Tag Archives: poems

Monday’s Out to Kill Me Kill Me

Monday is a duplicitous treacherous whore
a midnight murderer (you’re next -it will find you)
a useless begging in a dingy alley
Monday is going to kill me kill me
dead

just like my brain -dead
just like my soul -dead dead dead

Monday is an old man
that doesn’t want to get up
from behind the counter
in order to serve you a pack of cigarettes

Monday is a beautiful girl
without a soul
or a friend
without empathy

Monday is a late cheque, a mechanic’s estimate
a slamming door, a hung-up phone
a push, a shove, and sometimes a fist
a hole in your shoe or the side of your skull
a sister on crack and the
sewer that just ate your keys

Monday is a waiting room full of uninteresting faces
or a cigarette burn on your cheek

Monday is the spineless coworker
who just won’t stop complaining about the boss
until you want to brain him with your industrial stapler
but won’t because you would probably go to jail
and then Monday’s
would be the least of your problems.

I usually despise Monday’s
but today it’s a special mixture of resentment and
existential hollowness
my gut is still rotted
from Friday night
I can’t find my phone
and I’m stewing at my desk
like bad soup
overly angry
about my untied shoelaces
again.

This is What Makes You a Writer

This is for all the times
that you stubbornly wrote
tired, half-drunk, drunk
at work
in-between doing other things
beyond frustrated
because you haven’t had a clear day
just for writing
in months
and it was always rush this rush that
looking at the clock for compassion
where there was none
writing on the backs of receipts
while driving
or on a napkin at the pub
because you couldn’t stop
and you end up throwing out
most of them anyways
but you still do it
because something inside of you
tells you that you have to.

Cheers,
this is what makes you a writer
and no one else
can tell you any different.

The Manufactured Spirit of the Rat Race

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.

Everything is Out to Get You While You Sleep

You are most vulnerable while you are sleeping and it is for this reason that I give my bedroom a thorough inspection before I am satisfied with my surroundings enough to lay down to rest and this is after the routine perimeter check of the household to ensure that all possible entrances are firmly secured:

I will turn over the pillows
to make sure there is nothing living under there
check under the bed with a flashlight
for God knows what
open the closet doors quickly
in order to surprise what may be lurking inside
and also look behind the drapes
because you just never know.

They say that you grow out of things.
That’s a lie
although granted maybe some things you should
but my imagination
has never been my friend
and it begins to question me as soon as the lights go out
as to whether
something might crawl into my ear
to lay eggs in my brain
at some point during the night
or whether I would open my eyes in the midst of sleep
to find myself
staring into the harrowing face
of a dead child
or entombed under a blanket of frenzied spiders
perhaps buried alive in a wooden coffin
in some field nobody goes to anymore
or duct-taped to a wooden chair
slowly regaining consciousness
to the sound of a maniac’s chainsaw.

Late at night
these become valid questions

and I believe that my methods
may have proven effective thus far
as I have never awakened to find myself
strapped to a metallic table with
aliens clinically examining my genitals

with missing limbs
or fully encased in Jell-O

and so every morning once I realize
that I am intact and unmolested
I will go about my routine
like an absolute hero
knowing that I am safe for another day
as nothing horrifying had happened to me
in my most vulnerable state of sleep.

Not yet.

Poetry at Work

I’m on the Clock:
As sure as a running clock or a car running over your dog
people have a bad habit of coming up to my desk at work
everyday
and talking to me about all kinds of
crazy horseshit
because there is a large neon sign positioned directly
above my monitor that reads:
“I have absolutely nothing better to do!”
And I’m the only one that can’t see it.

They complain about their boss:
“You know what he looks like when he walks around like that? A T-rex holding a lunchbox!”
Disgruntled employee #17 always had a fun new way to describe the man in charge.
Yesterday it was ‘Satan’s battleaxe’
and from there he would always launch into the same routine:
“One of these days I’m gonna taser that Megalomaniac Fuck in the back of the neck,
throw him in the trunk of my car
and drive to Niagara Falls.”
It was always Niagara Falls that he would drive to, boss in trunk.
I was never sure why.
Yes, I was.

