We're going to rev up the motor scooters,
or my name is not Hipster.
I just wasted fifteen seconds of your life
-AND YOU WILL NEVER GET THEM BACK.
Poetry
screaming at you
I am SCREAMING,
did you feel that?
Well,
I didn't scream, but I felt like screaming.
At this, at you, at the screen, come a little closer, please?
Deficit-running, your job, or mine,
but throw around pay raises for the rich,
you cliché pseudo-intellectual.
Yes we know about that,
everybody does.
Bang you way into the system if you want to change it,
classic revolution is meant for non-complacent, non-fat., non-first-world places,
bang your way up with your mouth, face, fists, vagina or dick,
make it where your mom and dad never did,
and take home the five figure pay raise to make them so proud
time is money but not really
because it isnt
it seriously isnt.
You are dying,
I am dying,
the money is seperate
and good luck with that crisis when it hits your 'furrows of worry' and bank accounts.
Matches and paper tigers
the odds were not to sink of swim
because that ain't man-shit,
it's paddle or drown into the history of other failures
so moody
these blues
or maybe vibrant reds that inspire
and push the boundaries in a meta-physical fake uncaring
and loving way
as if boundaries existed and one knew how to push them further.
hint, you don't know,
they don't exist,
and I meant that,
THEY DON'T EXIST,
not where it counts – in your head,
that's where the magics happens and the slight of hand
revealing poems constructed in a minute
consuuming life energy
red bull on your soul
leave you tired, depleted, pretending to be broken
you just need a day off – lucid- well the lottery won't give it
the machine needs you.
What machine?
You communist fucker,
christianity as a scape-goat,
like bashing it makes you relevant and makes history nicer
and between the lines
but it isn't.
History is not between the lines here
or anywhere else,
and it made no sense to attack ghosts as if it meant
you had a right hook worth anything
you don't
you paper tiger
I hope you go play with matches.
bar down potential
and why potential?
Here's a wasted line.
Out of all words it being the most damning
as opposed to it being the most damning of all words
passive aggressive, as if it matters, to meaning transference,
or did it matter for transferring meaning?
Do you follow?
potential is overrated
uncalculable significant guess work and magic in one easy to consume
gift
sometimes not given
or delivered.
No Christmas coming.
There's no stronger way to put the world on one's shoulders as
heavy
titanic
a crushing load that can sink quickly
despite the optimism of hope flowing from
– is it freedom from or freedom to –
and as if that matters,
we're talking potential.
One is free to walk down the aisles or sections
of any city-paved street
provincial or federal park sanctioned
reserve land
or packet of earth otherwise laid claim to
completely free
in the freest of free ways
and to hell with the price of freedom in a bigger picture.
freedom condemns you to try to live up to the potential set out for you
and it's your fault whether you stumble succeed or hit the ball the
fuck
out of the park.
well,
bar down
and to hell with you.
the taste of blood
Blood grows on you,
figuratively,
it’s literal growth being so obviously internal.
It’s more the taste of it,
something external
but from the mouth the tongue the sensation the mind the craving
one tightly knit dance of destruction
One could leave it to the sharks
not as methodical as (wo)man
but honest
at least honest
a shark feeds and you know it feeds humans lie about it.
We swim with gills soaked in blood pretending it just happened to be in the water
no megaphone
Passion can not to described to those void of it.
You have it
or you don't.
There's no grey area,
no second guessing.
There is also no sense of justice,
and when you believe there is,
kill that thought.
The politicians are best left politicing,
while the journalists are left in gutters.
Truth found,
no megaphone.
Oh friend, I hardly knew ye
A genius without ambition,
led down the path of the poor,
to throw his life down,
before the abyss' door.
An unexpressable pain hangs 'round,
the image of your corpse underground,
in wars fought for land, cash and crown.
Where are the eyes that looked so mild?
What punishment befell us when you smiled,
no longer innocent?
To whose drum do you march?
Which guns force the start?
when will the
guns and drums,
and drums and guns,
pace your steps and drain your heart?
Where are the legs with which you run?
On which shoulder is the setting sun?
And what will be left of you
when the barrel gives you cue,
and your eyes project naught but death.
Where are the legs with which you run,
when first you went to carry a gun,
indeed your dancing days are done,
Oh friend, I hardly knew ye.
same train station at any rate
The whisky hammering is
a soft, slow touch
molding you as putty to
the recesses of your mind.
It rubs you,
coerces you,
like felt in a world
filled with cactus feelings,
people with razors for teeth,
it's never-ending,
the scorn of an existential hell.
I'll give you one hundred years
free of charge
and it won't matter anyways.
Soak my brain in one hundred
years worth of whisky
in a night and it won't matter
anyways
because we're all waiting for the same train,
some depart earlier than others
but it's the same destination.
I love you,
I hope you burn.
Trying to save you tonight
Salvation forgotten,
Meaningless in the abyss
Of existence we are thrown into.
As if it mattered anyways,
When the world was structured
On top of a man bleeding on wood,
Absurdity and a pinch of the obscure
For good measure.
There was never a more convenient time to measure,
But how many martyrs did we use?
Jesus man,
I’ve forgotten now,
I thought you had counted.
Well,
Let’s say one for good measure.
And pick him,
So easy writing prophecies when
Things have already happened
And we will fill the remainder with dreams.
Nobody reads the footnotes.
Running
A limit of steps;
Life as a marathon,
Maybe a sprint.
So many steps from innocence,
Or naivety,
Call it what you will
And I call it like it is.
Probably not so close to the
Finish
Line,
But the end is to be announced.
For now we are running free,
Limited only by a mortal frame
-Set to expire-
Which is the whole point of life.
Most people don’t see the finish line,
And are afraid to search,
Fearing this will be their last run.
And,
It will be.
Andy Veilleux 