Month: January 2012

I beg to keep or kill

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

A hand

in the distance

turn your head

you can see it

I know you can see it

you can see something

or is it just the reflection

in the mirror that binds you?

You can see me

or at least feel it,

somewhere in your bones

your heart skips three beats

light-headed now

but you can see me,

can't you?

Anxiety

can you see me?

I could have sworn you

winked

blinked

stopped

stared.

Can't you see me,

or feel,

well, anything

for me?

The deperation takes me by the throat,

raw, yellowed, finger nails shake into

dirty, exposed flesh

re-opening old wounds

or emptiness and bitterness,

directed at no on in particular.

I remember this,

I would beg you all over again

just for a taste of your conversation.

A fleeting surface talk,

of nothing important,

or to have you open me up – 

we could releases some demons together,

chooe which to keep

and which to kill,

maybe we could kill each other,

or learn how to hold

and keep

love.

Please,

open me up.

keep walking as the clock

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

there,

could you hear it?

It came in the slow,

monotonous,

ticking of the clock.

It left ashamed,

forgotten in the absolute silence of space

following that booming,

clicking,

noise.

Whether it came or not

was as irrelevant as her

claims of the same.

It did not matter now

and would not matter later,

but that's true of everything.

No revelation there.

No unshrouding of mystery,

only a compounded problem,

and another averts their gaze,

afraid in a soul-paralyzing manner,

keep walking.

Just,

keep walking.

It's too big a problem,

it's too big a battle.

Keep walking.

The clock ticks,

the jump to something real,

the clock ticks,

the jump to

anything at all,

the clock ticks

anything… 

the clock ticks,

at all…

the clock ticks.

a sad blanket

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

A waste as it were,

potential turned to shit;

the saddest loss.

Whether one is passing by the woods on a snowy evening

or admiring the tragedy of the leaves,

sadness blankets the word

in fragments all-consuming.

Sorrow and loneliness are

beautiful,

and do not care for justification.

the pressure of boredom

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

Thinkers, 

decimated by boredom,

depression,

wonder where the

'something more'

is.

Pearly gates not just out of reach,

but out of sight,

even out of mind,

for many.

A pressure dances across my forehead,

pounces around my numb ears,

and boots me in between the eyes.

There will be no relief for the saints

sinners

or the dead.

The wait/weight

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There is a pressure to explore,

to learn, become, and make progress,

but also to dive into it,

and get inside.

 

Time is a fence,

set to keep the wolves away from

the precious sheep,

lovely, exquiste,

so tasty,

and wolves just want to get inside,

sink their teeth, tongue, fingers in,

and feast.

 

The blood frenzy comes at the first drop

that hits the naked tongue

and sets nature into fluid motion.

 

The wolf can not restrain,

and nor should it,

survival is for the fit,

and there are none fitter than

the patient, cunning wolf.

the sex

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

The reported sex was never as good

or even as bad

as it was in the real world.

The sex could be broken,

never happen,

or earth-shattering,

but none of that conveys itself

easily into words poems videos pictures images graphics sentences paragraphs papers essays spoke words or anything really,

there was nothing,

nothing that could justify it.

Often it came across neutral.

An act, a thing, an object.

Sex is more of an emotion,

and it isnt performance-based always,

that's no game sheet,

sometimes bad sex is still good,

and good sex is bad and vacant, void, emotionless, 

EMPTY,

that's the chaos of sex.

Sometimes sex drives all thoughts,

pushes all things,

is all thigs to everybody,

wants to be begged for and wants someone on their knees

gasping for SOMETHING to break the monotony;

life.

The outsider

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

An odd outsider sits

eyes glazed by vacant thoughts

distant memories that feel forced

by the devastation of loneliness.

 

The concept of love has broken

busted up,

an abandoned van in the middle

of a back-water, forgotten forest

rust bleeds and mixes with oils

gases, and old love once held

for a now desolate object.

 

A symposium of twisted thoughts

form an orchestra of chaos and pain,

as formidable as good intentions,

and desperate as drowned hope.

 

The bill is paid,

the laughs are had,

the cold night wraps itself

around my restaurant-warm face,

begging to be embraced just like the rest of us.

A discussion under angels

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A meeting of angels

turns quickly to sinful pleasures

when angels are sinful.

And they are.

We are all of the image of an angel,

with the minds and ambition of sinners.

Remarkable potential for beauty and morals,

all shot through with revolvers forged of our hatred,

and spat on with acid that burns the soul and leave skin untouched.

The concept of good

is one of potential,

and never one of reality.

Intentions can not stand up

and be counted as actions are

and must bide them time in the cellars

of every lost thought and forgotten word,

the place of misfits, drowning sorrow and death,

Nowhere.

An ideal is not lost,

hope always exists,

even in the sewers

and backwaters

of a broken

moral

landscape.

The sin-ridden angels fly the highest

operating above the hypocrites and pathetic moralizers

who beg for somebody to admit what they feel

but could never say.

Their courage died,

or is being tapped out by their sense of moral righteousness,

reminiscent of a church build of gold asking for a donation from beggars.

Bizarre that a group of people with chairs so high,

see so little.

A discussion happens below,

among those labelled

murderers

beggars

thieves

cheats

liars.

The meaning of life is discovered,

the pursuit of enjoyment,

and Millian liberty for all.