Instant Coffee
dedicated to David Della Fera
Shut eyes seek warmth
with a wretched heart.
He wakes, she gags,
he sleeps.
In her thin linen cocoon,
she hopes to dream,
but a tired headache seeps through the layers.
Instant coffee and codeine take the edge off.
Blossom
The smoke from my candle fills me as it fills my room.
Thin gray lines of age
wearing down the smell that haunts me.
The honey bee’s wax masking the aroma
from my honey bee’s past presence like
putting a tissue over a shit taken in the woods.
Cloaked, but not fully covered.
Known to all but especially to me;
a more careful whiff can reveal
the waste you left behind.
I can no longer stand
using either side of my pillow.
Even though my flower scented
candle burns brightly,
it’s your blossomed, withering aroma that I try to hide.
Love, Mom
Money is all there is.
gold is all that glitters.
But you just want to write your stupid poems.
Worth has become net;
joy, an investment.
Money is all there is.
People are out there chasing the dream,
working, studying, doing as they’re told.
But you just want to write your stupid poems.
Walk until your feet bleed,
look up at the stars, not down at the ground.
Money is all there is.
Please just grow up.
“There are so many great jobs in tech,
but you just want to write your stupid poems.”
You can’t even stick to form.
Give up.
Money is all there is.
Forget your stupid poems.
Deambulatio
after Ezra Pound's Meditatio
Carefully considering Master’s outreaching hand,
I determine that man is the superior animal.
But the look of sadness in his yearning eyes,
which examine my simple life,
continues to perplex me.
Cosmic Vampires
Parasites of the universe,
tumors of entropy,
we orbit the sun.
Dead eyed
and empty minded,
lapping up its energy
like thoughtless dogs.
Or like Americanized chickens:
being plumped up
for some unknown,
cosmic slaughterhouse.
An iPhone
Glass;
she shatters
like glass
when the black glass
shatters.
Shards of glass
sparkle like
black locusts
on the floor.
A river of
black snakes
spills her onto the floor.
From the glass,
demons rise
to steal
her soul.
She is free
and lost
without her
glass,
tormented
by nobody
but herself.
Divorce
Before you wipe away your goddamn tears,
Please just open your eyes and look at me;
Look what we have become over the years.
Our past loves have become our present fears;
Sit down and talk about our constant flee,
Before you wipe away your goddamn tears.
Our therapist with his yips, yelps, and jeers:
“Our emotions have become lost at sea,
Look what we have become over the years.”
You always tried to hide your smiles and cheers,
When I had business trips. Admit it, please,
Before you wipe away your goddamn tears
“Cut the dog in half!” I viciously sneer,
Before I fall down and I spill my tea...
Look what we have become over the years.
Transatlantic ships cast off from the piers.
Taste the champagne dripping into the sea,
Before you wipe away your goddamn tears.
Look what we have become over the years.
Mad
He scribbles on the paper
like mad.
Like mad,
his hands tremble
of prophecy.
“He’s mad,”
they say.
Torn out pages
of that mad book of theirs
lay scattered on the ground.
Black serpents of
his madness
taint their sanctity.
And their sanity.
Inquisitional venom
pulses ink through the veins
of mad believers.
“A poet,”
he claims;
perhaps an angry one.
Strawberry Milk-Stake
Count Dracula, on this twilight stroll,
debates not whom, but what to eat -
a teenage defiance of an ancient bloodlust;
a mortal rebellion against undead pleasantry.
Society would no longer control him;
even monsters feel.
Atilla’s cruelty had lost its place in his heart
to savageries such as poetry, love, and goodness.
Grazing in the fields, he spots a cow,
holds back a gag, and bares his fangs.
His eyes and mouth both
begin to water.
Sinking teeth into the motherly udder,
he is unsure whether to suck blood or milk:
dead, black eyes sink
in a pool of strawberry milkshake.
Somewhere in the World
Right now,
there is somebody writing
a masterpiece.
It’s chock full of imagery
and symbolism,
it avoid cliches
with perfect metaphors and similes.
It flows greatly like a happy symphony;
crashing like sea waves upon
the minds of also happy scholars.
It uses quintessential language
and doesn’t embezzle words,
like a three year old
with a big thesaurus.
It shows and doesn’t tell,
It’s a very, very good piece of writing.
And it also only uses words that it has to,
like, it eliminates everything that isn’t necessary;
it doesn’t repeat things that don’t need to be repeated.
Every line break, and, punctuation:
has a purpose.
All white space is meaningful.
Every capitalization is thoughtful and Done Well;
like a Steak that’s Done well.
Right now,
a masterpiece
has been written.
Evergreen
As the first wisps steam fall off of my lips,
they surround me and create temporary rips
in my immediate clarity.
But soon, they give way to the frosted tips
of grass. Enter: a wintry, millennial apocalypse,
dressed in superficial purity.
Now, the green screams of plants are eclipsed
by an oppressive, grayscale dictatorship:
“Stop your pigmented lunacy!”
One by one, they all obey;
flowers, bushes, and trees helplessly
fall under an orthodox blanket
and sleep.
