Nothing grows in this frost
and
everything breaks
without respite or hope
it will heal.
The bleeding also stops though,
and while limbs and pieces
fall apart and change
the core remains intact,
even its rotten guts.
I don't want to wait this long
and I just want to see us there
but there is nowhere else.
home was an ideal stuck in my head,
a memory desperately avoiding my swopping claws
and razor-sharp beak.
Home is still evasive,
a ghost among dunes of sand and mounds of bone,
something far enough to be blurry but not yet forgotten.
What I always seemed to want –
the nomadic physical life –
to go along with the spiritual nomad inside me,
has vacated me of feeling alive.
I regained my old home
temporarily
with old tricks and
an old way of being –
your soul bounced on me with
such violence and affection and I
exploded
back to life.
For a species that
Always has hooks in on another,
We are awful at supporting anyone else.
The falling tear and rip
Ropes and hooks snapping
Bent steel buckling and blowing through the air like shrapnel
The fabric exploding apart like a gunshot.
This leaving means nothing to some
And everything
For me.
Its not a matter of missing or
Loving
Or the sorrow that sits in the pit
Of your guts and waits
To break out.
Life happens while I sit
Still
And obsolete.
No longer the wanted one
And
Haven’t been
For years basically
But that’s what life delivers
In between the cracks of progress.
We mirror our culture:
Bored with everything
Constantly needing the new
Never wanting to sit and wait
Or taking the time to explore the familiar,
And that’s modern love.
Worthless
Broken
And idling at the curb with
no chance of salvation.
Nobody picks up the strays,
They find their way to the
Trash
And we continue moving forward
Even the trash.
Some lives were not meant for glory
And some are
Meant for much less
But we live all the same.
Love will always get back up
And triumph over hatred.
Its never easy or
Straightforward
But love finds a way.
These is no romanticism in this,
No getting back together now,
No kids,
No dogs,
No marriage,
Just love.
Love is enough,
Even when it is not enough
To stay together.
We put each other through hell
In the name of love
And only the truly wretched mean it
There is no sense of The Good
Or Evil
With love,
Events just are.
It took a gorgeous 24 hours to remind me that life is a difficult thing,
But love can pull you through it.
Never under estimate the love of friends and family,
But also of those who have loved you willingly,
There are no greater surprises in life,
No greater defeats
And no greater victories
Than in love.
Thank you for loving me,
The sad, enigmatic wanderer,
And thank you for sharing your life with me.
I love you,
And
Goodbye.
It starts somewhere in your guts, and then it shoots through your frame like 1501 volts. It began as a faint drumming in your heart, a marching band filling in for an army. arrows sticking out of their pelt drums and occasinally, into their torn biceps or calf muscles.The drumming begins without worry for loss of life or the wounded, and everyone drums somehow. A rag-tag band of the dying become something more, and the wrath of love has removed the plagues in their hearts somehow. Occasionally a train needs to slap you at full speed and punch you through reality to force change. There is only healing left to do, as long as there is living to be done, and we all must plnt one foot, one toe at a time, into the ground. We must use the drums as shields in the phalanx, bands together in our soul and march. There is never a goal, but march on. Life is a journey, and the march is all that matters.
We make ghosts of our mistakes, and our guilt is powerful enough to hammer us straight through the ground with one fel swing. There is no escape for those dancing within a nail, and no salvation for the generation of big kids. All the big-ass winners dance in clubs contained in the shaft of a nail, waiting to get their head struck.
The hammer always comes down in retribution, and occasionally, by chance, but it always comes down. It's not the law of gravity, it is the law of the absolute.Love does not play in karma, as god does not roll dice, and love will strike you down like the lone tree on a hill in a hurricane.
The force that hits the hammer does not grip the wrong shaft, it is not human. The inhuman, immaterial power defines the law of humanity. Wo/Man forgets what does not suit him, and sprinkles around the facts that do, until he trips and loses his face from his own webs. What good is a face for the soulless, and what use is thief in a world of NOTHING.
It's dark in the cave, and it's too humid. Sweat mixes with the dew from the depths of some awful place. You never really broke a sweat. Indifference clapped you down like the weight of a galaxy, then and now.
There is no apology big enough
for the injuries and mistakes of love,
nor should there be.
Love is the most destructive force
in the history of mankind,
and in every intimate connection.
We have slaughtered million for love,
torn apart the lives of our closest friend,
and that was barely the opening act.
What memory stings like love lost?
What gap in your life cannot be restored,
except by more of the same?
What would push you to destroy the fabric
of the only person that mattered?
There is an agony in love
and a pain unlike any other
and we are children on the
playground
constantly falling from the top of the
monkey
BARS
occasionally splitting lips
sometimes being knocked out,
on the way down from the top.
We tread up the bottom with caution,
but once balance is gained,
we run like cheetahs on the prowl,
and that's when we end up a mess
in a pile on the floor that was made of sand,
but felt lie concrete,
in stillness.
Defeat is never so swift or total
as in love.
There are not enough tears to express sorrow,
or enough violent acts to express rage.
Not in any true way,
the best we have are words,
because actions seem to fail.
One man,
shaking in his sadness,
body convulsing in fits of tears,
and rolling ever so gently back and forth,
trying to rock himself back to sanity.
and it is not true enough.
The stare of betrayed lovers,
digging through years of happiness,
and the built up human coniditoning of love,
to pierce the soul of their former other,
with the hatred of centuries,
fails to explain it.
There are an infinite combination of words,
that act as silhouettes
-at best-
in defining how we feel.
The word love means everything,
but we can't define it in an acceptable way,
and nobody has the same definition
in their mind r their heart.
Love,
hatred,
sadness,
and what else matters?
What have I become,
my sweetest friend?
Everyone ounce of trust,
fell apart back then.
I spend the hours lately,
lost inside my head.
Vultures surround me,
claiming me for dead.
Where will you run to,
when the hammer drops?
Who will take you home,
when the parties stop?
And where has my head gone?
it's dragging on the gound.
I reach out to the world for love,
but there's no one else around.
What have I become,
my sweetest friend?
No apology could stand,
with such a vicious end.
Andy Veilleux 