Born in 1969, Nick Walker is one of UK’s leading artists creating beautiful freehand work with the help of stencils. He worked in the field of advertising and also as an illustrator and tried his hands on film set designing as well. He emerged from the infamous and ground-breaking Bristol art and graffiti scene of the early 1980s.
As a forerunner of the British graffiti phenomenon Nick's work became a blueprint for hundreds of burgeoning artists. His work has constantly evolved and always remains innovative, modern and thought-provoking earning him the notoriety of one of the UK's most wanted artists.
It was after the continuous destruction of his illegal work that Nick transcended his urban surroundings and changed his angle of attack to one focused on the establishment and art world. His distinctive style adapted effortlessly from the walls of Bristol to canvases on gallery walls.
Twenty acclaimed filmmakers from around the world look at love in the City of Lights in this omnibus feature. Paris Je T'aime features eighteen short stories, each set in a different part of Paris and each featuring a different cast and director (two segments were produced by two filmmakers in collaboration). Paris Je T'Aime received its world premiere at the 2006 Cannes Film Festival.
These wonderful new poems by Jeffrey McDaniel are full of images that evoke pain and humor at the same time. Tragic and comic, utterly contemporary yet evoking the sure-handedness of the ancient masters, these poems give fresh, original voice to modern life. Whether he's tackling dysfunctional family memories in "Broken Toy Club" and "The Most Awful Lullaby," or broken-hearted romance in poems like "Orbited by Kisses" and "Another Long Day in the Office of Dreams," McDaniel's love of language is everywhere evident.
His writing has been included in anthologies such as Ploughshares, The Best American Poetry 1994, and The New Young American Poets, and on the National Endowment for the Arts website.
this pornography gets me going -with every clip another falls and they're only wearing skin behind the bed of glass, that acts as the covers they're not actually under -unless this picture of lust is so transparent i really can see right through.
every touch i pretend its us:
-that filthy voyeur, with his eyelids rippling; the climax to the film never quite became -enough to wrap his jaw around the silver linings of cloud 9. an arsonist is left in the dust with under achieving passion misleading in to the palm of slut.
their love tumbles off their backs with the switch of a scene -slap of disgust, nudge of a strap. squirming in there, naked -two sets of lips and a set of shriveling lungs for each to bleed out of their mouths as hollow screams seep through their pale white masks in act one scene two- the decieving of: love.
back against the walls -between each translucent moan the ceiling topples over her smirk and the two of them fall. in a split second moment -you can read the script lines across her never open eyes -until you hold that brief second in disguise;
-not the originals given, but her own revisions. the screenplay she's saving in her kisses for the one who'll listen.
between her broken flowers and the stentch of winter midnights -the bloom has died and the tide has lost sight of it's guide within the moon -so the waterline rises between her thighs and he breaks her heart some more with another quick disguise -he read that script in her face from the gut like an utter professional of the upmost gutter with grace.
i'll watch with one eye closed and the other ignoring through my fingers as i remember a better stage.
this pornography got me going -the most beautiful moment in the introductions of a pornography only. i'll watch the first five minutes -where you can read the love between the body lines of the passionately explicit, before she gags on the editors notes and coughs up the back hand of a directors dirty secret.
i watch five minute pornography for six minutes at a time- just enough to hear the subtle cries. i watch five minute pornography searching for love- behind the hollywood that's giving it up.
last time i wrote a poem the sink spit me up, while my belt loops sat alone, waiting for the notches around my throat to let go.
the footnotes at the bottom of my heart beat more readily, than the body of my work.
i used to think it was poetry -before the lines turned themselves into a noose and haiku's that read like bullet points started to back fire, through the backsides of a few ambiguous water lines, that were just shallow enough for me to try and drown myself in.
i used to think it was a pen -before it made a better weapon.
a few metaphors and three broken women later- this isn't poetry, it's a battle cry that started as tears and went to war with itself, and never realized the field was never actually a place to step- but who knew hearts could eat tread just as easily.
everyone wants their signature poem -it's supposed to mean i love you; but this poets love stinks like lust behind red-rose revolvers that get used like crutch.
one too many rest their heads on my barrel of monkeys from your back fired into the last place you'd expect to be dead.
i used to call this art, because i didn't see pain it made. my own splinter ridden veins where the page like a mask without the eye holes to see who they bump in to. this depression wasn't meant for display, but the day my scars stumbled into your arm you wore them like the neglect to which you had always set the stage.
search my poems for your answers -because i don't have them.
i used to think i was cutting my own wrists with the margin of this half finished poem, until i watched you bleed -and assumed you knew what to do if you had the will to reed.
still writing -i'll take your life away, while reaching for your breath. these poems aren't made for praise; they only frame regret.
i'm the martyr of my every word, followed by myself as the rope tightens before a crowed town of my own emotions- each one standing as its own person.
it was all for me, until i started to see the strangers scattered across the executioners veil. it was all for me, until a few decided to watch- and they didn't enjoy my death as much as i did -because the parts of themselves they had put in me, swallowed the axe much slower than i really took the blade.
that broken heart doesn't entertain you the same as it does the reader, but i still write it into the story because this isn't poetry, it's the overly dramatic truth. so keep reading until your stanza ends, and the next begins with another name- and you can't enjoy the read again, if the last poem hasn't already pushed you away.
so, ask me to write you a poem, and i'll slit my wrists and dedicate it to you -because i don't write poetry, i kill off pieces of myself, for myself, regardless of the voyeurs with hands over their eyes watching through the gaps between their guilty fingers.
don't ask me to write you a poem, because i'm running out of pieces to kill; don't ask me to write you a poem, because i never will;
In 1941 Halsman met the surrealist artist Salvador Dalí and they began to collaborate in the late 1940s.