A Lost Love
after Rupert Brooke
Yellow pencils and black pens, constantly buzzing,
Shortened and emptied;
Furious bruises on the side of my hand;
Thoughts of her transcribed into a strand
Of words; and her hair…
Mac n’ cheese, mini pizzas; soft pillows,
Warm blankets; the comforting billows
Of scented candles; hugs and kisses
All the same; persisting thoughts of Her becoming his Mrs;
Sunrise walks and midday strolls,
Brilliant radiance refracting off intertwined souls…
Present day frames, not yet nostalgic,
Of us dancing, prancing, wreaking havoc
Upon clothing stores and cemeteries;
Hearing Marcy Playground’s “Sherry
Fraser” and thinking the same:
“Please do come back…”
Morning coffee, a red hammock;
Plaid pajama pants at three o’clock
In the afternoon; donuts, ice cream,
Fresh bread, the American Dream;
Work, play, school, meditation;
Remembering to take his medication
Before the sadness and nostalgia returns.
All these have been my loves.
Faith
The asses of organized masses
force themselves into uncomfortable pews.
They groan when they stand,
they sigh when they sit.
A pledge of belief is backed up
with an impatient glare at the time.
The music promotes complacency and donation,
rather than faith or sincerity.
A single mother yells at her child for dancing.
I Hear America Tweeting
after Walt Whitman
I hear America tweeting, the buzzes and beeps that keep me awake at night,
those of the politician, screaming at the opposition with presidentially uninformed nonsense.
The blue collared worker groans in agony, soon to be replaced with adaptive automation, the paycheck shrinks and the bills tighten their restrictive grasp.
The protester pushes against phantasmal barriers, fighting desperately for rights he already has; pledging himself to a cause unwanting of his aid.
The organizations promote change, raising funds to save the Earth from themselves - hosting galas to remind the poor of their damaging status on the nation.
The woodcutter’s work publicly exiled by the forest, the farmer’s yield lost in the advertising voices of super marketing.
The factory worker perspires for long hours and hollow pay, each stitch he threads worth more than his life.
Our once esteemed poets write with empty pens and broken pencils, unappreciated, deemed having less value than the Macbooks onto which they transcribe worthless thoughts.
The drip of sweat from the brow of the single mother, a rhythmic tapping of unappreciated hardship.
Each tweeting what belongs to none other than him, her, or whatever pronoun they so choose.
The days spent longing for the night - and at night, the communal solitude of young minds, restless, hard at play, unable to quit.
Typing away with tired eyes, their socially approved viewpoints.
New Times Roman
Trying wearily to find his voice,
a closed mouth and empty mind
set the perfect scene:
candlelight dances around the walls
playing with the steam which rises
from the coffee-filled paper cup,
a laptop sits open, non-inviting.
Displayed, a blank document curses his thoughts,
the virtual flickering of the cursor
steals the spotlight,
aromatic vapors disappear
as the room chills and steeps.
Whiteness pours through the lenses
of horn rimmed glasses,
frustration overwhelms the mind of the
modern poet.
Pawned
I awoke cold and feverish,
surrounded by blindness.
My half wool, half cotton, half companion gone.
As I panicked in search of lost thread,
stitched together to keep me warm and solaced,
my stomach lurched to a conclusion.
And I remembered what I had given up,
I remembered to what extent
my avarice had driven me,
that painfully tranquil night.
Where gluttony became indulgence,
friendship twisted into parasitic abuse,
and comfort became a three dollar pawn,
devoured for scraps of food.
I now lay mind awake, body asleep.
Pondering on the whereabouts
of my warmth.
Modernity
A look of desperation begs
in the flattened eyes of a fawn –
trying to get to its mother
who lays dead across the busy street.
Dinner
Across the room, with a literally fake smile,
sits a pale and wrinkly figure
with eyes of an ironically similar shade
to the cum I had paid for just this morning.
Across the room, with a critically pretentious smile,
sits a tan and flexing figure,
with eyes of an unironically similar shade
to the shit I had taken just this morning.
to read (v.)
A pretty girl is never the full story.
She is the mystery hidden between the lines
that makes you ponder unnecessarily
on the meaning behind simplicity;
placing words and ideas and thoughts
into text which denies it.
The rapist of design,
you try and try your luck
in hope that your unsystematic analysis
provides you with insight on a golden platter.
You sit there, hand under chin and eyes to the sky,
marveling at the ambiguity and deception
of the mascara of falsehood.
She casts herself away on a boat
filled with harlotry and absinthe,
as your shadow grows longer.
Her cigarette holder holding her cigarette holder,
she wildly waves in the wind,
protruding into the prospect of your perspective,
staring down from her stoops, smirking slyly.
Conning the casual casualties of her calamity
who kneel in desperation.
Blowing bubbles
out of her bubblegum flavored bubblegum,
like a form of narcotic;
wrapping wickedly around the cold, dirty
railing that leads down to the subway.
There, it smells of piss and beer,
and you run to escape from both yourself and the homeless man
to whom you refuse to spare change.
You consider jumping,
knowing that the last train left with her.
If she were a loaf of bread,
you’d eat her hastily.
The whole grains would fill the holes in your heart wholly,
piercing the gaps between your teeth.
Leaving you to your own despair, unable to rid yourself of the torturous seed.
Like an attempt at escaping a buried coffin,
your nails would break and fall off,
and the farm animals would wonder why you didn’t help
bake the bread which you so greedily ate.
You now crave an escape
to wash down what you stole.
Inauthentic conclusions tear at your throat,
a flawed thesis is the end.
Heartlessly, you heat your milk
to soothe the damage you have done,
and separate yourself from her.
Knowing that guilt will overwhelm you,
you keep her anyway because you’re running out of time.
And telling a false story of a pretty girl
for attention and nothing more,
is better than taking the time to see
what she really looks like without the bag
you put over her head.
Why are you so desperate to love her,
when you can’t even see past what you
want to see?
Your selfish eyes are tired and sore,
in need of a break from the text
that you demented.