A familiar foe,
never out of the script for long,
reappears to muffled applause.
What is a hero
with a villain?
What is a saint
without his sins?
Tragedy and hardship teach unspeakable lessons.
poet
a sad blanket
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.
The cause of boredom
The stream of life changes little
in the face of rocks of doubt.
Calm pervades as the water
finds the path of least resistance.
Boring.
I can speak of loneliness with the best of them,
and love with nobody.
the pressure of boredom
Thinkers,
decimated by boredom,
depression,
wonder where the
'something more'
is.
Pearly gates not just out of reach,
but out of sight,
even out of mind,
for many.
A pressure dances across my forehead,
pounces around my numb ears,
and boots me in between the eyes.
There will be no relief for the saints
sinners
or the dead.
The wait/weight
There is a pressure to explore,
to learn, become, and make progress,
but also to dive into it,
and get inside.
Time is a fence,
set to keep the wolves away from
the precious sheep,
lovely, exquiste,
so tasty,
and wolves just want to get inside,
sink their teeth, tongue, fingers in,
and feast.
The blood frenzy comes at the first drop
that hits the naked tongue
and sets nature into fluid motion.
The wolf can not restrain,
and nor should it,
survival is for the fit,
and there are none fitter than
the patient, cunning wolf.
the sex
The reported sex was never as good
or even as bad
as it was in the real world.
The sex could be broken,
never happen,
or earth-shattering,
but none of that conveys itself
easily into words poems videos pictures images graphics sentences paragraphs papers essays spoke words or anything really,
there was nothing,
nothing that could justify it.
Often it came across neutral.
An act, a thing, an object.
Sex is more of an emotion,
and it isnt performance-based always,
that's no game sheet,
sometimes bad sex is still good,
and good sex is bad and vacant, void, emotionless,
EMPTY,
that's the chaos of sex.
Sometimes sex drives all thoughts,
pushes all things,
is all thigs to everybody,
wants to be begged for and wants someone on their knees
gasping for SOMETHING to break the monotony;
life.
The outsider
An odd outsider sits
eyes glazed by vacant thoughts
distant memories that feel forced
by the devastation of loneliness.
The concept of love has broken
busted up,
an abandoned van in the middle
of a back-water, forgotten forest
rust bleeds and mixes with oils
gases, and old love once held
for a now desolate object.
A symposium of twisted thoughts
form an orchestra of chaos and pain,
as formidable as good intentions,
and desperate as drowned hope.
The bill is paid,
the laughs are had,
the cold night wraps itself
around my restaurant-warm face,
begging to be embraced just like the rest of us.
A discussion under angels
A meeting of angels
turns quickly to sinful pleasures
when angels are sinful.
And they are.
We are all of the image of an angel,
with the minds and ambition of sinners.
Remarkable potential for beauty and morals,
all shot through with revolvers forged of our hatred,
and spat on with acid that burns the soul and leave skin untouched.
The concept of good
is one of potential,
and never one of reality.
Intentions can not stand up
and be counted as actions are
and must bide them time in the cellars
of every lost thought and forgotten word,
the place of misfits, drowning sorrow and death,
Nowhere.
An ideal is not lost,
hope always exists,
even in the sewers
and backwaters
of a broken
moral
landscape.
The sin-ridden angels fly the highest
operating above the hypocrites and pathetic moralizers
who beg for somebody to admit what they feel
but could never say.
Their courage died,
or is being tapped out by their sense of moral righteousness,
reminiscent of a church build of gold asking for a donation from beggars.
Bizarre that a group of people with chairs so high,
see so little.
A discussion happens below,
among those labelled
murderers
beggars
thieves
cheats
liars.
The meaning of life is discovered,
the pursuit of enjoyment,
and Millian liberty for all.
the return of the mistress
A familiar love claws to the surface
long thought buried
but missed.
My true mistress of old
maybe will become
new again.
I've never loved
as I loved
sadness.
There is something pure
in the blue flame
of sorrow.
My first instinct was to run,
remember the happy,
the smiling cheer,
but it is false.
A big storm approaches,
held off and forgotten
for many years,
but not lost
at sea.
One can not run from who they are,
as hideous as the reality is.
Putting on sheep's clothing
never hides a wolf for long.
You are not a loaded gun
You are not a loaded gun.
You are a wet bullet,
useless without some time
an external heat source,
and something to
hammer you from
behind.
And maybe you're a
blank.
Andy Veilleux 