poets

A discussion under angels

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

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.

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.

a beast and a gentleman

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

I haven't even managed,

to hit my full stride,

yet.

I'm already your favourite beast,

and maybe,

favourite gentleman.

 

The image is broken.

 

The thoughts of me,

and my best moments,

fell from your ears and shattered;

a mountain ridge of memories,

piled on the cold floor,

passive,

on cracked, dry concrete.

 

You're broken,

and I know,

because,

I broke you;

you never had a chance,

or a shot in hell.

 

Don't worry,

dry your comatose eyes,

you're finished but there are,

certainly worse things in life;

not death.

 

I stole your core,

the package of life,

that represents you,

keeps you breathing,

and I ate it gladly with,

my smiling hero jaw.

 

I didn't leave a loiterer,

I fought for my territory,

but you were too strong,

too well-armed for my weak,

shameful,

display of force;

I grapple with inner demons,

that have worn me down for years;

NOW IS YOUR TIME.

 

A train clangs along,

the tracks of your hatred,

a rock on the rails,

shifts the weight,

and the train tips,

ever so slightly,

but not finally.

 

A rusted train penetrates,

a midnight sky of lost hope,

there is nothing else.

as long as you breathe my ghost

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

My willpower slaps you,

with all my bad intentions,

tearing down your resistance,

in one fell swoop.

 

You'll never forget me;

I broke you apart,

to make you whole.

 

You're better than ever,

better than you ever were,

now that you're without me.

 

Only one line was true;

my ghost will be your curse,

for as long as you breathe.

love me for this

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

Don't love me for my character,

my charm,

or my wit;

time will rob me of them,

or distort them so badly,

you won't recognize me.

 

Love me for this,

these words,

they live forever,

and are as much of me,

as my wit, charm, or character,

and maybe they are even more.

And all of my words were false

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

 

I failed you,

I failed you,

I failed you,

as a lover,

and a friend.

 

The blood has drained,

the night has settled,

but the love won't leave.

 

I pour words onto the pain,

pain uses me in return by,

pointing out the futility,

of everything I've written.

 

Pain questions my words,

and on bad nights,

my dear friends,

I do the same.

sacrificial sleep

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

You can read these words,

and feel sorrow touch you,

but you're not here anymore,

and no comfort finds me here.

 

There's a beast stirring,

underneath the calm waters,

of a toxic pool you left long ago.

 

Do you remember him?

 

Sleep is sacrificial,

It dies for thoughts,

which take precedence,

in the harshest of times.

 

My hands won't stop shaking,

there's a broken-down undertone,

to every smile and laugh now.

 

Fragmented thoughts,

crumble together with empathy,

as naked friends lying together,

seeking a warm body,

secretly,

a warm heart.

 

The crumbling solves nothings,

the foundation it creates,

can't support a home,

nor would it want to.

Weakness is

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

One can only run away,

from their thoughts for,

a certain amount of time,

before they catch up to you.

 

They'll clutch at your heels,

rip at your tender, exposed flesh,

pull their way under your virgin skin,

until they become as much a part of you,

as the constant numb that invades your days.

 

We're told all our lives,

there is a time for strength,

never a time for weakness;

but they're wrong, broken.

 

Weakness exists, and,

humanity is weakness.

A brush of inspiration

/ andyveilleux / 4 Comments

A starry-night sadness,

drifts through my ears,

escaping in visions,

and flash-memories,

through my window.

A clock disintegrates,

working it's way down,

this out-reached branch,

we call consciousness.

Will it bounce on impact,

when it meets the floor's rug?

Will it splatter carefully;

silver over black, white, yellow,

and

red?

Will the broken-man's dreams,

drift down the sorrowful waters,

of Monet's liquid Palazzo da Mula?

The smile teases,

at the corners of the lips,

because life is fragile.