poem

Ghost of now

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

Ethereal connection,

untouchable by the others,

and fuck the others.

 

Anyone would,

and us no less,

but we know fun,

passion,

yet sadness.

 

Sweet curves,

built to make grown men cry,

hold the weight of the world's

expectations of women to be thin.

 

Curved body,

a temple,

makes you want to get down

on both knees

and pray

or beg.

 

You are a ghost,

potential unrealized by others

But I look through and see you,

I see you

I see you through the drugs

love

sex

living

and you can come in from

the cold

that nips at heels so well travelled.

 

You've felt it,

haven't you?

 

The scars are there,

the healing is on the way,

drown it with fun

and people

who don't understand you

but I

I see you

I see you.

 

I see you,

ghost of now,

Standing out in a crowd,

only to vanish when the lights 

come

out and the bar stools are put up.

 

You were never there for anybody

despite who you leave with

and you're always 

coming

home to me.

The snow is white if

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Glasses long emptied,

chips are down,

sun has set.

 

The snow is white,

if and only if,

the writer says it is.

 

The snow is true,

if and only if,

passionate frost bites flesh

seeking to amalgamate the heat

and preserve the body for all time,

but not the fragile soul.

Good Winter

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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.

This song

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Of all the things you pushed on me,
I understood it the least.
I did not have the capability to learn it
Nor you to teach it,
And nothing more must be said of us.
A amethyst on our once-collective mantle
where the fireplace has long ceased to be alive
An oold apartment,
Musty
Sleazy
In the heart of the old world in Sudbury
Is now abandoned of the emotion that once exploded it to so many lives and demises that any sort of count is impossible.

Hollow ppl may reside there with our skeletons
They are puppets in comparison.

Pant hangs onto the walls,
Although for dear life,
From the wars we waged,
With each other, the outside world,
And inside.

There’s a love laid to rest in that casket that has halved my being,
And crippled you.

A puppet walks on,
Clunky and awkward as puppets do,
And the old ghosts stalking are left feeling pity in place of anger.

I beg to keep or kill

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A hand

in the distance

turn your head

you can see it

I know you can see it

you can see something

or is it just the reflection

in the mirror that binds you?

You can see me

or at least feel it,

somewhere in your bones

your heart skips three beats

light-headed now

but you can see me,

can't you?

Anxiety

can you see me?

I could have sworn you

winked

blinked

stopped

stared.

Can't you see me,

or feel,

well, anything

for me?

The deperation takes me by the throat,

raw, yellowed, finger nails shake into

dirty, exposed flesh

re-opening old wounds

or emptiness and bitterness,

directed at no on in particular.

I remember this,

I would beg you all over again

just for a taste of your conversation.

A fleeting surface talk,

of nothing important,

or to have you open me up – 

we could releases some demons together,

chooe which to keep

and which to kill,

maybe we could kill each other,

or learn how to hold

and keep

love.

Please,

open me up.

keep walking as the clock

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

there,

could you hear it?

It came in the slow,

monotonous,

ticking of the clock.

It left ashamed,

forgotten in the absolute silence of space

following that booming,

clicking,

noise.

Whether it came or not

was as irrelevant as her

claims of the same.

It did not matter now

and would not matter later,

but that's true of everything.

No revelation there.

No unshrouding of mystery,

only a compounded problem,

and another averts their gaze,

afraid in a soul-paralyzing manner,

keep walking.

Just,

keep walking.

It's too big a problem,

it's too big a battle.

Keep walking.

The clock ticks,

the jump to something real,

the clock ticks,

the jump to

anything at all,

the clock ticks

anything… 

the clock ticks,

at all…

the clock ticks.

a sad blanket

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A waste as it were,

potential turned to shit;

the saddest loss.

Whether one is passing by the woods on a snowy evening

or admiring the tragedy of the leaves,

sadness blankets the word

in fragments all-consuming.

Sorrow and loneliness are

beautiful,

and do not care for justification.