When did it happen
The poetry thing for me
When I wrote
“nothing’
I was so young
So sad,
So alone
So empty
I was
Nothing
back then in the 90’s
Back then
I wrote how I felt
I still do
But now I’m older
Greyer
Leaner
Meaner
Angrier
Verbose
Emptier
Sadder
alone again
But now I have the history
The good times
Bad times
Love and loss
And now I have the
Words
That I was missing those
Years ago…
Fuck you
God
I am human
I feel art
I will write
I will one day
Be able to write the one
Poem
I truly wish
To write
A kiss.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
by pablo neruda from the unburied woman of paita
Portrait
who Lived? who was living? who was loving?
Damn spanish spider webs!
During the night, the blaze of equatorial eyes,
your heart burning in the vast emptiness,
and so your mouth was mistaken for the dawn.
Manuela, radiant coal and water, column
of sustenance, not a restless ceiling, but rather a wild star.
today, we still inhale that wounded love,
the dagger of sun in the distance.
who Lived? who was living? who was loving?
Damn spanish spider webs!
During the night, the blaze of equatorial eyes,
your heart burning in the vast emptiness,
and so your mouth was mistaken for the dawn.
Manuela, radiant coal and water, column
of sustenance, not a restless ceiling, but rather a wild star.
today, we still inhale that wounded love,
the dagger of sun in the distance.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
"the love poem of catullus" by charles bukowski
she read his poems
she read them to the men waiting in her bed
then tore them up
laughing
and fell on the bed
opening her legs to the nearest convienient
cock.
but Catullus continued to write love
poems to her
as she fucked slaves in back
alles, and
when they were together
she robbed him while he was
drunk,
mocked his verse and his
love,
pissed on his
floor.
Catullus who
otherwise
wrote brilliant
poems
faltered under the spell of
this wench
who
it is said
as she grew old
fled from him
begat a new life upon a far isle
where she ended up a
suicide.
Catullus was like
most poets:
i understand
and i forgive as i
re-read him:
he knew
as death approached
that it's
better to start out with a
strumpet then to end up
with one.
she read them to the men waiting in her bed
then tore them up
laughing
and fell on the bed
opening her legs to the nearest convienient
cock.
but Catullus continued to write love
poems to her
as she fucked slaves in back
alles, and
when they were together
she robbed him while he was
drunk,
mocked his verse and his
love,
pissed on his
floor.
Catullus who
otherwise
wrote brilliant
poems
faltered under the spell of
this wench
who
it is said
as she grew old
fled from him
begat a new life upon a far isle
where she ended up a
suicide.
Catullus was like
most poets:
i understand
and i forgive as i
re-read him:
he knew
as death approached
that it's
better to start out with a
strumpet then to end up
with one.
Friday, May 06, 2005
cell phone haikus
Trapped inside my head
thoughts, visions, such things of beauty.
All i see is waste
Morning has come, and
the sky is perfect, natures,
Alive. i damn work
Knight on the quite sands
stars in glisten in a clear sky
no princess is near
God cubic-kills suck!
better outside or making
love. well drinks tonight.
thoughts, visions, such things of beauty.
All i see is waste
Morning has come, and
the sky is perfect, natures,
Alive. i damn work
Knight on the quite sands
stars in glisten in a clear sky
no princess is near
God cubic-kills suck!
better outside or making
love. well drinks tonight.
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