A famous collaboration between the two was In Voluptas Mors, a surrealistic portrait of Dali beside a large skull, in fact a tableau vivant composed of seven nudes. Halsman took three hours to arrange the models according to a sketch by Dali.
Halsman and Dali eventually released a compendium of their collaborations in the 1954 book Dali's Mustache, which features 36 different views of the artist's distinctive mustache.
i'd be shallow if you could actually cry .. if something more than sand could tip (h)our glass to the point it truly was half empty, no matter if you stand on your tippy-toes and pier down as if you really thought it was an acurate depiction to glance off the top of my shoulders, and claim we've filled this ugly mug with anything more than a few droplets of something that resembles sober.
as if i really knew how to swim anyways -you just wanted someone to test the waters before you pretended to drown.
your greatest weakness is a poet -mine is the literate;
if i could actually read my own words i'd realize what it means to you when i fall apart in your glass palms- and count down to the end while thinking that your math is strong: everyone knows poets use the other side of a half hearted mind- but my reflection wears disguise like you're trying to play along,
stupid me.
my relationship status is: narcissism;
i'm good at reading palms, but when you hold my hands and i cup your face -those smile lines contort the page.
maybe i'll love you along, or maybe this is just another heroes tales i've used as a napkin to wipe away those tears again- either way
i'll let it happen.
don't think of me as an asshole.. i'm the poet you've always quoted- i'll help you fill your journal pages so i can steel a moment.
you can be my ambiguous warning letter- that just can't keep its hands off of heartbeats, because i'm a poet before a reader, and those palpitations make better endings then new beginnings.
i'm sorry, truly -this is the (heart)est part, but will you help me write the ending?
Live for a Living, the new collection of poetry from Seattle author Buddy Wakefield is sweetly refined with honesty and more striking than ever. Live is loaded with non-preachy cultural awareness and a sensibility that blasts the reader with gut punching love power and soaring beauty.
About the Author Buddy Wakefield is the two-time Individual World Poetry Slam Champion featured on NPR, the BBC, HBO s Def Poetry Jam, and signed to Strange Famous Records. In 2004 he won the Individual World Poetry Slam Finals thanks to the support of anthropologist and producer Norman Lear then successfully defended that arbitrary title at the International Poetry Festival in Rotterdam, Netherlands against the national champions of seven European countries with works translated into Dutch. In 2005 he won the Individual World Poetry Slam Championship again and has gone on to share the stage with nearly every notable performance poet in the world in hundreds of venues internationally from The Fillmore in San Francisco and Scotland s Oran Moore to San Quentin State Penitentiary, House of Blues New Orleans and CBGBs. In the spring of 2001 Buddy left his position as the executive assistant at a biomedical firm in Gig Harbor, WA, sold or gave away everything he owned, moved to the small town of Honda Civic and set out to live for a living, touring North American poetry venues through 2003. He still tours full time and considers recent tours with Ani DiFranco, I Am A Lagan, and Solomon Sparrows Electric Whale Revival to be the highlight of his career thus far.
by atti? i loved you before you were trendy .. before you wore alleyways on the topsides of your feet;
a filthy blonde in argyle moral- but before the floor made it yours i remembered open sores.
you wear your designers like your long lost heart: to someone elses beat.
the art in your face never used to be so abstract -that dead canvas only knows the eraser marks that didn't take away the past.
.. provocateurs aren't supposed to move, so every tear you spit in deaf ears adds another shaky stencil mark to that crooked portrait you wear.
you're your own fault. -these backstrokes through your slate colored hair only trace the gaping flaws that were already there- those flimsy stares and offwhite fears will just keep fossilizing in that stone face, behind a logo you hold so dear.
so keep crying -beauty is in the eye of the beholder and love is blind, so lust just doesn't try.
contemporary lovers laid to waste -beneath the 21st centaur we've not the color wheels to frame your oval maze.
you're an ugly duckling all grown-down- outside in, in-perfect pastel wings.
a face not even your own artist could love.
you're the doodles of Picasso unripened in the after birth of Escher's pale of rotten seeds; a bad apple could still be painted but you are the core that was given to me.
this vandalized heart that beats in 3/4's under stolen loops on my contemporary walls- is as hideous as the idea you will ever be more than the downfall of artistry-
those dirty stones, so filled with indecency and lack of respect- your grafitti glare in my bare- you're hideous;
Derrick C. Brown, a poet/performer and former paratrooper, travels the world performing his written work. He has gained a something of a cult following for his performances, which incorporate spoken word, music and even magic.
kurosowa champagne
come alive
book i've currently reading from Brown, is Born in the Year of the Butterfly Knife. an amazing collection of Brown's works. instant favorite for me.
