Tag Archives: life

Games The Dead Play

Jackson with the long blonde hair
Hollywood smile
badass black leather jacket and slim frame
gracing the kitchen at a party

I was watching him
from the living room
making some beautiful girl laugh
playing it all up smooth as
silk rippling in a fine french wind
but that was Jackson
last I remember
the thing about this was
that he’s been dead
for fourteen years

Don’t tell me that I’m
crazy or mistaken
it was him all right
the way he moved and tilted his head
when he laughed and looked away

Hell, I could see the scar on his right cheek
from here
I gave it to him when we were sixteen
with a bowie knife
that was supposed to hit a tree

Best days of my youth were
spent that last summer
before his funeral when
we were all seventeen and
all we did was skateboard
drink whiskey
get high

He got all the girls’ numbers
every single one of them
you had to hate a guy like that
if you didn’t like him so much
because Jackson had all the charisma
that the rest of us didn’t he was as pleasing
as a Beatles melody
with his laughter his calm eyes his lack of caring

He was one of those guys that would never die
but then one day he did

I remember well
the way his mother cried at his
open casket
his ashen gray face with the
lips sewn together

When you see someone you know
in such a manner
with all the light gone
their dormant body
just looks like a
cheap rubber suit

Now here we are and
there he is
glancing at me all nonchalant

This even isn’t the first time
I’ve seen him
yeah, he’s been here and there at
parties, festivals, bake sales

I put it all together a while back
that he’s been watching me
following me
but for what?

It appeared there was a game afoot
which rules I did not fully understand

Well, having had enough of this
it was finally time to find out
and get some answers from the
dead man himself
so I set my glass down
and made my way towards the kitchen

Jackson lit a smoke as I approached
now that he was alone
leaning up against the fridge

For a moment he just looked at me
and I felt that I must be losing
all my marbles and that
it wasn’t him at all
but then

flashing that signature Hollywood smile

“What took you so long?” He said.

Dusty Trumpets

Let me love you
furiously
like death loves the young and
fire loves a tree.

Let me take your hand
and put it on the trigger.

Let’s turn everything
into just plain murder.

Let’s give them all Hell
for having birthed us.

Let’s scream off the agony of being
and beat down the cages just to
bully the hungry lions.

Let’s rage against the day
against the night
against the vast indifferent sky.

Let’s shake the sleep out of the angels,
step on the toes of giants and
embrace the writhing Leviathan.

Let’s burn into forever.

Let’s awaken the dusty trumpets.

The Dust of Long Dead Sheep

I almost feel like begging
for the big grand knife or
the slender shivering blade
in these abundant alleyways
filled with uncertain strangers
with cartoon eyes and
teeth yellowed from manic sweets
(clowns, jugglers, thieves
in sharp expensive suits)
but all that they do
is kill me with conversation
until sleep gravity takes me down
wondering
why
the pen is too often so heavy
when everything else seems so much
like air filled with
the dust of long dead sheep
and the constant drum
of outdated machinery.

If You’re So Smart Then Why Can’t You Clean Up Your Mess?!

This world has shrunken to a room
filled with maniacs
and guns.

Everything
outside the window
looks like it’s either dead
or on fire.

Anything between is only deception.

Corpses rush through traffic
so preoccupied
with time
as the coyotes wait for darkness
sitting fat upon their faces.

The sun reveals
the presence of walls
unacquainted
with so-called mercy.

The sun rambles
it goes on and on
like the last drunk
at the party.

Nature wants not your genius
if you’re so smart
then why can’t
you clean up
your mess?!

I suppose that it doesn’t matter
the sea will claim us all
in the end
whether we understand it
or not
and I do believe
that it is time
for another drink.

Something sweet

Something dark perhaps.

TUESDAY 4AM

As dreams leave me
like waves receding from a beach
I am left with the worry
that I have inherited from my mother
and since there is no one tool
that would fix all of my problems
I dart between them
like a hummingbird amongst flowers
not coming up with anything
but madness
I am left to fixate on a
corner of the ceiling
lit by the pale light of
an alarm clock
that’s dripping minutes
all over my tired face.

Sometimes when life is
kicking your ass
it just wants to grab you
by the balls too.

Everything

Old habits hang like nooses
brushing against my throat
against my thoughts
tightening across everything that I’ve become.

I’m sorry that we fight like this
but fighting is what
everything has taught me
to do.

Sometimes I want to break down like an old car
because of everything that has built up
but Father would be disappointed.

Sometimes I feel that everything
I work so hard for
is for nothing
even though I still cling to it
like a rabid junkyard dog
mauling an old bone
growling at the sun.

Let’s be honest
being human is terrifying
but you can’t show them
that you’re weak or afraid
not anybody
not for one second.

But I can talk to you, right?
I would like it if I could talk to you
about me
about you
about nothing
about everything…

it helps to keep the sinewy rats away
from my soul.

New Horror Novel Out: The Dweller

Dweller Cover FINAL PRODUCT

I have a new horror novel out now on Amazon that delves into my musings on perception, dreams and the spirit world—and just in time for the holidays! You should definitely check it out!

 http://www.amazon.ca/Dweller-Hernan-Monzon-ebook/dp/B00OVKYPWY/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1414252310&sr=8-6&keywords=the+dweller

The Dust Of Long Dead Sheep

It’s always time for the rodeo
when I’ve accepted the fetal position
as a way of life for fear
of putting on the clown suit.

Doubt comes barging in
like a mad cocaine pirate
that I welcome on-board
with streamers, ribbons and balloons
as my dreams vacuously congeal
into dried husks so often that I pray
for monsters under my bed
with dollars in my teeth.

It’s all relative to whatever
disaster I touch and mold into shape
using the clay that mother gave me.

I almost feel like begging
for the knife in these alleyways
filled with uncertain strangers with
cartoon lives
but all they do is
kill me with conversation until
I trip on slumber wondering
why the pen is so heavy
when everything seems so much like air
on which floats the dust
of long dead sheep.