reality

Reality or something like it

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

The ceiling does not change under
The pressures of human time,
The hours do nothing to make the dull exciting,
Or to change this feeling into something real.

Reality starts to bend under the monotony
And I suddenly begin to see the fabrics of it all
And where they have all been layered
But never properly stitched together.

Or maybe I see patterns where none exist,
A guilty pass time for a trained mind
Always forced to quantify the unexplainable
For money or for grades.

It doesn’t have to be true,
It just has to sound true.

History for sale

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

History is a difficult reality,

because it existed and is remembered in

simple fragments and usually

out of sync.

 

We write it down,

we debate about it

and we pretend to understand it.

 

In reality,

we are making up fictions

that loosely fit the facts,

but rarely even do that.

 

I can tell you what I walked in on

or whose heart I broke

and how bad of a man I was

but I can never show it to you.

 

I can also never show you the tender things

and how good I was to lay besides

and the way I hung on every word,

cared about even the smallest details.

 

History is always lost

whether it’s kept orally or written

and we pretend differently to employ scholars

but we are all rasping at straws and ghosts

even in the best of times.

Dreams and reality in bed

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

There’s a grand difference between being awake
And getting out of bed.

There was some major fault line to cross
That occasionally could shake your reality apart.

Being awake did not mean you were fully out
Of the realm of dreaming
or fully conscious
it just meant you were perceiving some of
The ‘real world.’

By contrast,
Getting out of bed made you exist in the world,
Or you were being-in-the-world,
As opposed to the sort of unbeing of bed.

I could laze around in bed for hours
Firing off text messages to friends and lovers
Entertaining ridiculous thoughts
And occasionally letting myself slip into a dream,
It was the easiest way to exist
At least when the dreams were kind,
Which they weren’t always prone to be,
But they mostly behaved themselves lately.

hope past midnight (vulgarity between lines)

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

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.

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.

Optimism fights reality

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

Every touch,

a piece of heart,

a lonely pair,

with a new start.

 

Prophets didn't write it down,

a new beginning, a new town,

a fresh filter for my thoughts,

throw the old ones to the dogs.

 

I watch the sun rise over hills,

you populated with poison quills,

but will roam around no longer.

 

My strength returns slowly;

my eye catches a ray of sun,

a ray of hope,

a new dawn.

 

Infused with energy,

a smile spreads across my face like cancer,

the chances of its survival are the same,

or maybe not this time.

 

Optimism fights with reality,

a spear tipped with malice and distrust,

swinging like a welterweight in the first,

occasionally biting crimson,

but often slicing air alone;

the battle will end somehow.

 

Everything ends,

somehow.