Review A wit as sharp as Sedaris, a sensibility as poignant as Sexton, Brown manages to blur the lines between cult writer and poet with remarkable ease and grace. ---Anthem Magazine
He is probably America's greatest unknown literary talent. Derrick has blown honesty and humor into the darkness and has somehow made poetry cool again. ---Nylon Magazine
I Love Derrick Brown for the surprise of one word waking up next to each other. Truly an amazing talent. ---Janet Fitch, author of White Oleander
Product Description This poetry collection includes Derrick's best poems from the past 5 books. 1994-2004. Includes A finger, two dots then me and Kurosawa Champagne. A Classic. National Bestseller.
he rolls his tongue like a bullwhip through the grooves of her curling spine- her toes crumple -eyes sea red as an ocean coughs up the moans from the agony she wore between her legs to fill the sky for another son-set aside.
jigsaw stares and his jaw bare-
she shows her teeth -her pearly off-whites to the giant negro of her eye: the midnight sky.
they spit civil rights into latex resevoir tips- hate crimes with sheets and slipknots parade across the bedroom floor with the promise of a kiss.
she grips his nappy head and lifts the veil between her legs- his fingernails flee the scene and rape the gashes on her inner thighs;
the bed gives out- the blood for her to curdle in scream ripe enough to dare and dream!
her eye's roll back; the room fades to black and blue hats with filthy voyeurs on their minds grip their pants in anticipation-
it's not snuff, it's just enough!
his hips ride the Amastad between puddles of blood, lust, cum, and whiskey trade as one last thrust drives through her underground, and rides her tracks until the two rails meet at the same place to a difference destination- and the blareing sirens rip through her throat as the air horn rides the crooked sound waves like a prostitute and the blue hats bare the badges of their guilt as the zippers split, foundation rots and jaws all drop as they witness the climax of two trains of thought!
her eyes rip open her own eyelids and suck the flames of his forrest fire- as her neck gets caught in her tethered wrists! as she bites at the open air for a taste of breath; and her sulfer ridden eyes swollow the opaque glimpse of that rusted cross- covering its eyes above her bed!
he pulls his shackles and eats her lashes as her eyes bat burning desire- glistening in the reflection of that crosses blistering ashes.
the hate in this lust could fracture all of us!
he hand slips from his head- holding his last straws in the air like a trophy as his tethers tighten and her lips turn blue!
the blue hats sit on hind legs with saliva dripping off their fangs onto those curiously shaped billy clubs and batons- they've been waiting for their chance all along
.. even voyeurs like a happy ending.
her eyes roll back on last time -the sky turns black and the stars burn out, his hands go limp and her legs walk away from where they locked mandibles for that walk along his spine..
the wolves throw their blue hats, as the sheets blow through the air while the billy clubs accept new members- the streets fracture, the curbs grow cold -the backs of buses explode! the wolves, worked up so sexual race the clock beneath the sheets!
until, it all.. stops.
the sheet grows still- the stench spills from out of the covers like fire hoses- subtle grins form in the silhouette of this climax..
the blue hats brushed under the mangled bed frame, with the sheets worn like a badge of honor -one with out serial numbers or the idiocy of selflessness. the wolves don't wear thier sheep skin anymore- only the voyeurs coat of arms;
the thought of more sex- or, sexier, weighing heavy on the mind.
her shotguns barrels wore that tinted iris like a velvet exhale, loaded questions - fired guesses; her gaze was the suicide marriage in the distant veil beyond the dead man’s grave.
back hands in reverse - even worse poker faces. they made love in a house of card hearts and shitty whisperers on windy days -they made lust in a house of card sharks and falling spades swollowing every papercut, he made her concieve the abortion of his rotten egg.
before she batted bullets there’s was the soul that folded; before he shot his mouth off; the day irony went and pulled it.
the cloud went spoiled and shit it’s tar ridden lining across the wedding bells and ivory sighs. the bride dined on rape as the honey-moon grew full of ego. she reached for stars to help her find her way to heaven but they were too dim to light a blackening wife.
her eyelids pinched his filthy stare so tight that when her eyes split the terror blind rubies rained from down her eyes… and spilled down into her decaying chest -to form a rosary between her breasts.
she never hurt a man, but she murdered flies.
picked every shard of fragility up and made an art of plots to kill -benieth the miniscus of what use to be a heart shaped vase she watched his face eat the sun she couldn’t save as the blisters start to raise!
guilty murder, filthy burners -faulty eyes killed a husband dead without a quarter to guide his slut wide eyes.
her skeletons wore whiskey bottles for slippers as hollow ribs sang like wind chimes; while they tip-toed through alcohol wishes and panting land mines to find their way back in to her closet.
she never hurt a man, but she murdered flies, she murdered rats she never hurt a man, she never met a boy- who could look into her eyes without collapse.
Haiku (俳句haikai verse?)listen(help·info), plural haiku, is a form of Japanese poetry, consisting of 17 Japanese on (a phonetic unit identical to the mora), in three metrical phrases of 5, 7, and 5 onrespectively[1], and typically containing a kigo, or seasonal reference. In Japanese, haiku are traditionally printed in a single vertical line, while haiku in English usually appear in three lines, to equate to the Japanese haiku's three metrical phrases[2]. Previously called hokku, it was given its current name by the Japanese writer Masaoka Shiki at the end of 19th century.
