Andy Veilleux

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.

Panic

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There are no whispered secrets

LZEMIAZWEZHAZCHZ

I can waste lines

and still hear it all

so clear

and it must be known

and I would like it known.

 

a dollar doesn’t buy a nickel’s worth anymore,

and a secret denied could never save up for love.

 

Panic,

it’s the only appropriate emotion.

miles beyond the one

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The one who stares does not believe in it

– it’s just not right –

what an expert,

with all the accolades and medals

and people lined up outside that door

wanting to bang it down

-oh, wait, that’s false –

there’s no banging

and no chances for the

one who stares

and acts so innocently.

 

It’s all a game

one of silly stakes and fun

but not the kind the one would get

if the one could have fun.

 

archaic, devoid of fun, seems likely…

 

coded messages,

but not so coded

and also not quite real

for what are words on a page

with given names not taken

but others given.

 

you know exactly what this is,

feel empowered

– that’s not how life works –

interpretation is a cruel mistress,

but not ignorant at least

Hell,

not ignorant.

 

That puts it leagues ahead,

miles beyond what does not matter.

hateful engine turning

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The kid gloves come off like

clothing

and my god,

what a strange hotel room with strange people

– strangers – 

and maybe they weren’t all that strange 

but so ordinary

normal

boring

military.

 

No use for gloves

wraps

tape

or anything to soften blows

always did blow at softening my words

anyhow,

and now there is that pain again

-anger flushes the face and leaves righteousness

made holy by sheer emotion

and nothing could be more divine/exciting.

 

Was I ever loved as a poet,

did you love me for my poetry?

double-edged problem,

the love doesn’t quite turn the engine like hate

and you do hate me

because I know.

razor-mouthed rants

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All your stupid friends were wrong,

are wrong,

and will never

grow up

learn the difference between

something real and fake

breathing.

 

How many head boards did it take

to alter her brain

– either way

she hit more than was necessary – 

and you can take that to the bank

though not the bank she would favour.

 

And what mud slinging mattered

on late nights where idiocy is laid bare

and honesty rolls off the tip of the tongue

– which has more uses than she would lead you to believe –

she was never much for talking,

never having much to say.

 

A rant of razors,

dagger words slicing their way to the

core

and what matters.

 

Who are the you in ‘your,’

as if there was a Sherlockian puzzle to solve,

but like Doyle I haven’t laid bare all the required pieces.

 

There is implication,

but it is a falsehood,

because it isn’t about you or who you may think.

 

And who cares?

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.