empty thoughts,
replace a poem,
never published,
that's gone away now,
thanks Chrome.
poets
b(e)t(w)e(e)n (t)h(e) l(i)n(e)s
I met her somewhere,
when life was happening,
and she was in between the lines,
the only place where I knew how to read.
There's a broken piece of the past,
floating around in your distant future
awkwardly lodged into your present;
it brings with it a series of,
ridiculous notions,
a time for,
rebirth brought on by,
death,
a new chance.
An old life,
breathes again,
stronger,
fiercer than before,
it's hollowed out,
and the holes feed the fire.
of whores and horses
There's paper tigers,
and paper champions,
but I never heard about,
all of the paper ghosts.
Their soft, word-down exteriors,
only matched by empty souls, begging,
for validation and a new existence,
finding only shit and piss,
and settling for the sewers.
Your soul was rotten,
and died long ago;
I remember,
don't you?
Failure,
eighty-two stories high,
and stacking even higher,
nobody will build your Lego failure with you,
I'm bored, he's ill-equipped,
and everyone else got out of town,
when they saw the change happening.
No one waits for a one-sided conversation,
or the broken light pouring out of a dim bulb,
that used to shine as bright as the noon sun.
Fading fast,
but not fast enough,
it would seem.
A pale horse is a better visage,
than the one of pale whores,
you were well-known for;
lack of stamina
diseased
worn-out
left in the
cold
finally lonely
stories always end
there
life never does.
The fake…
The lonely hours,
after conversation died,
crawl through my ears;
a vacant, dead space.
Something shimmers,
ghosts just out of sight;
a chilling memory,
a phantom feeling,
or a brief hallucination.
The quiet hours,
where transport trucks pass,
filled with the tools to stupify a nation,
or the liquid to smother, choke, burn life.
The dead hours,
a piece of sanity chips away,
under the chisel of self-doubt,
falling down an endless drain,
leaking with earwigs, sewer bugs,
and all the poison memories
of the ones who got away.
Toxic aftermath,
an east-side story with west-side actors,
believe the hype, smoke and mirrors,
it's the best you'll get in the theatre of life.
The sound of fake birds thunder overhead,
above all of the fake mustangs and jaguars;
only the crunch of bone and pain is real now.
dreams die
Dreams come and go,
never staying for too long;
somewhere a dream dies.
so what's the rush?
Haven't remembered my dreams in weeks,
there's been nothing worth remembering,
you've managed to slip away from them,
there's nothing you were resembling.
And that's the life of it,
and what happens by the death of it,
always trying hard,
always suffering a split,
in your guilty conscience,
maybe I was obnoxious,
and maybe you never tried,
hard enough,
to prevent the greatest loss,
so grimey and well-stuck in,
you couldn't prevent the deterioration with floss,
and constant brushing, of your teeth,
more appropriately, fangs,
you sucked the life out of me,
but i kicked you away in the nick of time,
the hero never dies,
at least not without coming back;
unexplainable life through a time-stream,
or I'm-better-than-Jesus resurrection dream.
And I was better, and definitely still am,
because I'd never abandon you,
or pretend I existed in a fake book,
with fake people, living a fake life,
floating on a boat that became symbolic,
of people's dreams;
forgotten after they led them somewhere else,
ungrateful, but thats the way humans are,
we don't care what brought us there,
after a trip, nobody thanks their car,
and maybe we should,
or at least the vehicle's engineers,
if not its inventors, who brought us the technology,
just don't take a look at the product's toxicology,
and the way it's destroying what really matters.
But we never look behind the curtain,
there's too much risk and work involved,
we only want you to bring us the riddle,
if it's a Sherlock-problem, sure to be solved,
and that's the way our dreams dissolved,
when there was nothing left to boggle us,
and keep us guessing and hoping,
because hope and guesswork died with the dreams,
or maybe it was vice versa.
Nothing is certain, and nothing is eternal,
humanity doesn't understand the permanent,
because our relationships aren't,
and neither are our lives,
bbut maybe our souls are,
or at least our presence,
and I'm not talking social media,
or even the famous, and encyclopedia Brittanica;
nothing lasts.
I would say it's better that way,
because it makes life feel more important,
that's a suggestion from Dorian Gray,
but an expiry date never made the milk taste better,
or the dream have longer legs to walk with.
