poem

the value of a man with a gun

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

Thoughts beat as sledgehammers,

sieging my fragile, near-dawn mind,

The answer to the question is easy,

and therefore too hard to accept.

 

Wordsmiths are not what they were,

in the gun-slinging days,

when words oft failed.

 

No one values a man with a gun,

like they value one who can still

cheat

lie

beg

and generally be a scum-sucking

waste

of

flesh.

 

First-hand experience is trump,

and I can throw around bowers

with the kings of the underworld.

 

What happened to the sweet genius?

Where lay the inoocent, golden locks

of my youth?

 

When does a broken man,

oft mistaken for a saint,

and too hard on himself,

qualify for ascension?

 

The devil is in the details,

and she is dancing so lovely,

tonight.

 

The battle is between loneliness,

a long-neglected sense of destiny,

and the warm feeling of security;

nothing else matters.

 

Life doesn't go around handing out lemons,

it squirts them in your eye

while it kicks the piss out of

the useless, slowly-dying gas-bag

we all seem to refer to as the human body.

 

That's life,

and we deserve it.

the tender ego

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

It's a burden,

assumed omniscience,

which inflates the tender ego.

 

Watch as the personality,

breaks down on the side,

of the common road,

under its weight.

 

The solution doesn't surface,

a submarine long since torpedoed;

the death rattle of your love life.

 

Maybe there wasn't a solution.

Imagine years spent

three steps ahead

only to realize that

the race is a lie.

 

Three steps ahead became

three steps above or away,

but it didn't matter in the end,

it was only relative to zero.

 

And now who is laughing? 

I can't see them but I hear

strange, strange echoes

of love and ignorance

not so blissful

or needed.

 

There was a point to the story,

I told myself,

as I lay down under the siege

of an enigmatic stream of consciousness,

that somewhere is broken,

and all too complete.

 

It's bent on destruction,

it's own, yours, or the delicate

break-down of my loved ones.

 

A battle tonight became a victory,

and the wolves danced as sheeps

following a failure too obvious and unsung.

 

Silence is golden,

even when shrouded by

bronze defeat.

swirling down the drain

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

weeks pass

without a word

and

I find myself

swirling the drain

death rattle in throat

wondering what happened

to my deceny or sense of purpose.

 

Abandoned,

cold,

lonely,

and that's not a new

collection of

feelings

or

just a broken-down 

cliche

like a junkyard Confederate Charger

rotting in rust

or seling for ten mil;

there is no difference.

A writer

a saint

or the whore on the streets

begging for your plastic afffection;

more of the same.

soft surrender

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

The soft surrender

of indifference

greets me at

the door.

 

Love is a bear whose jaws

I did not taunt,

Guranteed to out-run

my competition;

safety.

 

The old joke is broken,

who runs from a warm embrace,

and who dares turns their back on

a person with enough of their heart

to kill them where they stand?

 

So strange I remember you,

my lovely, failing ghost,

it was never personal,

or permanent;

nothing is.

The cause

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

I've watched as the sluts become

saints

on a stage serving as filthy, holy, pedastal

held up by the dirty

thoughts

corrupts twenties

stuffed into tight

revealing

g-strings,

falling off without

a moment's notice.

 

No one questions the moral judgement

of anybody with the body

of a goddess

when it is

revealed

for

your

viewing

pleasure.

 

Leave that conversation for the uninspired

peasents at a social gathering

who put forth the image of social

deceny

as if society was decent,

or for your partner

and their friends

when you are

put on the spot.

 

At least you can save

by speaking out of your

second mouth,

two face.

 

I noticed a mentor become a maniac,

and he will revert back to the hero,

when cocaine makes him a martyr.

 

A martyr for what cause?

 

Well, who cares,

the cause never mattered,

society is full of the coldest wars,

stand-offs with no rhyme or reason.

Time in the eye of the storm

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I could never say it to you,

not yet,

despite how much I've

been thinking about it.

 

I just don't know how to say it,

how to express it in general.

 

Time does not exist with these thoughts,

they are so heavy they've pulled time down,

not just a helpful anchor to keep it stable,

rather a rope creating an eye for the storm,

which has now ended stability entirely.

Here is soft weak and pathetic

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

Something is broken,

and we can feel it,

as sure as we can feel

every pin and needle in our

heads that are in and out of

consciousness.

 

It's there,

trust me,

it's there,

even if there

doesn't really exist,

it's more of a subjective place,

a GPS could never take you to.

 

Now then,

it's a big place,

with hidden chambers,

and everything is fucked up.

 

It sounds like the real world,

doesn't it?

 

Except "there" is where every

failure of moral judgement,

shattered dream and lost hope,

god-awful screw up that made you

wish you were fucking dead

has escaped to.

 

Those things live "there,"

even when you aren't around,

too bust strolling in the corridors

of life,

where thingss are safe,

and nothing is out to hurt you

in any way that matters.

 

The physical is nothing,

weak, soft, pathetic,

like a fluffy bunny,

no claws at all,

wait til the hounds of 

"there," or hell,

or Baskerville,

or whatever you want to call it,

come calling.

 

You are weak,

soft,

and pathetic,

stuck here,

while everything

important is happening

there.

 

So why am I here,

writing these words?

 

Weak,

soft,

and pathetic.

Sleep runs down the rabbit hole

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

Night is a cruel mistress,

always tempting one to,

misbehave,

when health and sanity,

cry out for sleep.

 

Sleep is a ghost dancing,

an outline visible,

intangible,

but it exists enough,

to speak of.

 

Sleep runs down a dimly-lit tunnel,

shaking and juking,

around each corner on the

winding road leading

to nowhere fast

and just far enough down

the rabbit

hole

to make one question

which way is up

although down is more important

at least on cold nights.

breathe

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

There is no demon like the night;

inescapable, all-consuming, yet empty.

 

Not even the mirror will save you,

it's more likely to betray you;

what was that?

 

Who is that?

 

Breathe.

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?