Month: October 2012

Low School

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

I remember in Low School

when they snickered

and still they snicker

sweating under blue collars that we wish

were nooses.

 

The academic, the dancer,

the artist

making others feel

different – for a change – and the reacttion

FEAR

evolution,

basic,

stupid

stupid

stupid 

FEAR.

 

They tried to eat before being eaten

but the meal was too large for

small minds.

 

Now they face this

the unexplainable omnipotent

the rise of the nerds and artists and educated class

and the smarter ones know who

will become the master and who eats out of hands

but where does that leave you?

or me?

 

Or anybody that isn't a stereoptypical fake persona I created that you believed and got angry or loved and could not stomach or smugly stomached too easily.

And where does that leave us?

dead memory

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

Remember me here

or some place where life 

tends to happen more frequently than not – 

the dance of playful sexual cues on your lips

flicking off your tongue and the

desire in your eyes.

 

Remember that room where

so many passionate moments passed into existence

and carved their way

-chisel full of grey brain and blood-

into our memory.

 

Do you remember when it happened?

Eyes stretched out over the small table

surrounded by so many horrible books

and Harris

Fucking Harris

and the rest of the clowns –

how they all faded when

eyes touched and there was a plunge

but to where?

 

Somewhere lost souls dwell – 

purgatory for philosophers and other

maniacs.

 

Bring me back.

hope past midnight (vulgarity between lines)

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

The worst part of loneliness

is hope.

 

Hope for somebody to cure it – 

some magic creature with a perfect mind, body

soul

but thats a fiction or

it is not

real

loneliness – or deep or true loneliness

as if it is so easily pinned by by signs.

 

And what signs shine through?

certainly none better than a tunnel

through the brain

or the light through a rope

but then why bother upsetting people?

 

Bukowski felt it,

he was a coward too – the kind he railed about

with his mouth full of vomit

cheap wine and

the vulgar

taste of a run-down old tramp's vagina.