poet

The blues

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

 

It was the night that forced me to write. I had to write, or there would be nothing after.

There is a weight, an entity, an anchor, pulling part of my soul down.

Every night without words causes the tumour to sink deeper, and corrupt more.

Is this an escape, a temporary reprieve or just a useless feel-good exercise.

Is something that makes you feel good a useless exercise?

Insignificant musing.

The wind whistles into, and out of, the decrepit apartment windows, begging for a proper entrance, or for total submission.

Brick, steel, and decades of existence don't bow down so easily.

Strange mechanical noises outside, first thought to be ladders on a parked trailer, and have now become whatever nightmare my sleep-deprived, horror-accustomed mind can imagine.

An all-consuming, fluorescent, white glow blocks everything in the room behind the screen.

The room is 81 per cent darkness.

What skeletons can dance in so much darkness?

There are also ghosts, and they whisper memories best left forgotten. I feel them crawling up my legs in the dark, edging up to the white light, but never entering into view.

They wait to scream out, and startle me. I could only be so lucky.

Forever they remain nameless. Forever they smile outside my vision.

Forever they know everything I do not.

 

You didn't notice. Sleep is your natural state. Envy fills me, as dreams are my favourite place. The only place that makes sense to me. The only place where existence is fair.

Fairness is subjective, like justice, but I trust my shadow's judgement enough to lose myself there.

Those are the lucky moments. It is more common to not remember my journeys there, and maybe that is for the best.

Imagine waking up from paradise every day, and coming back here.

Perpetual disappointment.

The radiator clicks.

I couldn't buy sleep tonight, not in a bottle of pills, a bottle of whiskey, or a bottle of self-loathing.

I guess that's why they call it the blues.

 

Written February 21

the grounded bird

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

there's a hand

wrapping around

my stomach,

it pulls

endlessly.

 

It wrenches my insides,

my face spreading vomit

across razor-sharp rugs

busy chewing on it.

 

a sinking feeling

dominates

my submissive mind

begging for distractions,

wet with it's legs spread

wide

open,

it never sleeps

alone.

 

there's a broken

moment

stuck on repeat,

drowning in the now

unable to spew enough

to breathe well or often.

shallow breaths,

interrupted,

sustain me.

 

No oxygen licks

my charcoal wings,

a grounded bird of

LEGEND

looking ordinary.

a dreamscape reality of broken memories

/ andyveilleux / 4 Comments

It was never about,

not wanting to have

to

change

my plans

or your hopes

and dreams.

I always knew I’d fail,

and you are

a mistake

I never wanted to make.

fingers

triggers

dancing

together.

end of all

somethings,

that started from

nothings.

A sick,

pathetic,

dance of naked

bodies strewn across

a dreamscape reality.

memories shimmer

in the distance

too far for me

to see clearly,

but close enough

to remind me what

I have missed out on

all of these broken years.

a description of love

/ andyveilleux / 4 Comments

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.

get busy growing

/ andyveilleux / 4 Comments

The gates are down,

broken down,

I marched in with

malicious intent

as only humans can.

 

No survival instinct,

pure aggression unwrapped,

punching at your fragile state of mind,

to err is human,

to kill

maim

break

destroy

decapitate 

is GODLY.

 

there is no quick fix,

no fix at all,

for the broken humanity,

that still dances as a saint,

while proving to be the sinner.

 

No dawn will break,

there's no storm passing

which would break if weathered

long enough

unless you count on death,

which is always counted out

but never down for the count.

 

No twilight of peace,

and what a stupid book,

and what a stupid wish.

 

Life is a torrent of lightning,

fire and destruction,

where a tree shelters you

momentarily,

or you huddle with others

sometimes for a night,

sometimes for fifty years

but nothing lasts

and death is lonely.

 

Get busy growing,

or keep dying;

but enjoy it.

A dead connection

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

A dead connection,

struggling to stand on the horizon,

like a dead, hollowed-out metropolis;

once great, strong, and teeming with life

and love,

now thew blood has gone,

the face is pale.

 

Three years,

two,

what does it matter,

when you dance on the scythe

of a midnight sky

alone.

 

Your toes drag,

peeling skin leaving crimson,

on powdery white-blue acrylic skies.

 

The artist's brush paints

and captures a sadness inconceivable

to the human eye

but captured nonetheless.

 

Wrapped hands stop

red red waters of life

from deserting you

in a fight you've lost

for too many years.

Starving ideas

/ andyveilleux / 4 Comments

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

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

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.