poetry

bar down potential

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

and why potential?

Here's a wasted line.

Out of all words it being the most damning

as opposed to it being the most damning of all words

passive aggressive, as if it matters, to meaning transference,

or did it matter for transferring meaning?

Do you follow?

potential is overrated

uncalculable significant guess work and magic in one easy to consume

gift

sometimes not given

or delivered.

No Christmas coming.

There's no stronger way to put the world on one's shoulders as

heavy

titanic

a crushing load that can sink quickly

despite the optimism of hope flowing from

– is it freedom from or freedom to –

and as if that matters,

we're talking potential.

 

One is free to walk down the aisles or sections

of any city-paved street

provincial or federal park sanctioned

reserve land

or packet of earth otherwise laid claim to

completely free 

in the freest of free ways

and to hell with the price of freedom in a bigger picture.

 

freedom condemns you to try to live up to the potential set out for you

and it's your fault whether you stumble succeed or hit the ball the

fuck

out of the park.

well,

bar down

and to hell with you.

no megaphone

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

Passion can not to described to those void of it.

You have it

or you don't.

 

There's no grey area,

no second guessing.

 

There is also no sense of justice,

and when you believe there is,

kill that thought.

 

The politicians are best left politicing,

while the journalists are left in gutters.

 

Truth found,

no megaphone.

Trying to save you tonight

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

Salvation forgotten,
Meaningless in the abyss
Of existence we are thrown into.

As if it mattered anyways,
When the world was structured
On top of a man bleeding on wood,
Absurdity and a pinch of the obscure
For good measure.

There was never a more convenient time to measure,
But how many martyrs did we use?
Jesus man,
I’ve forgotten now,
I thought you had counted.

Well,
Let’s say one for good measure.

And pick him,
So easy writing prophecies when
Things have already happened
And we will fill the remainder with dreams.

Nobody reads the footnotes.

Sin

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

We all have our addictions
Sins
A renowned ability to lesion sections of our brains
To avoid guilt or regret in the moment
And choke on it for life
Some happily ever after.

You were the brightest beauty at the Ball,
I the saint capable of heavy sin,
Dark however
Maybe an archangel with phoenix wings
Only capable of flight
And salvation
Every other weekend when my wings grew back.

Mostly,
I ran on the ground,
But occasionally,
I soared.

You rolled the dice twice
Love and snake-eyes,
But you never complained
Cursed your luck
Or mentioned it,
You walked away.

We all walk away,
Whether it’s today, next week, or when you stop inhabiting your body,
We all walk away.

Progression

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

Sunrise and sunset have lost their meaning.

There is no metaphysical, quasi-poetic, deep explanation.

The sun rising or setting no longer dictates when I sleep or rise,

when I begin my day or end it,

or anything else of significance for me.

I have become unbound,

and there’s no reason for it.

Surely, it has just happened,

as a blocked sink overflows,

a burning log smolders,

as an old man dies,

a baby is born;

progression.

Rising sun batters through St. John’s fog,

and dense cloud cover,

as seagulls hover,

unconcerned.

A harbour city rocks awake,

machinery bangs and clunks,

predestined purpose drives,

the ideas became discussion became policy,

and a once-broken city for poor labourers,

is suddenly erecting condos from hillsides.

Progression.

The complacency of now

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

It’s more in wanting to feel it,

than in the everyday loving,

A diasporic feeling in ways,

looking for what was felt then,

as opposed to the complacency of now.

Now strives to be the fullest,

stumbles,

crawls into ditches.

Then has become something to write epics about,

a moment of over-glorification turned legendary,

hype with a foundation of sand and occasionally,

bones.

The euphoria of a lost moment is just

a shallow utopia of my own creation.

Luke I am your

/ andyveilleux / 3 Comments

Father,
I’ve become so much like you.
Up at 4:20 AM
making bologna sandwiches.
Where did all the time go?
Sitting around in my joggers and wool socks,
wondering where all my sleep goes,
when I am not partaking in it.
Just a few months ago we were together,
and now all I get is your voice
but I can still see your smile
on the other end,
when I hear
pride in your voice.
At the end of the day,
that’s one of the only things that matters to me.
I remember being young and saying
I would never be like you,
the thought of it was appalling.
Now It’s a badge of honour.
I love you dad,
and you always did right by me,
even when you were wrong.

empty girl

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

 

An echo follows you,

not from behind you,

but from within.

 

Hollow girl,

empty words.

 

There is no

quick

fix

for your boredom,

or the absent mind

you protect with venom.

 

Empty girl,

hollow thoughts.

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.