I said, “Make sure you spit in his face before you close the trunk.”
“Yeah…yeah…spit in his face.”
It was all fun and games but I’m telling you now
I won’t be surprised if that demented fucker
showed up for work one day
wearing a clown suit and sporting a shotgun.

They complain about their wives:
“She’s crazy. She’s a psychotic bitch. I finally killed her and buried her beneath the shed!”
“Well, did you spit in her face first?”

The weather:
“It’s too cold. It’s too hot. It’s too lukewarm.”
“I just want to spit in your face right now.”

Horrible Smelling Women:
My good friend will tell me how much
his date last night stunk
down there.
The aggravating stench that this
woman had was apparently so bad
that he tried to pour vodka into her vagina
when she wasn’t looking
in order to somehow alleviate it
but she was looking:

“What are you doing?” She shouted.
“It looked thirsty!”

Now he was absolutely convinced
that every single woman smelled
down there.
That’s right, they all let themselves go.
It was a Goddamn national conspiracy
that was sure to end up on the evening news
any day now.

He even busted out some charts and graphs
and continued describing every minute detail
to the point where it was no longer a conversation
as I now felt as though I were attending
a workshop on the subject.

Their lunch:
“Hey man, somebody keeps stealing my lunch.
Have you seen anyone taking shit that’s not theirs out the office fridge lately?”
“No man, sorry.” I replied and continued typing away on a blank screen.
He eyed me suspiciously then left.
He was onto me. I might have to lay low for a while.
I’ll decide when I see what he brings in tomorrow.

You’re Too Happy So You Must Die:
And of course there is always the one person
who was just way too happy and chipper to be sane.
It was almost like they were throwing their rampant insanity in your face
and it pissed me off
but if that’s not the case than that would mean
that they had a rarely blessed life
and that would piss me off even more because
if you’re here then you should have to
suffer just like the rest of us

I’m Here All Week (Fuck Off):
I’m not even scratching the surface
of what people are like in the workplace
I could go on and on
as to what a twisted zoo of lost souls it really is.

In fact, I probably will
just not today
because obviously I’m up to my ears
in their crazy bullshit
and it’s really aggravating
because they’re doing it right now
and I haven’t been able to get anything done
for an hour.

I mean,
Jesus, people!
Can’t you leave me in peace?
Can’t you see that I’m trying to
write this poem
about you?

How to Kill a Ginger

Vickers was a fire-breathing ginger capable of mass-destruction
even in the unlikeliest of places and therefore had to be kept under
constant supervision lest he destroy your peace of mind, soul and your
five-year relationship while going to the fridge to get a beer.

I had spent the last half-hour trying to kill him with my mind.

It wasn’t working (one day) so I offered him a cigarette.
On our way out to the patio I checked my coat pocket
for the blade I had coated in ant poison that my good buddy
at the shelter assured me would work on gingers. It was still there but the
patio had too many witnesses so I attempted to lure him into the back alley
under the false pretense that there were hot naked women doing yoga and
handing out free bags of cocaine.

He looked suspicious. I would have to try again later when he wasn’t as sober.

This wasn’t the first time I had tried to kill a ginger. Actually this one, specifically,
I have been trying to kill for years. He was my best friend so there was plenty of opportunity
but I had been so clumsy in the past and now had hoped to rectify that and finally rid the world
of one less gleefully frothing maniac that for all I know could be the next Napoleon
and didn’t Hitler start off as an artist?

In the past I have pushed him off a balcony, down a flight of stairs, into an elevator shaft, off of the CN Tower and to no avail as each time he had been so drunk and his body so relaxed by booze that Vickers nimbly bounced off whatever surface he landed on just to come back and demand more beer.

There were also the times when I had laced his weed with all kinds of shit and enough of it that it should have caused permanent brain damage if not an immediate and painful death but it inexplicably did not and I can only conclude that his tolerance was too high having been built from years of self-abuse and personal neglect.

And long has it been since I had given up on switching his beverages for ones saturated with all kinds of toilet cleaners, rodent poisons, industrial chemicals and even stuff that I picked up on the black market that looked like it belonged on an episode of X-files and you could even hear whispering if you placed your ear close enough to it. It was just too bad that Sonny (a.k.a F-DUP) had gotten arrested trying to bring some high-grade shit in from Japan (that glowed, yes, glowed) because I am sure that would have taken care of it like nobody’s business.

