Author: andyveilleux

a beast and a gentleman

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I haven't even managed,

to hit my full stride,

yet.

I'm already your favourite beast,

and maybe,

favourite gentleman.

 

The image is broken.

 

The thoughts of me,

and my best moments,

fell from your ears and shattered;

a mountain ridge of memories,

piled on the cold floor,

passive,

on cracked, dry concrete.

 

You're broken,

and I know,

because,

I broke you;

you never had a chance,

or a shot in hell.

 

Don't worry,

dry your comatose eyes,

you're finished but there are,

certainly worse things in life;

not death.

 

I stole your core,

the package of life,

that represents you,

keeps you breathing,

and I ate it gladly with,

my smiling hero jaw.

 

I didn't leave a loiterer,

I fought for my territory,

but you were too strong,

too well-armed for my weak,

shameful,

display of force;

I grapple with inner demons,

that have worn me down for years;

NOW IS YOUR TIME.

 

A train clangs along,

the tracks of your hatred,

a rock on the rails,

shifts the weight,

and the train tips,

ever so slightly,

but not finally.

 

A rusted train penetrates,

a midnight sky of lost hope,

there is nothing else.

as long as you breathe my ghost

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My willpower slaps you,

with all my bad intentions,

tearing down your resistance,

in one fell swoop.

 

You'll never forget me;

I broke you apart,

to make you whole.

 

You're better than ever,

better than you ever were,

now that you're without me.

 

Only one line was true;

my ghost will be your curse,

for as long as you breathe.

love me for this

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Don't love me for my character,

my charm,

or my wit;

time will rob me of them,

or distort them so badly,

you won't recognize me.

 

Love me for this,

these words,

they live forever,

and are as much of me,

as my wit, charm, or character,

and maybe they are even more.

Starving ideas

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I cut pages,

to watch them bleed,

hipster, broken symbolism,

and what a worn-out image.

 

used, worn-out,

broken,

like all of us,

but is that all we can say?

 

Where is the lyricism,

not of Milton, Donne,

but of harsh reality,

Bukowski, Hemingway?

 

Where have we scurried,

and how far removed,

are we from greatness?

 

We are nowhere.

 

We float in endless space,

choking on too much time,

ideas dying every second,

like all of the starving poor.

 

Ideas are starving,

and I'm only one writer.

representation of the Damned

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Stability is a relative term,

when speaking of madness.

 

Those days left me long ago,

I remember it feeling like home,

and it's still such a tempting offer.

 

A history of my madness,

can be traced on onion-skin,

paper,

even by the poorest artists.

 

You'll find father figures,

lovers,

friends,

and those of greatness.

 

We all end up face down,

sucking on the dirt with our,

dead faces, flesh rots to bone,

we massage the dirt with cheek bones,

protruding from our skulls with their worn,

enamel.

 

There is no shell for the hearts,

and each abandonment kills a,

piece of heart,

that will never return,

but will never leave either;

a representation of the Damned.

 

Be certain,

we are all the Damned.

we're missing the point

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It's time to quiet down,

you're getting too loud,

and more importantly,

you're getting too real.

 

Don't talk about those things,

don't ever mention them again,

they don't want to hear about them;

they're sad things,

real,

but sad things.

 

And sad things have a way about them,

of highlighting the bad parts of life and the,

way it's starting to fall apart because we can't,

seem to even manage the simple things about,

our daily lives, let alone the issues that haunt us,

as a species that inhabits a doomed planet and,

is unable to love one another as we hurl through a,

rock in the middle of endless space that could crash.

 

We don't get the big concept,

we haven't started learning about,

the smaller things yet,

and how they were supposed to fit,

together like Lego blocks,

which we played with as a kid,

until they marched over our creativity.

 

We're missing the point;

Humanity is failure.

Good conversations and the eternal sadness of being human

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I've been having a lot of conversations lately, with a bunch of people with differing opinions. I've talked about purpose in life, Hemingway, Jung, Bukowski, the ADHD generation I am coming up in, intellectual boredom and stagnation, the difference between academic and public writing, and most important, the overall sadness that invades daily life.

There's a certain sadness to the daily events of life. Not specifically, because it's nothing you can put you finger on, but generally. It's not an overwhelming sadness.

It doesn't team up with the other negative emotions to push you down. It waits in the background most of the time. Occasionally, you can let it out of its cage, and play with it until you're both satisfied. It then will return to its cage and wait your next moment of weakness. In this way, it is like that ex-girlfriend, or friend-you-slept-with-and-sort-of-regretted-who-won't-go-away.

A lot of conversation has centred around what causes this sadness, and whether it will ever go away. I don't think it ever really goes away. The dull pain is probably always going to be there behind my ears. Maybe that's what got to Hemingway and Hunter S. Thomson.

Maybe it comes down to knowing that eventually we're all going to die. Our bodies can only continue for so long, and then the show's over. Good-bye Andy consciousness, you'll be gone for good one day. Hell, the whole species is doomed for that matter.

That's the eternal sadness of being human. It may be the only part of us that survives.

There is an emotion that teams up with that overall sadness well; loneliness. The feeling, or even thought, of being alone. To quote Bukowski, "there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock." The clocks have gone digital, the loneliness has to.

Now we sit around on MSN, Facebook, Twitter, just waiting for that message to lead us to salvation, away from loneliness. Sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn't; but it never lasts. 

It's quicker than ever to get in touch with someone, but it's harder than ever to hold their attention and time. How much spectacle is acceptable in one's life to keep on entertaining, without becoming the jester?

Some nights are harder than others.

King Kong, Dorian Gray and a hungry squirrel

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Your arrows don't hurt me,

intentional or otherwise,

they strike my thick hide,

and lose all momentum.

 

I'm strong enough now,

after all my incredible failures,

and the moments I could have,

died.

 

I'm rebuilt,

reborn,

reanimated.

 

I'll read it like a script,

because I know who I am,

as much as anyone can.

 

I've become something,

changed,

difficult to capture;

a lightning snake,

as thick as the moon,

with the strength of King Kong,

and the audacity of a hungry squirrel.

 

A moral compass like Dorian Gray's,

slowly changing,

but for the better instead.

 

You won't understand,

anything I've written,

but it's not about you,

now or ever.