My desolate back glues to the mattress
as a stream of beerchipsmoviessongsgamesbooks pours all over me. I could have a cadres of jesters; a continent of fans; a harem of thousands - a microscope wouldn't spot the difference. A miracle is to shut up the seconds and be there, forever, cuddling with the one you can not reach.
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It dangles down from my lips:
a thin strip of black ink. I keep slurping it up yet it won't stop o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o z i n g . It hit the paper too soon So. Here it is guys. My performance on a open mic. I used my cellphone to record it, so it sounds shitty. Also I was kinda drunk and nervous AF. It is what it is. You're the best for actually taking your time to listen to that. Have a great life, Matheus To the motherfucker who swerved his car into the intersection of the quiet street where I live4/19/2016 I could see you
and you could see me and both of us could see that it was the pedestrian's right of way. Yet you couldn't spare 5 of your itchy seconds. You had to very matter-of-factly shove your stupid SUV in my life and then rub your nose like it wasn't your fault; What the fuck, man? All that I can do now is pray to every god that you die of cancer in the asshole, cause that's what you are to everyone else. Hand's caressing the mattress
where an old love used to dream. I'm murky as this room. Hearing the city wake up, as I simply miss you. Last night I didn't make love
with a random stranger: actually, there was no fucking whatsoever. Last night I didn't trade breaths for procrastination, masturbation and/or self -humiliation. Last night I didn't have one too many; I didn't end up laying in the gutter after getting expelled from Crews and Tangos. Last night I wasn't disrespectful, reckless or unkind; I wasn't too real or too honest to those who can't take it. Last night I wasn't booed by 5 and half people at a spoken word open mic. Last night I didn't break the law; nobody cared to call the police on me. Last night I didn't pass out in the snow; I wasn't compelled to leap onto the subway’s railway; I didn't burn the bible or marked my arm with a 2nd Degree tattoo using an electric clothing iron. Last night I didn't crumble on a motel bed; or on a cell bed; or on a Toronto General Hospital shared room’s bed. Last night left no traces of dry puke on the pillow; no piss and/or shit on the mattress. It left no evidence of a swollen black eye in the mirror; left no penny tongue and no bio hazardous stink As a matter of fact I'm cleaner than ever: I'm immaculate like a Christian newborn after his baptism ceremony. The sheets exhale fresh laundry and, also, last night I properly brushed my teeth like mom and dad used to tell me to do. Nevertheless, I carry some kind of filth. But not a dangerous, criminal filth: It's just that last night there was no passion and this morning there's no love. It's just that this morning the radio woke me up singing top 40 songs and telling rigged news and yet I'm the one feeling like a liar. It's just that, since I'm a last night's survivor, this morning I'm rewarded once again, with the exciting task of unloading 12 ton trucks at 6am, of pushing hard cases around, of laughing along with my coworkers and their inane remarks; I by-stand among the other men, watching them fight over a misplaced bolt, feed their petty grudges, talk shit when the boss isn’t around. My trophies and medals are the hours creeping just to make me older but never really going anywhere. Last night, although my limbs begged for rest, I couldn't sleep 'cause I can't remember the last night I meant what I said or said what I meant; Last night the silent ceiling wouldn’t recognize any achievement of my own free will 'cept for what was conquered by my own misery. Last night I couldn’t recall how many nights have rotten way since I dumped myself into an industrial waste container. Anyways, I really, really don’t wanna sound like another bitching poet. It's just that, I wish last night the quarter moon had sung me her farewell song, so I wouldn't have to, once again, greet good morning to the face of shame. There’s a knife on my hand;
a really sharp one. I use it to rip across the skin, fat and flesh that underlines my bellybutton. I shove my hand into the opening. I grab the gummy content so I can offer it to you. here: take it. smell it. lick it. bite it. chew it. So, whatta you think? What’s that? You don’t like it? Yeah, you don’t... just say it, don’t lie to me! I grope your nausea; it twitches behind your flat face and travels down to your acidity; it doesn't sit too well in your stomach. C’mon! Don’t hold up that pregnant BLERGH! It’s okay to vomit; I won’t love you less for it. ... Now, you! It’s your turn. take it; smell it; lick it; bite it; chew it; so, whatta you think? What? Speak up! ... soundless, eh? Heh, it’s fine I don’t need your words. Your phony nod is enough to anticipate your contempt and your mean tweet; your jealous critique; your authority throwing smugly: YOUR SON IS UGLY! ... Now, last chance. (Flies are about to land and drop their eggs) Quickly! You! take it! smell it! lick it! bite it! chew it! So...? whatta you think? ... No...? Are you tossing it on the ground? Well... at least it tried... after all, poetry is just a matter of trial and error, isn’t it? Might as well just turn my back and walk away carrying my hollow belly. Let the maggots and ravens feast. Dawdling across sidewalks,
bus stops and bars; trying new flavours of beer and cigars; waiting for the right face, the right word, the right taste. Jittering upon a stage; tossing words where there’s space. I don’t chase money and fame: I chase chances to be kind -- may I call you honey? I just want it to rhyme. I hunt rhythm in this moment’s geography; I look for synonyms to put on my autobiography. Being the way you breathe is what you can't regain; I take words of that as ours flames wane. So, call me a writer a poet, a human, a bum, a fool, whatever: I’ll never be more or less of what I really am: just a kid t y n o i g with a pen. t
e a r s hatch & fly the warm nests in your eyelids have fostered a very rare kind of watery doves. . words
words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words the accumulation of breaths leads you to this crude understanding: words = words = approx. 0 their meaning nearing n o t h i n g n e s s Hence, I scribble even more. All that I am
are my lips around your areola. My tongue fuses with your left breast as I transmute Into a baby, slobbering All over your bosom. I crave milk. I starve. I’ll be damned without it. Your fingers are soft massaging my shaft back and forth; I retribute diving a hand in the warm lake of your hips; a thumb rehearse waltz steps, heartily welcomed by your mouth; nails bleed my back-- the ecstasy of flesh being ripped by the tenderness of Passion. We harmonize on a 69; It is definitely the best number. you savour my glans for the 100th round this night, yet your throat's still insatiable as when you relished on the 1st. I’m close… petite tadpoles ready to swim; and so… are… you… for the gentle kisses on your clit soon denounce my ravenous jaw: It eats your luscious peach with the voracious appetite of lovers making love for the last time; we're perfect pagans orgasming in a dusky paradise: this night is the apex of our lives. By the bench
by the lake; at daylight at stake: I watch my questions drown - I hope the fish will enjoy the taste. God keeps me company in the Sunday’s sadness: “Nothing.” Her voice strikes and delights, "That’s the only thing that hides.” Time stops briefly as she does. Then, it resumes to her soft say: “…All rules are made up, too.” The Cosmos draws a smirk; she points at the waving water. I walk up to it; my reflection comes to me; It tells me in the iris: Life is Life. I howl under the cloistered heavens
and it is so loud, my dear, that if you shut down your tv’s, and your computers and all your other sources of distraction, and wake up your ears to the primal silence, you will hear it faintly: a muffled echo saying hi to your heart. ... Can you hear it? |
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