I can even recall the one time the depraved libertine had discovered my stockpile of mixed death-toxins meant to be introduced into his system nightly by injection and had guzzled all of the jugs at once leaving a mess in the shed all because he was out of alcohol and low on cash. Vickers had seemed to have caught a mild buzz off of it but little else and most certainly not the death for which it was intended and to my chagrin it was at this time that I had begun to realize the extent of his ginger constitution was not going to allow for such solutions to work therefore I need to reassess, focus and expand my base of operations until the devilish red rogue no longer remained a threat to humanity.

I do not think that he entirely suspects me so I will have my day. I have labs down south, a training facility up north, a weapons factory to the west and a team on standby in the east. It’s going to happen, all a matter of timing and finesse. I am even considering going undercover as a ginger myself to gain more intel on their devious ways and possible weaknesses. Hell, If I need to I will even deploy sharks with frickin’ laser beams on their heads.

I am going to post this on his wall because they say that the best place to hide your intention is in plain sight. Yes, I have read Machiavelli. It’s working. Gingercide is near.

I will sack me a ginger yet and it will make for a fine day.

Yes, a fine day indeed.

You Can’t Write For Them

Like I Have a Choice
A buddy of mine came up to me
the other day and said:
“I finally read a few of your posts
and I really like your writing
but I found that a lot of your stuff
is really dark.
What the hell happened to you?”

“I fell down some stairs.”

“You should try and lighten it up,
people like reading about normal things.”

“This is my normal.”

“Yeah, but I mean,
you would probably get more interest
if you weren’t so twisted.
You should definitely try to
get out there and find some good things
and write about that.
I swear, man, it would really help you.

“I’ll get right on that.”

“And you seem to post a lot. Is that all you do?
You edit your books too?
Dude, that must take up a lot of your time.
Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“Hell no, those things are dangerous.”

“Man, nobody reads those self-published books.
You’re lucky to sell one copy.
Why go through all that trouble for nothing?
You’re a smart guy.
There’s so much you could do.
Why put it all into that?”

I really had nothing to say
as he stood there grinning at me
like an idiot
thinking that he was helping me and somehow
completely convinced
that I had a choice
about any of it.

Get a clue, Pal.
I don’t write for them.

I write for me.

You Can’t Write For Them
You have to throw your guts at it.

Your heart and your soul,
take them out too
and give it a good toss
at the page
sitting there blank before you
waiting…

It’s your friend.
It’s your enemy.
It depends on what kind of
day you’re having.

So write about sunshine
or murder
or whatever keeps you writing.
It doesn’t matter what it’s about.
It only matters that you enjoy doing it
because it shows.

But you can’t write for them.
You can’t spend your time
wondering what they might think.
That would be a slow death
that would take you nowhere.

No, you’ve got to bare your soul,
right or wrong.

People may not like it.
Some may even be offended by
what you got going on in there,
you Sicko.

But there is no other way
and if you stay the course
you will grow
and eventually they may catch on
because you may have
something beautiful
inside.

Good luck.

Everything is Breaking Down Around Me (Fuck Everything)

Phone’s dead.
Internet’s down.
Car’s a smokin’.
Toaster’s fucked.
Computer’s fried like eggs.
The television went for a shit
and never came back.
Girlfriend’s not working
        -she’s limp and unresponsive.
The drapes are ripped (you’re welcome).
The goldfish are floating upside down
        –and I don’t even own goldfish.
The cats are scheming and duplicitous.
The light bulbs have flashed-out and now they’re gone.
        -Yeah, all of them.
        -Yeah, all at once.

The neighbours are out on their front lawn
wearing cow costumes again,
barking at passing cars.

Stompin’ Tom is dead.
Somebody ate all the meatloaf.

My stomach has rotted out to Hell.
I’m almost forty so I’m fucked
and the bottle’s starting to win.
There’s a deranged monkey on my back.
It keeps winking at me
like some sort of damned pervert.
I answer the phone
        -it’s a dick-punch from God
and my face is a pile of shit.

Everything is breaking down around me,

even me.

(shrugs) So fuck everything, I guess…

even you.