"the photosynthesis of a skyskraper-rose"
stems slip the surface a nectar to be beauty blossoms like children.
a single pedal dawn of new aesthetic noon sips in the sunset.
beauty multiplies one thoulsand arms reach the sky -roots twist through shadows
blackness fills the ground beauty blocks the sun with greed -industry is born.
"jesus christ shot down the towers"
the nails sipped his palms, poster child of folded hands gift of martyrdom -hang your crooked thief, feet float from the only child; our gemini death brings a world to its two knees; another to feet.
"trying to catch a circle's tale"
yesterdays regrets, never forget tomorrows -will become todays.
holding an empty stomach in my hands so it can’t fall any farther than my heart, that landed on the cellar floor, i can’t help but to cry at the scenes that roll by- with my hands too full to cover the staring eyes from just what they’ve been waiting to see.
i sit in rubbernecks holding slow motion memories of the accident in dusty palms, awe struck at how close the road to where we were heading was before my shrapnel slit the rubber as we slid to cover under the lips that twisted with the moments rupture- and the bumpers mangled around the framework of the bridges that stripped themselves across the rivers that dripped from your eyelids beside the slivers that i wore like a metal of honor to cover the bleeding from my sores.
and as that twisted heap of you and me rippled in the salt seas- the fires tripped the spark that started the entire scene.
runaways with broken matchbooks black with ash and snapped in half would have done if i had just learned to breathe when we became such hardened arsonists;
and below the bridges i set fire i’ll keep catching wire waiting for the hook to take me in -even if it’s only for a minute above the surface of cinder, that i wish would just burn before the rain mats down the ashes just enough to hold a shape of way to walk in the stalks of disillusion too high pitched to walk this broken strip of music-
tunes too deafening for my ear drums to beat along with; and as the mallets begin to forget right from left from wrong to fucked, an offbeat heart started to forget the steps -as the ringing in my ears split the house of glass i had built around the tears;
the shards spilled like the water that had started to kill- without a gasp to last the sills falter; every bit of glass left its kiss below the surface of my calloused lips before they slit your balance and we both began to slip-
that single handed mantis praying for a gentile standing didn’t have half the chance he put up on the very landing -that didn’t happen.
shattered benieth the histories all the scribbled dumb fucking metaphors can only pretend they don’t remember where they came from- every abstract nothing finds home the second i open the wrong door and you’re still there
-only, you’re not,
and i can’t feel in metaphor before what’s real begins to seethe through the bullshit and the sailor knots that choke the fuck out of my stomach shake hands with my broken fucking heart! and i want to feel hurt through burning bridges and images of falling glass shards but too quick do i just fucking hurt before i think in art.
there’s no art to break-up, and the metaphors that play band-aid to the bullet wounds can’t wrap themselves around the fact that they were made.
i’m only and artist because i can’t really be honest, and you broke my heart but only because i was being an artist- and the paints still monochromatic because red is all i use-
cuz if i let blue be itself i would have been able to keep you
brilliant austrian artists. Egon Schiele's tutor, ever apparent in his own works. Klimt is probably the most prominent of the vienna succession artists.
brass knuckles and studded head wounds chew the guts of busted pews -where the stares split the prayers that now reside under the cellar stairs.
the vomit spills through her fingers onto the flimsy pages, until it soaks down to the cover-
it’s been a long, long fucking night.
under the reek of rotting cattle that stained the chain holding her rosary beads between her pushed up tits below the slutty biker jacket -where the body of Christ could sneak a peak, the alter bit her knees as she touched the velveteen and she grinned her tar filled teeth.
the crucifix sat on the floor face down -he doesn’t want to see us like this, so he can look the fuck away.
her knuckles wore more scars and rotten scabs then her dirty heart did beneath the tattoos on her crass -one too many broken edges from just the right amount of stabs to the back; better to let the vitals blister over than let them eat another dagger
-sorry Jesus, this one aint yours.
she takes too many sips of wine to handle the next set of prayer, because she cant cross her legs unless the beer bong and last night’s fuck subside.
her knees still in the music- beat the shit out of each other as she tries to stand another movement- her stomach spits the mosh pit across the confessional and hell fills her steps. as the combat boots rip the tiles off the floor before her bullet belt fills their heads with a vision of true religion!
