Canadian poet

This leaving

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

This leaving means nothing to some
And everything
For me.

Its not a matter of missing or
Loving
Or the sorrow that sits in the pit
Of your guts and waits
To break out.

Life happens while I sit
Still
And obsolete.

No longer the wanted one
And
Haven’t been
For years basically
But that’s what life delivers
In between the cracks of progress.

We mirror our culture:
Bored with everything
Constantly needing the new
Never wanting to sit and wait
Or taking the time to explore the familiar,
And that’s modern love.

Worthless
Broken
And idling at the curb with
no chance of salvation.

Nobody picks up the strays,
They find their way to the
Trash
And we continue moving forward
Even the trash.

Some lives were not meant for glory
And some are
Meant for much less
But we live all the same.

My sweetest friend

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What have I become, 

my sweetest friend?

Everyone ounce of trust,

fell apart back then.

 

I spend the hours lately,

lost inside my head.

Vultures surround me,

claiming me for dead.

 

Where will you run to,

when the hammer drops?

Who will take you home,

when the parties stop?

 

And where has my head gone?

it's dragging on the gound.

I reach out to the world for love,

but there's no one else around.

 

What have I become,

my sweetest friend?

No apology could stand,

with such a vicious end.

aging delivers

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

History broke years ago

for me

and every time I think

it is fixed

it suddenly stops working again

A coal-powered concept in a 

nuclear world.

 

How many bodies need

to bounce

off the mattress to find love?

Usually a handful,

but some of us never find love.

 

I don't think most of us are looking,

our inner child are still searching

because

they want the comfort

but the rational animal knows

something.

 

Pain and pleasure principles

so skewed nobody even uses them

to figure love out

and it's a good thing for the romantics

because we would have

given up the game

years ago.

 

Aging delivers on scars

and death

and love remains elusive.

The politics of early morning

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Six a.m. didn't matter

and I did'nt care much for seven.

 

Five was the time to be alive and slide down the

oily snakeskin back of indecision that

will buck you off like

an ancient dragon waking up with

the force of

15,000 years of fucking righteous anger

and lovers all murdered by time

and indifference.

 

There's only one snake in your ear and

it's a tired tale

for tired eyes

but its ancient and iron-clad

because the message never changes in

a relationship or out of it when

one wonders where the hours go that have split

the oddest of couples

like dried-out pine slabs under

the weight of a hydraulic wood-splitter.

 

Something always snaps 

and someone

always

hurts.

the creative soul in eleven lines

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One creative soul of magma,

growing one year a minute,

stuck in an old iron refridgerator with a door welded shut,

power full tilt,

trapped five miles under the surface of our world and buried in an abandoned

uranium mine.

A soul cooling and pressing the edges of its existence

against unmovable barriers

that are ironically always moving on a micro level,

with the ability of pure language

and the inability to speak.

a chin like leather

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

He was the proud type, 

but not the proud/arrogant;

there's a subtle difference in that,

a matter of inches,

like the difference between being kicked in the thigh

or the shaft of your dick,

it's an important distinction.

 

He had skin like leather

that frustrated and repelled the mosquitoes,

or so I am told,

from Hearst to Manitoulin,

and they only take the bad blood anyways.

 

The power in a name is the

power of humanity

-language-

and part of a true, tribal culture

stronger than any

Disney/Top-40/Americanized, mechanized bullshit,

that is now art and meaning.

 

There is no meaning,

and he meant something,

a peasent king among the forresters and

tens of offspring,

and yet he would never

stand on

anyone's

shoulders or throat.

 

Pure greatness need not make apologies

war

or twist words,

because it mercilessly hammers

at the dull skeletons of the competition

or those unworthy,

and somehow stupid enough,

to stand in the way.

 

Maybe the great are pushed by

something

beyond free will.

human race as realtor

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Pieces of heart 

or property

are all bought the same

just with different currency.

 

Whether its money

or sex and love

we buy property to show how big our dicks are

and its a stupid

chauvinist and 

the biggest pissing contest.

 

Disgraceful, 

petty and

worthless.

 

It's not just for men

because

everybody is trying to occupy space

and own that space

even if its fake, contrived and

absurd.

 

You can't own land or people

buyt we all try to through deeds or 

rings

or just a healthy dose of sex,

and there has never been a bigger waste of time

and effort.