Poetry

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.

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

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

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

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

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.

clear head of dawn

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

there was always a chance to admit it,

and you were so annoyed,

so annoyed,

as it that qualified anything.

 

I didn't care then and I don't now,

and if anything a clear head of dawn

has increased the anger a few steps further.

How dare you

collides with

why would you

and the fog was too obvious a simile.

 

There is a cloudiness to intention

an excusable amount of distasteful action

and reality should also set in.

 

And what of intentions?

 

As if they mattered as anything more than a building block of furniture

in hell.

wake up you star

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

nobody has time for spell checks and editing

and if you do

I question your poetry.

 

If it doesn't explode off of your brain and imaginary tongue

like ballistic missiles aimed at all the soft parts

-the testicles, tits and clits of the people-

I don't read you and won't hear of you.

 

Wake up.

 

That's it,

wake up.

 

You're not dreaming and I'm not in here to be your friend

so wake up and get your shit together

there's no cuddly fuzzy bear with honey flowing out of his furry ass

coming to encourage you along your merry way

that bear will slap you in half and sit on your face for no reason:

slap, sit, dead.

 

Life happens in dead time

perception be damned

you are an exploded star and we are just watching from too far away to know the difference.

idiocy of our idiocy

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

I have to write something smart

to replace that last idoitic waste

of space and life

and what are we actually doing

besidses throwing life and time and space at our problems

i guess we throw money

but money is human-made

-AS IF TIME ISN'T-

feel it out physics or well, 

science

feelings

irreconcible differences

or hadn't you heard?

Well,

I had heard and saw the second coming

but many more than that too

and nothing change.

 

Time is a rubber stamp

no definite moments

– a building falls, bombs burst, a baby born-

just a stream that does not always

follow the path of least

or most

resistance.

As gravity, we think it exists and

you are an absolute idiot for believing in it or disbelieving it,

take you pick you absolutel idiot.

 

Disheartening,

but we're all ignorant and don't forget it,

and I love you anyways,

but I'm an ignorant idiot too so take that for what it's worth.