-and as Jesus eats the asphalt her boot looses tread and his head slips off the curb before her jagged words rip apart his head;
his hair sweeps his pale white face-
and as she spits in it, his tears smear the paint that raped her mother and slit her brothers wrists. dirty brown baby under the tread, another curb to crush- one for the punx before body of Christ was beaten, til’ it bled all over the streets- and washed away unmarked graves-
that dragged with them the mask he wore as he hung the nation in blind faith drowning below the slave ship!
and he gazed at her gutter mouth, bound with steel and barbed wire- car tire tread for a weathered face that wore like ’slut’ on the stage of a neo-nun -that had begun to lead the way.
below the broken glass that sipped his scotch until he was pretty enough to fuck- a bible caught the tears that trickled down an empty wishing well, and stumbled through a prayer;
as the ice cubes dull the liquor he licks his lips before diving off the rocks into a pool of vomit.
the gold glitters in the blood splatter that stains the pages with the prick of every finger-
face down on a stripped mattress, with a headboard decorated in the talons of frantic prey -the nightstand dressed in pages that burn in the dialed pupils of self destruction, just as easily as they do in the arms of blindfolded children flying too close to hell- Icarus with wax wings meld from the body of Christ and feathers trimmed from the psalm of life;
only to find fire and brimstone beats paper thin hymns.
and as the pillow swallows him whole, the crucifix above his bed weeps- nailed to the splinter ridden quarter panels of this motel 6, his tears only fill his glass until the water from his eyes turn to wine
that makes it easier to die.
the funeral was held in the middle of the dessert, where the cactus plants handed everyone in attendance a stigmata for good faith .. and a single cloud sat in attendance.
one heavy headed cloud hid the head of a bashful voyeur -dirty eyes and soiled pupils filled with masturbation that trickled through the pews;
another fetish below the thorns he wore with lust and nails that pinned a rosy cheek on the seams of rolled up cuffs
-the bible still catches dew from the glasses of collapsing ice cubes in the climax of his pews; press your hands together in your leather suit, your fallen tether tightens with a watchful eye below the noose.
"One thing became clear to us only gradually as time passed: the real reason that Polaroid always has been synonymous with cult and that it possesses an irrepressible potential to captivate people both then and now, lies within the mysterious, almost magical power of those images.
Polaroids tell stories in an inimitable way. Stories so intense and intimate that upon viewing, the photographer often isn’t the only one struck with this feeling of being (or having been) part of a scene. And chance leads the way. Polaroids are originals and thus as unique as paintings. This extraordinary characteristic sets them apart from all other photographic works. As a result they are honest, incorruptible and authentic. "
"..Do you still pray about me in your quiet time, Cast out soft-core demons when I come back home.. .. Let some Nashville fake record your demo tapes? When I'm waiting at a train station or a bus stop."
twelve smoking roses blowing in the wind, behind the thorns that wined themselves around my head; those blind words you shed like the serpent’s lament can only pass as braille for so long, before your tears warp the layers of cardboard vows into a sound of metaphor- before the here and now drown in-sight; without a second glance to hand the first a better look, I took a change and kissed the hook-
she called me her heart, and I believed in every breath of it, because she wore an overcoat of stolen sleeves that had been sown into an art, just so she couldn’t start to freeze -it’s just too bad, that November I lied in a pile of bliss and ignored-ants that danced on the backside of my rotten rinds, as the fruits blackened our eyes- and we packed for a round trip with square baggage and our hearts out of their plastic bags; and as the cruise-control ship set sail, the strings you attached were never unlatched from the air
-by the 5th continent we stepped your world was spun so tightly around my throat, that I could taste the rope between my open tonsils and a final hope -before I stepped off that ledge, and landed back inside your familiar head with one hand tied behind my laugh.
I tried to keep the spark alive -by burning bridges; lighter in hand, twenty-five cent smile in my pocket, and gauze in the bottles we swallowed and tossed in to the barge of coughing hearts, where our ship sank the day we christened the hull with molotov kisses
-a maiden voyage replayed, for the sake of second visits, to a place I could once stand to live with.
wearing those roses at the bottom of your open barrel- the stares wont save us, they’re only getting old- and the tombstones are still waiting for your pretty roses to finish digging the graves with fraying clocks and broken hands that asked the day to dance, before it had a chance to be spoken.
so keep on, keep loading every other chamber with those fucking rose peddles, and we’ll continue spinning through the seasons until someone begins to wither;
we can both wear the roll of coaster, but my stomach still turns on the tracks I followed up the backside of your spine -because I left the footprints, but couldn’t wear the same shoes to continue through the forest of fingers that hid your crying eyes in my snoring spring -that’s still sleeping through your bloom. and as your peddles shed along my bedroom floor, the door still looks to your picture for a kiss goodnight, before it runs to bed- and shakes the rafters that turn your train directly through my thoughtless head;
the conductors dead -with a broken throttle I wear around my neck we speed ahead, without the means to stop cold.
and maybe I really like the pace, and the taste of wind at 200mph truly is sweeter -but every bitter fly on the wall I’ve swallowed contradicts our nutrasweet yesterdays, spit like a gun shot- glass for each and every single mile our relationship has stumbled over itself, just to see you smile.
