February 20, 2013
My body keeps breaking down
And I’m only nineteen and I already feel like a hundred
Goddamn it all to hell and back, shit.
Contest entry forms give me rashes
And popping pills and pretending everything’s going great is not my style
I’ll Bukowski the hell out of this shit, shit, and don’t you like my curse words?
Don’t you love my pretty words?
I guess it all made sense on some level, to keep on writing shit like this for a whole year,
From Halloween past to Halloween present to Halloween future,
And it’s a real pain.
A real, Real, REAL Pain to do.
But oh well.
No one, hopefully, is holding a gun to my head.
Sticking to writing isn’t easy; it eats up so much time, that one day you wake up and you’re an old timer, and then you’re dead.
I’m a happy hip cat, hooray.
Cold fish eyes
Cold fish stares
Cold deadness everywhere
Especially from the people who once seemed so full of life
Odd, to say the least, of course
Creative writing awkwardness
And I don’t feel like doing shit
Or talking to any women or men
And I just feel so tired
At least my mom is coming back from Nicaragua
Fuck everything and everyone else
Especially Miami High and Gables people, sons of bitches of boys and “men” who never learned how to treat others besides screaming around and demanding things from others, like the world owes you SHIT
And bunch of stuck up prima donna self-centered egotistical oblivious neanderthalic “women”
Or girls or whatever the fuck you want to call it.
But getting angry and resentful and throwing out these petty pretty words doesn’t help at all
Just move on, exorcise my demons, get it out of my system, and have some fun and get involved in the work and everything will turn out okay.
Crackers on a plate
Plate rusty tin
Tin full of spots
Spots full of rust
Rust full of stained atoms
A little man
Chasing a big car
Tomatoes thrown everywhere
Young and old team-up, NBA-style
Conflict everywhere; what do you do when subatomic particles
Come together better than humans do, nowadays?
Why must you hurt my feet?
Why must you hurt my eyes?
Why must I write this
When all I want to do
Literary café Literary café
Why should I go to a Literary café?
It’s all the same shit, anyway
Write your poetry
Sing your song
Do your dance
Play out your role
Wear a bathrobe
Smile and read for a while
And then go home
And never think about it again
Until the next one,
Today (or ever, to be precise)
February 27, 2013
Social awkwardness knows no bounds
These poems give me brain parasites
I don’t understand what I’m writing
I just listen to the little Kafkas’ in my head
Late night texts
The world goes round
And yet it all goes on
The song remains the same
Sleep bears little use
But at least I still care enough
To ramble like this
Internal monologue all of this
This poem is done for
And so am I.