Poetry

A discussion under angels

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A meeting of angels

turns quickly to sinful pleasures

when angels are sinful.

And they are.

We are all of the image of an angel,

with the minds and ambition of sinners.

Remarkable potential for beauty and morals,

all shot through with revolvers forged of our hatred,

and spat on with acid that burns the soul and leave skin untouched.

The concept of good

is one of potential,

and never one of reality.

Intentions can not stand up

and be counted as actions are

and must bide them time in the cellars

of every lost thought and forgotten word,

the place of misfits, drowning sorrow and death,

Nowhere.

An ideal is not lost,

hope always exists,

even in the sewers

and backwaters

of a broken

moral

landscape.

The sin-ridden angels fly the highest

operating above the hypocrites and pathetic moralizers

who beg for somebody to admit what they feel

but could never say.

Their courage died,

or is being tapped out by their sense of moral righteousness,

reminiscent of a church build of gold asking for a donation from beggars.

Bizarre that a group of people with chairs so high,

see so little.

A discussion happens below,

among those labelled

murderers

beggars

thieves

cheats

liars.

The meaning of life is discovered,

the pursuit of enjoyment,

and Millian liberty for all.

Progression

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

Sunrise and sunset have lost their meaning.

There is no metaphysical, quasi-poetic, deep explanation.

The sun rising or setting no longer dictates when I sleep or rise,

when I begin my day or end it,

or anything else of significance for me.

I have become unbound,

and there’s no reason for it.

Surely, it has just happened,

as a blocked sink overflows,

a burning log smolders,

as an old man dies,

a baby is born;

progression.

Rising sun batters through St. John’s fog,

and dense cloud cover,

as seagulls hover,

unconcerned.

A harbour city rocks awake,

machinery bangs and clunks,

predestined purpose drives,

the ideas became discussion became policy,

and a once-broken city for poor labourers,

is suddenly erecting condos from hillsides.

Progression.

The complacency of now

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

It’s more in wanting to feel it,

than in the everyday loving,

A diasporic feeling in ways,

looking for what was felt then,

as opposed to the complacency of now.

Now strives to be the fullest,

stumbles,

crawls into ditches.

Then has become something to write epics about,

a moment of over-glorification turned legendary,

hype with a foundation of sand and occasionally,

bones.

The euphoria of a lost moment is just

a shallow utopia of my own creation.

the return of the mistress

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A familiar love claws to the surface

long thought buried

but missed.

 

My true mistress of old

maybe will become

new again.

 

I've never loved

as I loved

sadness.

 

There is something pure

in the blue flame

of sorrow.

 

My first instinct was to run,

remember the happy,

the smiling cheer,

but it is false.

 

A big storm approaches,

held off and forgotten

for many years,

but not lost

at sea.

 

One can not run from who they are,

as hideous as the reality is.

 

Putting on sheep's clothing

never hides a wolf for long.

stand and fight

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

 

I've been a poet since 14,

and they used to laugh,

and chuckle among

themselves.

 

Talentless,

spineless,

cowards.

 

Afraid to face their own

emotions.

 

Terrified of anything,

real.

 

Running only gets you,

so far,

when,

your problems are faster,

and never tire.

 

Stand,

fight,

live well.

a wretched success

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

 

I can't change

but I

tried.

 

At least hard enough

for that guilty

piece of my

mind to

run and

hide.

 

I pretend it vanished,

but I know where it sits.

 

It sits in the old me,

the dead,

molted,

me,

hiding,

and waiting.

 

Waiting for nothing.

 

It's return will be a touch

too late to save me

from myself.

 

Is that a pity,

or success?

empty girl

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

 

An echo follows you,

not from behind you,

but from within.

 

Hollow girl,

empty words.

 

There is no

quick

fix

for your boredom,

or the absent mind

you protect with venom.

 

Empty girl,

hollow thoughts.

the value of a man with a gun

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

Thoughts beat as sledgehammers,

sieging my fragile, near-dawn mind,

The answer to the question is easy,

and therefore too hard to accept.

 

Wordsmiths are not what they were,

in the gun-slinging days,

when words oft failed.

 

No one values a man with a gun,

like they value one who can still

cheat

lie

beg

and generally be a scum-sucking

waste

of

flesh.

 

First-hand experience is trump,

and I can throw around bowers

with the kings of the underworld.

 

What happened to the sweet genius?

Where lay the inoocent, golden locks

of my youth?

 

When does a broken man,

oft mistaken for a saint,

and too hard on himself,

qualify for ascension?

 

The devil is in the details,

and she is dancing so lovely,

tonight.

 

The battle is between loneliness,

a long-neglected sense of destiny,

and the warm feeling of security;

nothing else matters.

 

Life doesn't go around handing out lemons,

it squirts them in your eye

while it kicks the piss out of

the useless, slowly-dying gas-bag

we all seem to refer to as the human body.

 

That's life,

and we deserve it.

the tender ego

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

It's a burden,

assumed omniscience,

which inflates the tender ego.

 

Watch as the personality,

breaks down on the side,

of the common road,

under its weight.

 

The solution doesn't surface,

a submarine long since torpedoed;

the death rattle of your love life.

 

Maybe there wasn't a solution.

Imagine years spent

three steps ahead

only to realize that

the race is a lie.

 

Three steps ahead became

three steps above or away,

but it didn't matter in the end,

it was only relative to zero.

 

And now who is laughing? 

I can't see them but I hear

strange, strange echoes

of love and ignorance

not so blissful

or needed.

 

There was a point to the story,

I told myself,

as I lay down under the siege

of an enigmatic stream of consciousness,

that somewhere is broken,

and all too complete.

 

It's bent on destruction,

it's own, yours, or the delicate

break-down of my loved ones.

 

A battle tonight became a victory,

and the wolves danced as sheeps

following a failure too obvious and unsung.

 

Silence is golden,

even when shrouded by

bronze defeat.