are strange as the nights,
where I can’t help revisiting
the absurdity.. of your defeat..
it seems, then,
a rather good idea
to visit some
snow – an evening
with a small handgun,
have it loaded, listen
for the ‘click’ – as
the hammer’s cocked; then
hold it backwards,
point the barrel
right down between
the eyes – straight up
the middle, and gently
slip a calm thumb
before the easeful trigger,
lean delectably into
the freezing metal muzzle..
And it’s all fixed..
it all… gets better…
goes back the way
it was always
and no more
fucking eVERYTHing!! up..
end up nowhere…
unconscious of being
From Book IV
of the Gods of Grunge
keep killing themselves, it’s apparent
that the burdens
of regret and should-have-beens
weigh too heavy on hearts that carry them.
Yet, it doesn’t change
that there’s nothing worth keeping
more than the weight of these chains
of being and remaining unchangeably
I’d like all my bones
to scREAM HEAVY METAL!! when I die..
as headbanging hoodlums
rive asunder my lifeless corpse, limb from limb.
my naked meat to putrefy
in rush hour traffic (but far
away from little children), with all
the world and its scavenging animals
powerless to efface the spectacle, the stench from existence!
may witness and
the futility of prior experience and
the violent indignity of inevitable decay.
when the worms are finally finished
with their slow desecration of all my flesh,
I’d like it very much
for my baked hair, blackened nails
and the remnants of hollowed bones
—to be used
for creating instruments of loud music
and subversive art.
of poetry has bled
into conversation, where I find it better
not to talk
if it isn’t something worth speaking
of; thing is, something hardly is, outside, or in the head.
It’s often instinctive for the mind to inhabit, at once,
separate realities, so much as to detach from the present
and momentarily find oneself
strange and acquaintances alien.
The nerves keep their habit
of stretching thin and breaking inaudibly,
every chance they get.
And long have I failed to count
of strange persons
wandering the cramped foundations of this cranium.
At times, this inward space
is all too little
for me alone. Yet,
a constant foreboding of voices
so imminent that I can forever almost.. hear them,
fills.. fills all my space past brimming!! till
there’s no longer room for me to exist, save
at small talk, except
with animals and people I’ve
grown to trust, and see
no harm. I keep
my distance and observe
how someone acts around
authority, before deciding if
comes reading whether their
shifting sounds and varied gesticulations
could somehow amount to an idea
of actual merit
or substance, besides
exaggeration and charm, to
their petty, sycophantic agendas.
been too long
since a time I lived
out of hiding... yet
now witness all wit
and slowly beyond
the reach of my expression, when
I find that I can't be honest, which
stems from an abiding threat
of dire repercussion, were I
to freely speak the mind. This
world, to a great extent, is
built on bloated egocentricities
that hunger most
for further aggrandizement; and
for a life of liability
and quite limited means, it becomes
must! be sterilized
by constant inward rehearsals, until
the paranoid self
may deem it safe for permitted discourse.
But it isn't quick, is
never easy and rarely works out
the way one imagines, and more often
I find it too late
to come back with a
*socially acceptable* retort, as
the violence of my aborted voice
is smothered beneath an agonized reticence.
are rather bright, the
floor carpeted, clean;
the people mostly
young, spry, kempt; the
windows clear, scenery usual,
this white ceiling tiled
and uniformly lit, the air
should be no cause
for discomfort. I’m acquainted
with some. They slip in and out
of sight. We speak at times, of
urgent or unnecessary things.
At times, I rise and
wander in unintended search
for something I can’t identify, but find
missing. I push
myself to wonder. I try
evaporate in memory. I discern
the inside of
a familiar room,
with all its
the decked and mirrored
dresser, two towering steel
wardrobes, a high table behind me,
laden bookshelves, the shine from
a floor with hypnotic, fibonacci spirals
etched on each square plate of mosaic,
the red, parted curtains along the many
open windows, and a huge double bed with
enough crawlway for trunks to be stowed
while tiny children played; beside it,
a narrow thoroughfare to a balcony,
the strong-willed matriarch in her fifties,
soaking the early-morning sun
and sieving grains of rice, while
her husband, a fragile man of care,
kindness, and lighthearted banter, smiles
as he sees me there, when
in the adjacent hall, my
causal pair engage each other
in hearty conversation, and nothing
is or could go
must’ve been minutes
of walking without a sense
of time, place, or presence,
until I stopped to gaze about
this bustling metropolis,
with its resplendent sights and glowing people
that never were essential;
…where is that room?
…where are those people?
…are they here somewhere?
…within the walls I now call home?
exists no longer!
my people.. breathe too less.
Around me, in this moment,
is no one
You tend not to notice until
you find some
places changed… some people missing..
that the skies remain just
as beautiful and whimsical, the clouds
gather and disperse
in astounding formations,
the twilit streets
are still illumined
by more and brighter lights,
the vagrant winds continue
to wander, and trees and branches
show their sway, their leaves
collect their dew
or dance to droplets of sudden rain,
as the city roars to perennial festivities.
The tides continue
to turn magnificently, to our
as petals wither
and children grow to skeletons.