Dreams still die,
a lonely, cruel death,
curled up, vomiting,
in a forgotten corner,
the party still rages on.
One down goes unnoticed,
in this unnatural selection,
when there are still fifty-two up,
and flipping like madmen,
giving out drinks,
and playing games involving thumbs,
which separate us from other animals,
but never from ourselves,
and thats the struggle of life.
The fine walk along the line of,
community and liberty,
falling apart around our ears,
the ones in the know reduced to tears,
or clouding the pain with smoke,
not accompanied by mirrors,
it's real life,
no illusions,
there's no David Blaine or Criss Angel,
and no saints or sinners,
all losers, with no winners,
and that's where life is,
the edge of heaven or hell,
purgatory,
and we'll all waiting,
but it's never long enough,
the Ticktockman's clock is ticking,
a little faster than we'd hoped,
because nobody's only working forty,
not in North America.
Time runs in fast shoes,
before the gun even goes off,
it's cheating us,
but we're cheating ourselves,
so who cares,
that's life,
what's the rush?
We'll all meet end up at the finish line,
one way or another,
no winners,
but new records.
In need of a hound-master
The blank page is scaring me,
it starts staring at me,
begging me for more;
a sexual vixen with an appetite for destruction,
or maybe that was reproduction,
that can't be satisfied with my best efforts.
Sometimes art is begging to come out,
but won't throw you a bone for ideas;
such a fickle, untrained mutt,
slobbering and chewing on your intellectual furniture,
leaving holes in your favourite, comfortable, slippers,
and never retrieving your paper in the lawn.
The mutt needs training,
where's the hound-master?
the first picture
The first picture is the dagger,
not meant for killing blows,
meant for suffering and pain.
Suffering and pain is fine,
that's what fuels the fire,
or passion and growth;
nothing builds like the bad,
times and all the bones I stomped,
on my path to the top of the ant hill.
What love comes for the king ant,
can not be described simply,
in your kiss of death;
it's in the past.
Hearts have moved on,
but some feelings remain strong,
like those of hatred and volatile reaction,
and he way my body convulses at the thought of it.
These kid gloves refuse to come up,
permanently sewn onto my weak flesh hands,
with barbed wire soaked in sulphuric acid and vomit,
a mirror of my corrupted soul;
still trying to get better,
better times happened,
in a past life,
or forgotten memory.
Your ghost is weak,
and my resolve is weaker.
There was a time I was built for this;
mucking my way through some resemblance of hell,
fueled by a passion fallen out of favour,
long ago.
Do you remember it?
It doesn't remember you,
passion forgets quicker than sunsets,
on the boulevard where innocence was lost some time ago,
in its place resounds a soft, unsure echo,
fighting for its own space,
in this timid rat race,
where corpses wed,
the good are dead,
and my soul pukes up daisies,
symbolic of the lies it was fed,
it must have been something that was said,
or the mindless blood that was shed,
ridiculous,
blood doesn't have a mind,
and maybe you're over-exuberant rush of it,
explains something.
maybe the mirror's judging you,
again.
Shadows hang from these walls
The shadows hang from the off-white ceiling,
made of aged tiles with their black paint spatters,
held together by cheap metal supports,
never moving or changing much,
save for the almost-yellow glow age gives white.
The shadows seem to roll down the walls,
pressing their weight down upon my shoulders,
forcing me to question my lofty dreams and ambitions.
These are the days people don't talk about;
the words never add up;
that sinking feeling,
in the pit of your stomach;
a thick belt of lead,
limiting everything you do,
impossible to ignore.
Anxiety has a way of destroying a person;
the slowest erosion,
a harsh wind scraping the bare, unprotected rocks,
and throwing all the soil away,
until vegetation is impossible;
nothing lives there anymore.
The wind refuses to give up its assault,
my rocky exterior is smooth like glass,
and just as transparent and fragile;
where has all my soil gone?
Sleep begs my surrender
You occupy my dreams;
is that a good omen,
or a warning sign?
Sleep begs my surrender,
but the words come first,
the words are always first.
Could tomorrow be important,
or will it be another day on the calendar,
where nothing of consequence happens?
I feel the warm, fuzzy happiness,
or not truly caring either way,
as I drift off in between these lines.
Andy Veilleux 