Your legs dance in
rhythms meant for me
and only in my head.
I see patterns in
the way your heart beats,
a sound only for me.
Heart beats and moving legs
never seemed liked much to lose,
until the empty dawn breaks
and doesn’t bring hope.
poems
Never Satisfaction
Twelve rounds,
Overtime,
For nothing.
A fire fed and
Still
Hungry.
Desire sitting,
A caged bird.
clear head of dawn
there was always a chance to admit it,
and you were so annoyed,
so annoyed,
as it that qualified anything.
I didn't care then and I don't now,
and if anything a clear head of dawn
has increased the anger a few steps further.
How dare you
collides with
why would you
and the fog was too obvious a simile.
There is a cloudiness to intention
an excusable amount of distasteful action
and reality should also set in.
And what of intentions?
As if they mattered as anything more than a building block of furniture
in hell.
idiocy of our idiocy
I have to write something smart
to replace that last idoitic waste
of space and life
and what are we actually doing
besidses throwing life and time and space at our problems
i guess we throw money
but money is human-made
-AS IF TIME ISN'T-
feel it out physics or well,
science
feelings
irreconcible differences
or hadn't you heard?
Well,
I had heard and saw the second coming
but many more than that too
and nothing change.
Time is a rubber stamp
no definite moments
– a building falls, bombs burst, a baby born-
just a stream that does not always
follow the path of least
or most
resistance.
As gravity, we think it exists and
you are an absolute idiot for believing in it or disbelieving it,
take you pick you absolutel idiot.
Disheartening,
but we're all ignorant and don't forget it,
and I love you anyways,
but I'm an ignorant idiot too so take that for what it's worth.
the taste of blood
Blood grows on you,
figuratively,
it’s literal growth being so obviously internal.
It’s more the taste of it,
something external
but from the mouth the tongue the sensation the mind the craving
one tightly knit dance of destruction
One could leave it to the sharks
not as methodical as (wo)man
but honest
at least honest
a shark feeds and you know it feeds humans lie about it.
We swim with gills soaked in blood pretending it just happened to be in the water
alone with responsibility
And who knows how to talk about it?
And who would bother?
On The Rock,
surrounded by ocean,
on a molten ball of dirt,
hurling through space and nothing.
This line won't matter.
There's a flow to life,
and anxiety scares you into
a lovely, hidden reality of near-death,
when you know you could jump into the breach,
turn your steering wheel in a complete one-eighty,
and embrace the anti-infinity by choice.
There are two choices in life you don't make:
Birth and Death,
you are responsible for every other mistake and success.
Of course,
you'll lie through your
gritted, stupid, little teeth,
about all the people who wronged you,
and why things didn't go as planned but,
nobody believes it,
they agree to be nice.
Your life is your own;
you fail alone,
succedd alone,
and die alone.
Life is a selfish act,
and our cages prevent connections.
breathe
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.
a description of love
My fingers break the intangible air,
I imagine
victory,
or some sweet defeat,
breaking point,
the blood of the sky
pouring down my
assailant hands
sweet liquid
invisible
but I feel
it.
I imagine your
loving but cold
hands
rubbing
all the sore spots
on my broken back
from too many nights
up screaming at life
trying to manipulate it
like i did all those poor
sad broken
left-behind
people I used to
feel so close to but now
we all float apart
drifting satellites
each shaking away
violently,
with lovers on our backs,
and fake lovers grasping
at flailing legs
growing more distant.
A humble comet,
burning up slowly,
no longer alone.
Starving ideas
I cut pages,
to watch them bleed,
hipster, broken symbolism,
and what a worn-out image.
used, worn-out,
broken,
like all of us,
but is that all we can say?
Where is the lyricism,
not of Milton, Donne,
but of harsh reality,
Bukowski, Hemingway?
Where have we scurried,
and how far removed,
are we from greatness?
We are nowhere.
We float in endless space,
choking on too much time,
ideas dying every second,
like all of the starving poor.
Ideas are starving,
and I'm only one writer.
representation of the Damned
Stability is a relative term,
when speaking of madness.
Those days left me long ago,
I remember it feeling like home,
and it's still such a tempting offer.
A history of my madness,
can be traced on onion-skin,
paper,
even by the poorest artists.
You'll find father figures,
lovers,
friends,
and those of greatness.
We all end up face down,
sucking on the dirt with our,
dead faces, flesh rots to bone,
we massage the dirt with cheek bones,
protruding from our skulls with their worn,
enamel.
There is no shell for the hearts,
and each abandonment kills a,
piece of heart,
that will never return,
but will never leave either;
a representation of the Damned.
Be certain,
we are all the Damned.
Andy Veilleux 