Author: andyveilleux

Low School

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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

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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)

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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.

One feeling you wanted

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She who would move freely to heaven

suffocates in the lazy, charcoal clouds.

A misguided perspective

searching for a line among dots.

Any line will do and it shows.

 

Pull me out of my skull

where the thoughts tumble and

crash onto the ground like glass figurines

of old lovers and family.

 

A piece of heart for each leaves

a small sum remaining

but the metaphysical may reproduce

or re-grow or

maybe heal itself.

 

No,

let go of the self and

breathe.

 

Ascend.

love like justice

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Blame it on me,

you know I can take it,

blame it on your family and

the hand you were dealt

and the way you don't give a 

fuck

about anything.

 

Blame it on the way you have no roots

and don't know what it's like to belong

or how you pretend philanthropy is in your 

selfish bones.

 

Blame it on me,

and the way I cared,

still care,

and the way I always get back up from

every lie and let down

and you pretend not to notice

or feign ignorance.

 

Really,

blame it on me,

and make it sound like I made the first

move and the first mistake,

and any other firsts you want to put on me.

 

Put it on me, baby,

you know I can take it.

 

Blame it on the way you live in secret

with texts and accidental phone calls

and act none the wiser

because I can take it.

 

Blame it on the way I shut down

shut you out

buckled down and made myself

stronger

faster

void of the outside emotion endemic in man.

 

Blame it on anything but yourself

blame it on the little green armymen,

or the real armymen,

they can take it.

 

I will pretend to sleep it off,

work it out,

walk it off.

 

I can do those things and more,

ut justice isn't the only thing that's blind.

Shaking down the old bones

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A rust has come to roost with the

complacency of the now

as experienced through the mind

of a solitary satelite.

 

A kick is needed,

a spark.

 

A something to break the nothing,

the big nothing – only ever properly described

in the intrninsic link between sorrow and death.

 

Who could dare to dive into the mess?

Few,

and by default they are no longer with us.

 

What of the survivors?

Cowards, Bukowski would say,

or they did not hate it enough – yet who hated more than he?

 

Puzzles on the back of mysteries veiled in a fog.

 

Maybe he never shook the rust off

and it consumed him until he was nothing else.

 

What a broken poem

too much rust – and how does one shake it?

the current dogma

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Machine aspirations,

a constant race to be mechanized,

ending in what?

 

Throw out free will,

stomp on the buddhists,

burn down natural medicines.

 

Inject it all into your body,

you number in a world of numbers

causation moves you anyhow,

and nobody asked for 

an expression of

the opinion your

biology forms.

 

Break down anything that can not be explained away

by science,

the infallible dogma of modern man

as flawed and subjective as what came before

with a few fancy tricks and facts to cover it all up.

 

Why explains the holes,

or even acknowledge them?

 

Shut them the fuck up,

and let's wait with wealthy promises

and blind faith that gaps the size of canyons

will be filled eventually.

 

Blind faith, 

partial truths,

dogmatic obedience.

 

Yup,

we have since this all before.

A vacancy for thoughts

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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

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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

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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.