death

boredom as lover

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

We kill time,

because we're afriad of it

and what we fear

we destroy unprovoked.

 

A society of men and women

intimidated by empty hours

afraid to face the minutes without

stuffing them full of mindless entertainment.

 

A never-ending cycle of mediocraty

encompasses Can/American culture

to the point every pleasure becomes

guilty.

 

That's a fitting label in a society of sinners,

who only commit the lamest and most

selfish

of sins,

and never the exciting ones to confess or live.

 

Or maybe we are exciting,

with sky-rocketing adultery and greed

living to fuck and spend

and people say Freud is 

no longer in vogue,

but that's because he is feared

as truth often is.

 

There is something like the Confessions 

coming

but I never found God

and I'm not remorseful.

 

I was vengeful,

I hated

I cheated

I harmed my fellow man

I destroyed whole individuals

and I certain lied,

but I'm no different morally than the

vast ocean of human emptiness we call a race,

I'm just a sliver more exciting than most,

but mountains less boring than others.

 

Don't be afraid of that boredom,

embrace it,

Time is leaking out of our pores

a few skin cells fall off with every touch

– the great sand people,

a mock Terracotta Army –

but here I still stand

and you do too,

or you could lay with me and

forget about the boredom for awhile.

 

Life is used up all the same,

and I'm stabbing at my boredom lately

like a damned peon,

when I should be holding it like a lover.

The something else

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"I didn't sleep two days this week, but slept for 14 hours on two others," I  told my fellow drunks.

"I'm not sure if the insmonia will be gone yet, but I'm hoping tonight I'll be able to sleep."

I walked home in typical winter weather for St. John's, neither too cold or warm, too calm or windy or snowing too hard. Much of the journey was undertaken alone, as my new company had departed at a fork in the road not far from the scene of the good, though strange, times.

I entered the condo and knew I should try my hand at sleeping, but felt uneasy about it and not quite ready. I decided to sift through a night's worth of emails and messages and settle in to play some FIFA 13. The emails and messages were not urgent and soccer dominated my mind for at least an hour.

At sightly after 3 in the morning, I chose to sleep. There is a big difference between intending to sleep, choosing to sleep and acutally sleeping, which I had become all too familiar with. Thankfully, the slight drunk I had was conducive to sleeping and I fell asleep not long after my head hit the pillow.

Suddenly, I was awake again.

Somewhere in the neighbourhood of two hours had passed, and there was nothing happening. The condo was still and silent, but something inside of me felt awful. It wasn't a physical pain or my stomach telling me that I shouldn't have drank, it was the something else.

It's easy to fall back asleep usually, especially when one is sleep-deprived and drunk, but there was no repireve coming from this something else I spoke of.

It sat in my guts. It occasionally pushed its way up to the back of my skull. It sat behind my eyes like a passenger sits shot-gun. There was no escape.

My thoughts turned to the same place they had been turning for months, and I didn't want to be there. I tried to suggest I wouldn't go, that I should turn in early and call it an evening, but the shadow self was not 'aving it. It fought me every inch of the way, to the point where I had to yell in my head. The echoes inside one's head can be so loud, sobering and jarring.

Still, slept never revisited me. I begged for it to haunt me like my memories were, to grab some tender piece of my soul and bring it to the land of dreams. It was hopeless. There was freedom to choose, but sometimes the body did not respond as one requested. There was a constant struggle between one's will and one's body until the day we return to the earth, deathd rive having conquered us.

It was in these nights the death drive was strongest, because sleep was the cousin of death. If I couldn't mingle with sleep, I always spend time with her cousin. There was certainly a desire for her company now, and wasn't sleep just a taste of death anyways?

One stops feeling, mostly, and ceases to exist in reality. Dreams take over, and it sounds like we may dream in death too. There is something comforting and reassuring about sleep, because it feels like a partial return home, a taste of what is to come when we finally kick up our feet and 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.

dead memory

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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.

Oh friend, I hardly knew ye

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

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.

Good Winter

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

Abyss is too defined a term to describe

the nothingness breathing on my hour glass,

the glass fogs from the moist nasal air,

blurring out the wasting grains of sand.

 

No,

too soon.

 

"When you're my age,

death doesn't seem so far,

and it occupies you,"

said the elder scholar,

but he lied,

or was ignorant.

 

Death does occupy me,

I see it in my fingers pounding

on plastic keys in a dark room

surrounded by melodies of sorrow;

good winter,

that crack the surface of mortality.,

if only fleetingly.

 

I have failed you,

and the sand doesn't go back up

the one-way paths in all our lives

and neither will the tears of loved ones,

weeping over something we used to be,

but can never regain again.

 

What was once moving,

loving,

thinking,

breathing,

is now undone,

and broken down.

 

No trancendence,

no light to follow,

no salvation sought,

and no mercy given.

 

Born into the godless abyss,

and returned to nothingness.

Sin

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

We all have our addictions
Sins
A renowned ability to lesion sections of our brains
To avoid guilt or regret in the moment
And choke on it for life
Some happily ever after.

You were the brightest beauty at the Ball,
I the saint capable of heavy sin,
Dark however
Maybe an archangel with phoenix wings
Only capable of flight
And salvation
Every other weekend when my wings grew back.

Mostly,
I ran on the ground,
But occasionally,
I soared.

You rolled the dice twice
Love and snake-eyes,
But you never complained
Cursed your luck
Or mentioned it,
You walked away.

We all walk away,
Whether it’s today, next week, or when you stop inhabiting your body,
We all walk away.

The trick

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

Never look it in the eyes,

despite the promies of the,

broken, lost, philosophers,

and their empty, vacant claims.

 

It will annhilate you,

and keep moving,

because it's the big one,

the unstoppable force;

the war humanity will lose.

 

We never had a shot in hell,

but we never gave up;

was it worth it?