thoughts into concrete expression
But also maintain your aura of hip.

I felt like a whore in church and raped
By the high priest, I equate mass to a porno
My values are rather skewed
I never spoke to the devil but his hands misguided me
Through accidental disadvantages I crippled my own actions.

The next day we could not recite a word or even an event
The documentation was corrupt beyond use





Election

No more phone calls
I can finally stop lighting the mailbox
With a firestorm.

I cannot wait to open the bottle Of champagne
To celebrate no more tv commercials
No more puppies , the dog is dead.

Time to run to the polls
Hysteric propaganda
Disenabled by free ideas.








Girl from New York

She said Brooklyn
The boy knew he was doomed
But aren’t we all?

The boy took her
To the best places
That the east coast had to see

Yet he wondered
If it was enough for her.

She wasn’t the prettiest
But to him
She was more.

Because when they danced
Madly in the rain
From one light pole to another

Her Persian eyes kept him on track
Was it a secret
That she often never muttered
Aloud or to herself

She was never home
Even when they laid together
Rolling in naked sweat
His hands often numb.