Love is a mirror that bends
your light into fun, useful
and also mundane
shapes and colours.
A lack of love is only found in death.
Andy Veilleux
people like atoms
People like atoms,
never quite touch despite appearences,
and are more likely to split and then
there is oblivion.
One step at s time,
souls as worn and dense as leather
each step a mile one razor blades freshly
sowing blood like buckets of crimson paint and
those were the best of times.
Adult bedtime
Adults give themselves bed times,
as if they missed parents forcing them to go to sleep,
and it's always too early.
Pretend you are retiring to have sex
or read something enlightening
or because there's enough sleep to make you beautiful
-although there is an irony in someone dreaming of you prettier –
but your life sucks.
It's getting late and that
means I should pack it in
hit the hay
or just punch in the dick any hope of leading a life
that is better than average and somehow exciting
because somehow not having a life became acceptable
and we are all guilty of it.
Pissing away our lives on television shows that
never leave us satisfied and never
write a
proper
ending
and video games that are endless pits of time-wasting
or maybe you read,
surely you don't write,
because only the depressed, the fags, the romantics
– and maybe all three at once –
would actually write.
Nothing has value
or is valuable but that's not a nice
social
or popular thing to say
unless you want to eat meds for the next fifty years
but only a few at a time,
wouldn't want to miss all this and the fantastic wonderful explosive amazing WAMAZING enlightening things to come.
Shakespeare in ebonics
The pain words can cause,
and what if the sun never rises?
cold
dark and lonely but
there is something else.
There's gotta be something more
than
this
and it mattered fifteen times less than
anyone was willing to admit.
Faux poets and fake spoken word artists
dance in a room
speaking in tongues
and patting each others back getting each other off and saying
just how fucking GREAT
they have gotten at nothing.
Not a literal nothing,
and this poem just hit me with deja vu.
Have I disgraced the circle-jerkers before,
or is this the first time, and why the memory being
rehashed like an egg mcmuffin?
Future uncertain, but leave it to the back-patters and
drum-beaters
and forgotten poets who killed themselves before publishing
to dictate the scene,
because it matters as much as
someone re-writing Shakespeare in ebonics.
Phantanomgel
the subtle difference between
a thought and a
whisper
seperate the
angel and phantom.
Who once was genuine
has become spectacle
a shadow dancing from candle light
in a four-walled cave of my own design.
Nights like these bring new clarity and
understanding,
new categories for old problems
and old people.
What once was an angel,
conversation dancing off moist lips
and engaging my own heart,
now cackles and spits venom through
forked
fucked
tongues.
The very words
a series of missles aimed with no particular
malice or accuracy,
but deadly nonetheless.
where dead love plays
The hand of friendship or hammer of love
indifference.
Sunlight
or maybe its artificial
bounces through cracks
filling up
the scary places that demons
uncaged
live.
And a party starts,
as noisy neighbours in the same mind
and something
brews.
a match strikes the leathery
face of the old loves
now withering
and ages
horribly,
decades beyond natural
and the skin has dried up falling off
the brittle bones
and
the nothingness in between the
human cavity has been vacuumed out
along with the
soul
whether its of a million neurons
or quintessence.
That's where I lay on the
cold nights that seemed to never
end.
Low School
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
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)
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
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.
Andy Veilleux 