One Hot Day & Two Hot Blondes

We went to an outdoor concert. Big venue.
It was me, my buddy, our girlfriends
years into relationships that were turning bitter.
We both had just gotten over some big fights
but there was tension still lingering and lurking
all over the place
behind words, gestures, looks,
swipes at character made here and there.
As their faces were permanently scowled,
fixed like stone gargoyles,
it was clear that they were adamant on not having a good time.

It was going to be a long day.
Luckily, I brought drugs.

So there I finally was
after parking, waiting in line at the gates
at the washroom and at the beer tent
in one of the many dark green port-o-potties
snuggled up against one another
fixing up a rail on top of the plastic toilet dispenser.

“This one’s for my son.” I said.
I did not have a son.

This was right after I left the group with,
“I’m going to grab a beer, on my own. Shake off the ride.”
“Sure. You do whatever you need to do.” My girl replied in the flattest tone that she could possibly manage. I looked back at her as I walked away and thought:
She’s probably still pissed at something I said in the car. Well, you know what? Good! I don’t take it back!
We’ve had our problems, I’ll admit to that, but you could’ve been a lot cooler about this and tried to make an effort. Maybe smile at me once in a while, hold my hand here and there, you know? Just fucking try and I’ll do the same and we could work on this shambles of a relationship together. But no, it was all quick, curt replies and uneasy distance –cold steel and ice. But that’s fine. You get out what you put in. So if this was the way you wanted it then here you go, here we are, here it fucking is.

It was going to be a long day.

So I got blasted in the can.

The bag of blow which I had purchased from one of my socially outstanding associates was supposed to have been evenly distributed between the four of us but I was doing it at my leisure because:
a) I really didn’t give a fuck.
b) If you were dumb enough to designate the resident addict as bag holder because you didn’t want it on you passing through the front gate and then completely forgot about it then this is what you got.
c) They probably wouldn’t even notice it anyways.
d) Fuck them.

I had to get to a certain level before I could leave the stall. I got there fast. As soon as I came out with the plastic door snapping shut behind me wiping my nose like a blatant asshole I realized that the last line had put me sailing right over into sketch-bag territory. The sun was out without cloud so everything became so vividly bright, hot and real that I had wanted to immediately retreat back into the neutral and enclosed space of the port-o-potty which would have made me look even more like a screaming drug addict.

So I walked out into the din instead.
Suddenly it bothered me that there were insects zipping around and it bothered me quite a bit. Who the fuck did they think they were? The people that milled about the bar tent looked conniving and dangerous. I had to focus on walking as my body felt like a strange vessel that I had recently taken possession of. Most noticeably my heart began thumping like a rabbit’s foot and I starting sweating like a mad junkyard dog.

A brief acquaintance from high school came out of nowhere and motioned me over to introduce me to his friends. I made my introductions and left. I knew him well enough to join them at the picnic table but I didn’t. I got a beer and settled myself into the only empty picnic table left.

It was right beside them.

The thing is…I didn’t like the guy. Never have. He was a nervous little twitcher that just had enough soul to pass as human. His friends were really nice although I could see them folding up like lawn chairs under the slightest pressure and pillow-fighting while washing each other’s hair. But the main problem was that I always became socially inept when I was this high and the thought of talking to anybody made me cringe.

So of course that’s when two blondes approached my table.
“Hi!”
I spun around and there they were all fun and bright and hot and tight with everything in the right place.
“Do you mind if we sit?”
Jesus! “Absolutely not, please make yourself at home.”
To anybody else in any other condition this would have been a very good thing.
Me? I panicked.
Not this time. Not now. Get your shit together and put your game face on because we’re live on air and on stage and you’re not going to let everyone down every again. So don’t turtle up and make this silent and awkward because you’re high. Make good with the ladies. Now…NOW!

Not wanting to piss myself off any further I introduced myself and kept the conversation going.

They asked me if I was a peeler. What a strange but intriguing question!
“That depends on how much you’re willing to throw down for some skin.” Okay, I didn’t say that. I mean, I do have a tendency to embellish somewhat in my writing here and there but never to the point where you would suspect that I was doing so. Or so…I…thought.

I actually said, “No, are you?”

They giggled. I love the sound of girl’s giggling so much that I should look into procuring a soundtrack like they have for whale noises and the Indy 500 if somewhere someone were to actually be so fucked as to create a compilation and throw it down on the web.

