Lands always ends,
whether you jump off the cliff
or crawl back into the dirty waters;
it's a question of
hatred
building up enough to turn your guts
into plastic
explosives
and the courage to
light
the
fuse.
poetry
human race as realtor
Pieces of heart
or property
are all bought the same
just with different currency.
Whether its money
or sex and love
we buy property to show how big our dicks are
and its a stupid
chauvinist and
the biggest pissing contest.
Disgraceful,
petty and
worthless.
It's not just for men
because
everybody is trying to occupy space
and own that space
even if its fake, contrived and
absurd.
You can't own land or people
buyt we all try to through deeds or
rings
or just a healthy dose of sex,
and there has never been a bigger waste of time
and effort.
Keep me in your heart for awhile
We should all be measured by the
feelings we stain into memories
long seperated from the real.
The ghosts
the dead
the separated and the lost
leave fingerprints on your eyes
and some never fade away.
The dead have it easy
and there is some
sweet
sorrow about that.
love and luke-warm desperation
Desperation,
luke-warm, gnawing, a silk rope around your neck,
tugs at you for maniac moments,
pressing your inhibitions and
inability to connect
and find love or meaning.
Maybe it can't be found,
and the quiet desperation seeps in through
all the damp things we touch
no
matter
how much love warps us
or the lack of love creates necrosis.
Crawling in and out of bed,
drinking and touching and drinking,
and nobody finding what they are looking for.
The answer always loses to the question
when the asker is broken
weary
and too well-travelled.
It's a lie.
mor(t)al defeat
Human progress is for fools,
there is no progress.
One achievement, task, mission completed,
leading to another
and
then one more
until you join the dust.
What victory is there for mortals?
Phantanomgel
the subtle difference between
a thought and a
whisper
seperate the
angel and phantom.
Who once was genuine
has become spectacle
a shadow dancing from candle light
in a four-walled cave of my own design.
Nights like these bring new clarity and
understanding,
new categories for old problems
and old people.
What once was an angel,
conversation dancing off moist lips
and engaging my own heart,
now cackles and spits venom through
forked
fucked
tongues.
The very words
a series of missles aimed with no particular
malice or accuracy,
but deadly nonetheless.
dead memory
Remember me here
or some place where life
tends to happen more frequently than not –
the dance of playful sexual cues on your lips
flicking off your tongue and the
desire in your eyes.
Remember that room where
so many passionate moments passed into existence
and carved their way
-chisel full of grey brain and blood-
into our memory.
Do you remember when it happened?
Eyes stretched out over the small table
surrounded by so many horrible books
and Harris
Fucking Harris
and the rest of the clowns –
how they all faded when
eyes touched and there was a plunge
but to where?
Somewhere lost souls dwell –
purgatory for philosophers and other
maniacs.
Bring me back.
hope past midnight (vulgarity between lines)
The worst part of loneliness
is hope.
Hope for somebody to cure it –
some magic creature with a perfect mind, body
soul
but thats a fiction or
it is not
real
loneliness – or deep or true loneliness
as if it is so easily pinned by by signs.
And what signs shine through?
certainly none better than a tunnel
through the brain
or the light through a rope
but then why bother upsetting people?
Bukowski felt it,
he was a coward too – the kind he railed about
with his mouth full of vomit
cheap wine and
the vulgar
taste of a run-down old tramp's vagina.
One feeling you wanted
She who would move freely to heaven
suffocates in the lazy, charcoal clouds.
A misguided perspective
searching for a line among dots.
Any line will do and it shows.
Pull me out of my skull
where the thoughts tumble and
crash onto the ground like glass figurines
of old lovers and family.
A piece of heart for each leaves
a small sum remaining
but the metaphysical may reproduce
or re-grow or
maybe heal itself.
No,
let go of the self and
breathe.
Ascend.
Shaking down the old bones
A rust has come to roost with the
complacency of the now
as experienced through the mind
of a solitary satelite.
A kick is needed,
a spark.
A something to break the nothing,
the big nothing – only ever properly described
in the intrninsic link between sorrow and death.
Who could dare to dive into the mess?
Few,
and by default they are no longer with us.
What of the survivors?
Cowards, Bukowski would say,
or they did not hate it enough – yet who hated more than he?
Puzzles on the back of mysteries veiled in a fog.
Maybe he never shook the rust off
and it consumed him until he was nothing else.
What a broken poem
too much rust – and how does one shake it?
Andy Veilleux 