I’m still waiting with a twisted gut, for the hammer to finally leave a cut -while the withered trigger in her eye pulls- as I’m sucking off the barrel with a crooked smile
-because I can’t even lie, and try to say I don’t like the taste of metal,
but I’m growing tired of this revolver always picking apart my brain, as the world revolves around her just the same.
trying to take the aim I had, Ill keep slipping along this trigger -while wearing your rose on my forehead like a badge of all stupidity- simply because it hurts less than tripping over the thorns you’ve left in my bed -so instead, I wear 2am while the bullet hole enters my head.
not anymore-
I’ve caught my final bullet from the pistol you’ve been holding- behind the bouquet of red roses I bought for us to plant in the garden you could hardly tend.
the lawn looked so beautiful, but this home is filled with sand, and the hands of time have not gone easy on its ego -but I tried my best to thread the weeds that bled through your overcoat into something red for the envious to wear like sex and comfort, when the mirror looks back and doesn’t love her
-but my fingers are too blistered to keep digging for what I can’t even guarantee I’ll find beneath the whispers.
so you can wear my spring through autumn, and call August the new November -but I’ve changed the number for the sake of proper endings; and those flowers can only drown your insecurities in so many nouns before the adjectives spill out on to the winter floor, and your breath freezes as it leaves your chest open on the sleeve it was conceived- spilling over another semi-self inflicted wound spit too deep, from a fresh grown bullet thrown from your very own red-rose revolver.
I take the path almost always traveled simply for the fact they’re selling road maps, and throwing bread crumbs below the old tracks; but it seams as though this walk of life is growing stale, as I can’t decipher the tread from gravel heads and rolling shale. a home I know
only by ambiguity.
and, I’ve got to find a better use for these forks- the taste of anxiety and metaphor are all I’ve had for the past four last suppers on the forest floor; washing down the taste of hypocrisy with skeletal apology- wondering why my company is dead and I’m the only eulogy who seems to hit the nail on the head.
I’m running low on cunning comebacks for exactly why I’ve yet to back track these overlapping memories- but there’s just something in those oaks I find unusually beautiful
although, oddly remote.
all along, I’ve been trying to follow in your footsteps, but your shoes have proved far too big- and between the tears and sour looks I’ve reached a point of sinking shores and bridgless brooks.
this is looking more like before with ever step I forget for next time-
without any reason why.
putting one foot in front of another is for agile fairytales: because all I got was a flat tire and a painful case of mistrust and failure. I even sang the song to recreate the atmosphere, but I’m a little off key and even a little more lost, and eve is falling with the awning of frost.
so I stop walking in circles and try on a square.
making the angles right didn’t leave me with anymore direction- because two wrongs actually make a left and I left four mistakes along the way to my own digression.
learning from my past taught me the discern of alzheimer’s; five more miles to the smile I don’t even think I’ve ever met but wish to find before yours.
I’ll never get a leg up
without the feet you swept from under me- and I’ve come to see there’s no tortuise for me to archetype, but only the head of hair you’ve won by while I collected the 1-2 steps to getting
he sticks his tongue under the empty lid -just one more, one more sip, 1.5 more milligrams will cure the shaking hands; one more line to wrap around his mind would surely easehe sticks his tongue under the empty lid -just one more, one more sip, 1.5 more milligrams will cure the shaking hands; one more line to wrap around his mind would surely ease this worried man to sleep -or so he thinks … or doesn’t breathe- as the lines become a tether for promise and that scrawny neck connected to the bottles empt head to dance around in circles together, as the squares recline on the backside of his eyes
[9:56pm]
-it’s far past their bed times, but just close enough for those with open minds and broken eyes to lend a scapegoat dressed in sheep’s wool.
he counted six sheep, and nine wolves that had resigned from trickery- rather love than eat;
the mattress creeks keep me awake as the water spills from god-damned acts, all caught on film- and replayed and replayed and replayed as the membrane rips and the sheep’s lips peel below the wolf’s huffing and puffing- she squeals, and he feels it coming- the full collapse, the last piece of straw ripped from the batch as her eye rolls -without knowing whether to go back into her head, or to look down at the ground until his back stiffens and his abdomen has lifted from the shattered flower that he has pissed in.
she wattled back into the picture after the frame had split her in two;
[10:23pm]
I was waiting at the doorstep on my forehead- foot tapping with my hand set on my endless face, as it ticked with ring finger pointing at the time she read in my eyes from miles away -but tried to ignore by looking at the floor, but couldn’t because it reminded her of the time before the wolf sold her innocents for cents of worth she couldn’t afford.
I didn’t say a word to her- only let her in the door; I knew the stench as soon as it spilled across the kitchen floor; I knew she walked the walk with crooked steps and talked the talk without a single breath; I knew her womb quivered in the words I hadn’t even said- all by the way she held her tongue above the top button of her open dress.
[11:41pm]
we made love after she had finished throwing up- just to test the water bed she had shed after last nights sword prevailed over her shoulder blades, and erased what we’d become;
I wore two o’clock like the prostitute’s true thoughts, as she closes her eyes and opens them at the end of the ride; the clocks rim for a wedding band- that hadn’t thought to tick after what she did to me
-just can’t count on sheep, because you never know who they’re sleeping with;
[12:58am]
and she just laid in bed, filled the empty space beside my head, next to the only tally mark we had left- the one of two hundred we were pardoned with
-on our best days, maybe 1.5 while she’s closing her legs to cover the wool-less stretch along her inner thighs -trying to smile, as she limps on through the white picket fence into the sleepy mine(d).
