Month: June 2012

A vacancy for thoughts

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

You're empty,

an overwhelming vacancy for thoughts,

that could never get filled.

 

Drink it or laugh it all away.

 

You're stupid,

but maybe that's what your friends like about you,

no hard thoughts

nothing concrete.

 

A complete drain of intelligence,

IQ-lowering to have you around,

and trust me,

that's why they like you.

 

There is nothing deep about pointing out the shallow,

and there is nothing gained for the shallow.

 

Maybe it plants a seed though,

go read a book

think about life

do anything aside from dancing

fucking

drinking

or television

at least for a little while.

the suspended roof

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

Accusations do not fall on deaf ears,

or so adeptly

as to avoid the true intent.

 

Intention is critical for a partnership without walls

but what holds up the roof?

 

In that question lies the secret,

and moreso in that answer.

Panic

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

There are no whispered secrets

LZEMIAZWEZHAZCHZ

I can waste lines

and still hear it all

so clear

and it must be known

and I would like it known.

 

a dollar doesn’t buy a nickel’s worth anymore,

and a secret denied could never save up for love.

 

Panic,

it’s the only appropriate emotion.

somehow dreams

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

There is a new writing that happens

that I WILL TO BE

when there are not consequences.

 

My art will not choke,

surely will not drown,

in this free space.

 

You could not stop the word,

not by ending the site,

because there is paper,

or destroying paper,

because there is voice and signals,

and not by endings my movements,

because of the mind,

or of ending my life,

as there may somehow be dreams.

 

Maybe,

somehow.

miles beyond the one

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

The one who stares does not believe in it

– it’s just not right –

what an expert,

with all the accolades and medals

and people lined up outside that door

wanting to bang it down

-oh, wait, that’s false –

there’s no banging

and no chances for the

one who stares

and acts so innocently.

 

It’s all a game

one of silly stakes and fun

but not the kind the one would get

if the one could have fun.

 

archaic, devoid of fun, seems likely…

 

coded messages,

but not so coded

and also not quite real

for what are words on a page

with given names not taken

but others given.

 

you know exactly what this is,

feel empowered

– that’s not how life works –

interpretation is a cruel mistress,

but not ignorant at least

Hell,

not ignorant.

 

That puts it leagues ahead,

miles beyond what does not matter.

hateful engine turning

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

The kid gloves come off like

clothing

and my god,

what a strange hotel room with strange people

– strangers – 

and maybe they weren’t all that strange 

but so ordinary

normal

boring

military.

 

No use for gloves

wraps

tape

or anything to soften blows

always did blow at softening my words

anyhow,

and now there is that pain again

-anger flushes the face and leaves righteousness

made holy by sheer emotion

and nothing could be more divine/exciting.

 

Was I ever loved as a poet,

did you love me for my poetry?

double-edged problem,

the love doesn’t quite turn the engine like hate

and you do hate me

because I know.

razor-mouthed rants

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

All your stupid friends were wrong,

are wrong,

and will never

grow up

learn the difference between

something real and fake

breathing.

 

How many head boards did it take

to alter her brain

– either way

she hit more than was necessary – 

and you can take that to the bank

though not the bank she would favour.

 

And what mud slinging mattered

on late nights where idiocy is laid bare

and honesty rolls off the tip of the tongue

– which has more uses than she would lead you to believe –

she was never much for talking,

never having much to say.

 

A rant of razors,

dagger words slicing their way to the

core

and what matters.

 

Who are the you in ‘your,’

as if there was a Sherlockian puzzle to solve,

but like Doyle I haven’t laid bare all the required pieces.

 

There is implication,

but it is a falsehood,

because it isn’t about you or who you may think.

 

And who cares?