Posts
Every Laptop Should Steal This Privacy Display
16 hours ago
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Politic
Here comes the musical undead marching band
With rusted nails for fingers in blood crusted hands
They step together, forward ominous and vast
Their horns blow out firey furious death blasts
The windows shut tight and doors bolted thick
Marching bone feet shake the buildings and brick
Drone zombies stare at the dawn's bare crack
Their eye sockets emptied and hollow and black
The citizens of this town hide in their cozy dark homes
In hopes that they don't become solemn dark tombs
Underneath furniture and locked quiet in the basement
Locked away praying, their faith tested and hell bent
The death march continues on through the place
Baton twirling clown monster with makeup on his face
Their steps move together like a septic army of ants
Unspoken choreography for the Final Judgement dance
The shaking of the ground soon slowly subsides
Onto the next town, the marching band strides
New members of the march seem to always appear
These towns forever shadowed in their blankets of fear
AP 01.24.07
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Sand
A cracker jack box crushed and damp in her hand
Withered like a dead fox buried deep in the sand
Shells from the sea crunched under bare feet
Too far from the comfort of the hot asphalt street
Her hair messed and rain soaked, muddy
Fingernails ripped, cuticles bloody
Her eyes are dried up but her face is wet
This is the place where the two lovers met
The night before, they walked on the shore
On her shoulders, his jacket, she wore
Later that night, they headed to the bar
Just across the street, not very far
It was then that she discovered the monster within
His taste for the flesh and the fluid in her skin
She broke free and ran as fast as she could
And hid beneath the dead trees and the rain soaked wood
She stayed all night, with no place left to go
No shoes on her feet, no witness to show
The cuts on her hurt at the sting of the wind
While she clutched to the crackerjack box in her hand
01.17.07 AP
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Bronchial Distraction
Shit.
Two glasses of wine and I want to whine. Fucking roommate has some guy in her room and I think he may be sleeping over. Only problem is he has this cough that is so loud I can hear it in the kitchen. But I'm in my bedroom. Sounds like he has bronchitis or something. It's 4:00 am and I wanted to go to sleep two hours ago. Oh well. MySpace isn't letting me into my page, so I am blogging this here.
I watched the rest of The Station Agent this evening. Really good movie. I suggest everyone watch it. Even those people who have no culture and ultimately are riddled with bad taste. Watch it, I'm sure it will bore you.
I went to Bang tonight. I had more fun there than at Perversion. Mind you, I didn't really dance but I didn't feel that I needed to. I enjoyed my beer and thoroughly enjoyed the company I was with (especially in the hip hop room).
.....seriously....everytime this guy coughs I jump in my seat.
I got to stop at the market and get a few things before going home. I know that's not really a big deal to anyone but it's simple things like that which make me happy now. I am a bit broke but it's been a struggle over the past year. Ya know...I used to think that my dream was to be a successful actor but I think I got overshadowed by the expectations that came with the dream...especially when the dream wasn't becoming the reality I wanted it to become. Now, though, my dream is to enjoy the life I live. Simple, I know. Yet...difficult. But I think I am closer to obtaining this goal. Just enjoy the simple things, not take shit for granted. I believe that if I do this, maybe the acting will follow. After all, it started from me wanting to do something I enjoyed. But it turned into me needing to do it or else my self worth would equal out to less than zero in my mind.
Wow...how was that for a bit of an introspective tangent? And...this blog is supposed to be for poetry. Feh! I haven't been in a poem mood recently, sorry. I'm saying sorry like anyone reads this dang thing. But whatever...the merlot got me sleepy and my bladder wants to peepee and if I was an Indian I'd sleep inside a teepee. Ok...there's your poem.
....FUCKING COUGH DROP! GET ONE! Jesus....I'm glad I got ear plugs.
New sleep goal for the night: be asleep before the sun comes up. Yeah...way to go, me!
Friday, November 17, 2006
Hell's Kitchen
Hell's Kitchen
Bangin' loud, heavy on the table with an old tin pot
While the Devil's on his back, swingin' in his skin cot
The coffee's burnin' fire on the ol' linoleum floor
And the pigs are laying down outside the corner drugstore
Chicken feed and gumballs make up his inner sin
The Devil sings a laughing song, in that bunker made of skin
The metal din ricochets off the walls inside this room
Outside the orange light brings the roses to their bloom
Still bangin' on the oak slab with utensils made of steel
The Devil plays solitaire while the walls begin to peel
Now the pigs all smell like jail bait to distant fertile fish
And the figs out in the yard get picked for his dinner dish
Clankin' and spankin' in the land of crazy dreams
Satan applies thin layers of very heavy creams
All this time, the man is stuck makin' noises, makin' calls
And the Devil applies the bandaid to the bleedin' peelin' walls
-AP 11/16/06
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Black Bird Tree
Dangling from a branch by a rope of sand
Is the dancing man with the birds for hands
They squack and chirp like the kids inside
Tucked away under blankets they laugh and hide
The boards of their floors creak when it's dark
The dancing man smiles, mouth toothy, like a shark
Cloudy skies turn to mud when it leaks the rain
The bird hands are tired from the dirt rope's stain
This black tree stands strong in a field so vast
Its roots, like whale parts, grown thick to last
A body dances on every limb, swinging to and fro
And when the sky is muddy, their hands caw to the crows
-AP 10/26/06
An Ode To Old Man Flynn
Wind whispered from the window to wash back the dirty scent of gin
From the breath of the whithered lips of cranky Old Man Flynn
He laughed at the cracks in the walls every day and every night
The heavy lead curtains were taped closed to keep out the light
He would pour the warm liquor sweetly down his lanky arms
It would clean over the wounds that he got long ago on the farms
The blood, dried and crusted, remained like drugged memories
The cracks on the walls itched at him along with the fleas
At times he would laugh like a hyena being skinned alive
He would count the toes and fingers from ten down to five
The jars he kept under the bed, locked to keep out the air
Inside them, treats for The Devil with no room to spare
The wind whispered sweet Spanish songs into his swollen ears
He'd smile and hold his eyeless teddy bear to fight off the tears
Naked and bruised silly, he would stare at the wall's cracks
Hoping any minute, to pick up the scent of long lost tracks
Old Man Flynn would pace up and down the length of this big box
In his own heavenly Hell, feeling rabbid like a death hungry fox
Cutting away at his cuticles for fear of them cutting at him
Dousing his internal flames with another pint of sweet smelling gin
-AP 10/26/06
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