[2:00am]
this worried man to sleep -or so he thinks … or doesn’t breathe- as the lines become a tether for promise and that scrawny neck connected to the bottles empt head to dance around in circles together, as the squares recline on the backside of his eyes
[9:56pm]
-it’s far past their bed times, but just close enough for those with open minds and broken eyes to lend a scapegoat dressed in sheep’s wool.
he counted six sheep, and nine wolves that had resigned from trickery- rather love than eat;
the mattress creeks keep me awake as the water spills from god-damned acts, all caught on film- and replayed and replayed and replayed as the membrane rips and the sheep’s lips peel below the wolf’s huffing and puffing- she squeals, and he feels it coming- the full collapse, the last piece of straw ripped from the batch as her eye rolls -without knowing whether to go back into her head, or to look down at the ground until his back stiffens and his abdomen has lifted from the shattered flower that he has pissed in.
she wattled back into the picture after the frame had split her in two;
[10:23pm]
I was waiting at the doorstep on my forehead- foot tapping with my hand set on my endless face, as it ticked with ring finger pointing at the time she read in my eyes from miles away -but tried to ignore by looking at the floor, but couldn’t because it reminded her of the time before the wolf sold her innocents for cents of worth she couldn’t afford.
I didn’t say a word to her- only let her in the door; I knew the stench as soon as it spilled across the kitchen floor; I knew she walked the walk with crooked steps and talked the talk without a single breath; I knew her womb quivered in the words I hadn’t even said- all by the way she held her tongue above the top button of her open dress.
[11:41pm]
we made love after she had finished throwing up- just to test the water bed she had shed after last nights sword prevailed over her shoulder blades, and erased what we’d become;
I wore two o’clock like the prostitute’s true thoughts, as she closes her eyes and opens them at the end of the ride; the clocks rim for a wedding band- that hadn’t thought to tick after what she did to me
-just can’t count on sheep, because you never know who they’re sleeping with;
[12:58am]
and she just laid in bed, filled the empty space beside my head, next to the only tally mark we had left- the one of two hundred we were pardoned with
-on our best days, maybe 1.5 while she’s closing her legs to cover the wool-less stretch along her inner thighs -trying to smile, as she limps on through the white picket fence into the sleepy mine(d).
sipping Brooklyn swing-sets set in the womb of a pregnant whiskey bottle -this vomit goes down like every sunset, and each breath questions the next with more exclamation, yet even less of a swallow.
apples would have tasted better than the dusty rinds of half past nine clouds that shuffled with heads down around five county lines defined by their rotten faces. this city wears its smiles like tragedy -with more docks then boats, the tumble weeds roll into a-loan spent on a minute of your time to distract from their own.
the city dressing in black and white -because the secrets of 1953 still bite at the burning insides of every cloud that still hasn’t past; the silver linings have been tarnished as the widow’s husbands drop their hands and the sand fills the bar until the bottles are too dark to take another sip without drinking their own hearts.
the streets are always empty, and the homes never were full -so they kept eating away at the stares until we stopped walking there.
the gun shots fire in reverse, as the bullets duck to avoid his touch- too sorry to kill, his stomach still churns in the words he doesn’t bother to mutter -with a face written in braille, that everyone reiterates.
we all try to get high, but the sky was sold to the south and now we only smoke ourselves -as the north star falls from the sky.
oh sweet, sweet gust of lithium lung -just, take my rain and make it sun for the sake of having one.
everyone wears long sleeves to keep the cuts at peace- and we’ve stopped wearing our hearts because they’re too scarred from last night’s beating -where the hearts stopped as the bottle dropped, and shattered into a million pieces that became the Brooklyn sea- saw that cuts another wrist with a tight rope sown with syringe tips and laid under a fresh coat of Px-mashea -that only nose how to masquerade with a blood soaked sneeze seeping into the coast of Maine.
here, we all make lust -just because it cost less than trust, and is a lot quicker than making love. the sex spills across the floor from a bottle of Adderal- and we fuck in the dust, wheezing, because it numbs the touch; I look into your breasts, because your eyes want children and mommy needs a new dress, and I just needed to be with someone at the hour when the skeletons juggle hourglasses pass the knothole in my head.
so we touch, in the static of cracked tv screens -with audiences to lazy to get off their drunken asses, past the stack of empty glasses, and change to one of three other channels with missing buttons on an artificial panel -where our silhouettes cuddle in plastic wood- grain bottles, hefty bags and crooked moans that choke on the sound of rape- but play the mood on stage.
the un-assembly fields peel away and all that’s left is gray- slate faces drowning in the rock quarry decorate the bodies standing on their heads -lynched in the blueberry patch with bare feet and blistered palms dipped in ashes from the lobster pot that was smoked in-stability and blackened thoughts;
the suicides pile in the author’s footnote -he wanted to write an ode to home, but got as far as the pregnant prom queen and lysol whip-its in the needle’s throat, before he saw the eulogy that he had wrote.
searching for russian roulette he left yesterday to taste life on a whim; his broken wings led him right into the deep end of art’s very own self destruction- its original depression wrapped in the ocean tides where I lived and died twice, before I lied every sentence in a bed of freshly killed roses.
holding tonight in the starlight of a glass pipe -looking back at the constellations I created in the city of midnight I took in by accident- the tides have changed but I never left the ocean side that I cried in the looking glasses cracked meniscus -because the few breaths I took in will always rewind the tapes I thought I threw away in barrel that gave out holidays -that I met blindfolded inside the crooked smiles that created a chalk line the wrong Brooklyn painted like homicide with cocaine and snake skin.
