My Bloody Death

by in Poetry, Writing and tagged , | Permalink

I sometimes wonder if I will
have a bloody death
or if it will go as smooth
as a baby’s ass
midnight jazz
or a lullaby.

Will I go out into the great night
screaming
enraged
ashamed
or asleep?

The sad thing is
that in the end
it doesn’t even matter

but what does matter is
if there will be enough coffee at my funeral.

Will people enjoy the sandwiches?

And after they put me in the ground
or throw me into the sea

will it be loud
or will it be lonely?

Dreams are For You and For You Only

by in Fiction, Poetry, Writing and tagged , , , , | Permalink

You can never fully explain your dreams to anyone
and I don’t know why some people bother
because you really have to be there
right there
in order to truly understand its impact.

You must personally taste the
all-encompassing fear
experience the movement and
interpret the sounds yourself.

The light, colour and depth of this world
you can never convey to someone else
as it is only meant for you.

Sure, dreams mean something
but seldom what anyone says
especially not what books on dreams will tell you
how this image or vision sequence signifies fear, loss, anxiety
how that would explain who you were in a past life
as though it were part of an equation of some kind
that, my friend
is utter bullshit from nothing more than scam artists
and astrological fiends.

Do you really think that we are that simple
or that it ends there?

Dreams can open many things to you
same as life
you just have to be willing to
swallow your fear
restrain your judgment
and take a look around
at what’s really there.

Each dream has its own secret
its lair is a trip
sometimes they are a
harrowing descent into madness
and at others
a fleeting glimpse
up the skirts of angels.

So do yourself a favour
next time you get up
take a moment and try to recall it
or when it comes to you during your morning meeting
indulge yourself in a little recollection
your boss and their bullshit will be there the next day too
and you just never know

you might surprise yourself.

Heroes

by in Poetry, Prose, Writing and tagged , | Permalink

In stories heroes are often noted as being
the tallest, strongest
and most dashing
but that is seldom true
as in real life
heroes can be short and fat
with bad personal hygiene
sometimes they can be obnoxious
and at times quite dim
in order to brave until the end
what had made them heroes in the first place
but mostly they are just like you and me
ordinary people
compulsive, befuddled
plagued with personal issues
who don’t know how to use a comb.

The tallest, smartest
and most dashing
make for the best villains
I find.

The Manufactured Spirit of the Rat Race

by in Fiction, literature, Poetry, Prose, short fiction, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Permalink

Let’s say that you actually have a good idea.
In this era of capitalism you go find yourself
some investors that believe in it
enough to begin laying the groundwork
for a production line.

You have a business model, financial plan
design specs; all the groundwork plus
manufacturing equipment
ready to start pumping out units
and a workforce trained to operate them.

If all things go as forecasted
as they’re planned on paper
you will start to see revenue
within the second quarter.

You take that money
increase capitol
invest in infrastructure
hire more workers
expand your base of operation
now with some finances to throw at marketing
you can eventually launch new sites in other countries
until everyone knows your brand
until you are Sony, Walmart, Mcdonald’s.

But of course as soon as you
publicize your patent by launching product
all of your competition will
reverse-engineer your concept
and build better models at cheaper costs
so unless you have patented air or water
you will have to reinvent the wheel
or launch a new line of features
stick a vacuum in a van
alter the happy meal so that it better reflects the countries
growing concerns about obesity
start a clothing line once you get an album out
jump the gun before the other guy gets his hands on it
keep pushing and growing and expanding into new markets
put out books on how to put out books
get celebrities to endorse your organic farm
pump out more units per hour
in more facilities utilizing cheaper resources
until your bottom line is in top form
and then…what?

When do you say that enough is enough?
The reason that I’m asking this is because
we are surrounded by factories and surrounded
by transport trucks
shipping products in and out
people are building more things faster
finding new markets new ways
to get that dollar
and so far nobody
and I mean nobody
has been able to answer that
one simple question.

And yet we just keep going
until it’s all that matters
until our air is filled with smog
and our earth is gutted
as the tree lines diminish
until all of our landscapes
are filled with factories
badly contrived parking lots
and big-box stores
where there is no art or culture anymore
because all that matters is economy and
the manufactured spirit of the rat race
and nobody looks up from their phones
long enough to raise the question
of why.

It is rather funny
how people are so convinced
in the importance of who they are and what they do
when they’re all really doing the same thing.

Ever get the feeling that you’re surrounded by utter fools
who are casually destroying everything
in order to blindly push product?

Because I most certainly do
on the drive to work everyday
wondering why.

Shit Painted Gold

by in Fiction, literature, Poetry, Prose, Writing and tagged , , , , , , | Permalink

Some people look great
but inside they’re as
dead as dried leaves or
an abandoned factory.

The immediate stench of their
absolute nothingness
can be bought at your
local Sears counter.

When you get too close
to the haircut
the cologne
burns the back of your throat
tasting like
plastic
pretentious
carcass.

And hey,
nice tan
here’s a prune.
Notice the resemblance?
Nah, course you don’t.
You don’t notice anything that’s not you.

They may flash you a disarming smile in return
etched to perfection by years of mirrored practise
but it merely acts as a freshly-painted billboard
welcoming you to an arid wasteland
of creams and oils and hours of self-pruning
of sickness and disease and death of the spirit
of a great empty place where there is little else but
meaningless chit-chatter so consistent and invasive
that it could drive a thinking man to leap
from a high-rise balcony
into the streets of stars below
because everybody demands Hollywood
these days it’s a sickness
a plague
a merciless wench with a ten iron.

Everybody’s a fucking celebrity.

But those
that strut around like peacocks
for no reason at all
do so with an undeserved
sense of accomplishment.

It just begs the question that you
will never receive a proper answer for:
Why go through all the trouble
hour after hour
day after day
to ensure that your shirt is still immaculately pressed
that your slacks are entirely lint-free
and every strand of hair is still in place
like it’s all that there is?

What had happened in your life
to end up placing upmost importance
in something so trivial?

You’re just feeding off of
what you’ve been fed
and would trade your soul
for corporate sponsorship
if you even knew where to look for it
and you’re a gorgeous piece of shit
and I’m a gorgeous piece of shit
and we’re all just collectively
one big commercial
at the end of our existential mire

but it’s people like you that deny the fact
that we all need to piss, shit, eat,
bleed and sometimes cry

So why care to the point
where it’s an insanity and a
disease?

You could ask them
but the main reason you would never
get the answer you’re looking for is because
as soon as they start talking
it makes you want to
turn on the vacuum cleaner
and sometimes
start up the blender too.