I’ll never call it home, more like the perfect place to settle down -and have one last go at suicide.
the hearts were draped at the bass of every harp string- bloody octaves under cupid’s noose that someone tangled in the tune. the rose choke lynch: cough of thorns bore yesterday’s groove for the needle to slice through -the broken record serenade played at the drop of a razorblade
-all conducted by the baboon flutist. splintered the fear tearing in the audience eye rolls, he holds the music hostage in serrated thoughtless.
his trigger fingers spit glass with previously broken windows -he licks the frag of past sonic boom to catch a taste of the winds cold soul- a melody behind the glass that never really held it back!
conducting tragedy to the backs of masses; the stage laid in a house of mirrors that screamed her ashes -echoed by walls that stopped talking because they hate us all.
the percussion- drum line trace his heart in chalk line; violin squeals peel back his jagged lashes to reveal the crescendo into his head stored with cob webs and old love letters he reads like sheet music
tortured by the table stapled to the ceiling- dies the bloom in a baboon flutist’s musical
I’ve got a thing for women who fall utterly in love with my every neurosis; they like to kiss the twitch and spill their tears along lullabies of slaughtered sheep -because my lady’s are the jealous typ- os the conductor mistakenly left along the keys -I love the wrong notes; the ones you strike to create the perfect accidental masterpiece of codependency- to fill the void left open by better maestros.
I’ve got a fetish for stealing hearts -from the deck we stacked together; with a papercut from ear to ear her diamonds split the veil -but I tend to snore as we make lust while wearing paper bags and burlap moans; but I love the damp eye holes I cut to hide her disposition -with fresh blown kisses.
I love it when they love me -and I fall for their stupidity with red palms and bloody sleeves; and two lip stick prints tattooed to my blue collar dick -I blindly believe that, love is in this squinted
"Typically, I’d be thrilled about writing a book review. But this one isn’t so easy. , said the shotgun to the head. might be one of the most beautiful things I’ve read in years. But if you asked me why, I don’t know that I could do the book justice.
It is the offspring of a man’s love affair with words-- written and spoken. It’s his tapestry, woven with nouns and verbs, and you wear it around your subconscious, page by page.
, said the shotgun to the head. is a 200-page poem, for lack of a better term, about love, God, Western disorientation, and spirituality. It invites itself into your head, makes itself at home, digging through every dark corner and closet, pulling out all the unanswered questions you’ve buried away. It doesn’t answer them. It merely reopens the discussion, forcing you to explore the world inside and around you.
But no matter what I tell you, it is an injustice to how good the book really is. It paints pictures in your head, like good music, or rare moments of clarity. It feels like a fairy tale. Search far and wide to read it for yourself."
we’ve spit these chess pieces before; on wrong playing fields- stealing pawns along a checker board defined by gray areas and a technicolor homicide. sacrifice your castles and I’ll help you create the moat -at the base of your porcelain cheek bones, simply because I’m an asshole. a clock wise match, played on the back of rough times -we skipped the flames to dive right in to muted ashes patted beneath each eye. but I’m tired, I’m tired of black and white -I’m tired of so plainly put, and I would paint these walls all over again if a fresh coat meant we could stand the cold unknowns; and they would start to talk again. I don’t want to play you anymore. I don’t want a mate to spill my head with maneuver; for the sake of checks I’ll call it quits on rumor. but I’m ready to color; I’m read to be a sore loser with you and kick this boring game out of the way. I’m ready to see the dead grass below the chess board suck the sunlight dry and live at last -with the rose peddles despite the thorns. let’s stop reading between the lines for the words to our own novels -let’s stick to vivid pictures and coloring books. let’s put down our quills -but this time we’ll really push them aside because I’m tired of walking on pins and needles. here, I bought us a fresh new box of crayons to illustrate the same old shit the way it should have been. so let’s just empty the box across the lawn, and color in these hearts again.
my writers block is chaos -a technicolor bastard adorn by mix match scars above another’s heart; creation from behind evergreen: the grassy nolle -spit the snipermy writers block is chaos -a technicolor bastard adorn by mix match scars above another’s heart; creation from behind evergreen: the grassy nolle -spit the sniper between cranial hemispheres and paint the train in 99 red balloons before the tunnel light fades to blue -era pastel and meadows lynched in mellow; against mass suicide, art and bed room eyes with wilting lashes spilling yellow across Mona’s thighs -moans drip into splintered veils; she covers her midnight in white’s oblivion -the midwife, picking oranges from the florida sunset with hallucinogens, in her box of confusion; this lust in bloom weeps a writer’s block -in rubix cube. between cranial hemispheres and paint the train in 99 red balloons before the tunnel light fades to blue -era pastel and meadows lynched in mellow; against mass suicide, art and bed room eyes with wilting lashes spilling yellow across Mona’s thighs -moans drip into splintered veils; she covers her midnight in white’s oblivion -the midwife, picking oranges from the florida sunset with hallucinogens, in her box of confusion; this lust in bloom weeps a writer’s block -in rubix cube.
Posts