I just giggled. It’s not the same.

We talked for a spell and because I was such an avid listener I had found out that they were from whatever town going to whatever school and were best friends or whatever.
They also had tents setup in the camping area. That, I heard.
‘How is it?” I asked.
The one smiled. “You’ll see.” She said. They both giggled again. It was magical. I should have brought my audio recorder.

Dear Lord God! I thought. What black magic is this that presents to me two such outstanding females in this dark hour? Oh, what am I to do with these young maidens so desperately in need of this honorable knight’s most noble intentions of saving them from not having mind-bending intimate contact with such knight on a double-header basis?

That’s when my buddy finally found me and came over with a beer. Oh yeah…that guy. I had forgotten about him. For a moment I tried to recollect who else I came with but nothing was surfacing. Upon seeing me with the girls he suddenly became much more animated and interested in everything.

He gave me a look that said: Dude, one minute you’re alone and now I find you with two hot chics? Damn!

I returned the look with one that said: Dude, I know, right? We should make the best of this. In other words, don’t talk or I’ll make you part of this picnic table. That’s right, you better behave or I’ll put a steel-toe up your ass like it’s nobody’s business.
It was a long look.

This was part of our usual banter, except that I was being much nicer. Typically our conversations went like this:
Him: “Yeah Dog, I be all over that ass like white on rice!”
Me: “Shut up. Nobody cares what you think.”
Him:“ Yeah Dawwwg! You the man!”
Me: “Whatever. Fuck off.”

He had been one of my closest friends since college and by this time I had completely resented him. I hated myself for being so mean to him but I couldn’t stop because he was also limited to a vocabulary of ten phrases, some of which included:
a) “It’s all good on the hardwood!”
b) “Why you gotta do me like that, Dawg!” (Daaawwwwwg!)
c) “Cash, money and bitches!”
d) “Gender equality still remains elusive in society for reasons I cannot fathom.” (Just Kidding)

Suffice it to say he is no longer my friend. Goddamn philistines. And I’m a much better person now. You’re welcome.

It wasn’t long after he came to poison everything with his mind that the taller one said:
“OK Boys, we’re off to see the show.”
The other turned and asked, “Are you coming?”

In that moment I thought of every possible excuse that would result in us taking off with them and not having to endure the diabolical wrath of our girlfriends upon return and for the rest of our miserable lives. This is what I quickly came up with:
a) “We got lost. Where were you?” –We might as well have brought the girls back with us….naked.
b) “I overdosed on the toilet and had to be resuscitated back to life!” –They actually might believe that one but do I really want to use it now or save it as a wildcard?
c) “We were abducted by aliens and anally penetrated by Darth Vader.” –Okay, so now I was just reaching.
d) “We ditched you for these girls and now that I realize how wrong that was I am brimming with remorse to the point where I feel that you should put away your petty selfish emotions and console me.” –Yeah, I played Zelda once. It had less fantasy than that scenario working out.

Instead I said: “No. It was nice meeting you.”
They both looked back and frowned and then they were off. I thought I heard a giggle. I was glad that they were going to be okay.

No, I wasn’t.

My buddy (not really) from high-school and his friends, still sitting right beside us, had caught the tail-end of that interaction and as soon as the girls looked away they all sprang out from the picnic table like they were about to burst into a Grease musical piece:
“Dude…Dude! What are you doing? Go! Go now!”

“I have morals!” I cried. “And right now it really sucks!”

I suppose that in the end, despite where we were in our relationship and how miserable the rest of the day and night was going to be with her and how badly I had wanted to run away with these little girls all the way back to their fantastic little tents with them giggling all the way…

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it to her.

And I’m sure there are guys out there that would think:
What kind of man are you to even consider it? You licentious rogue!
Yeah, but those guys live perfectly constructed lives where nothing bad ever happens as everything goes seamlessly as planned. They’ve never chased sleep in a bottle so fuck them. And I’m also really not sure how that is relevant to my argument if I indeed had one but me…yeah, I thought about it. Of course I did. But in life you make your choices and they define who you are. You draw your own lines. I just drew mine.

I received a few affirmative pats on the back
as I watched their fine, young asses walk away.

I looked at my friend.
He was smiling and nodding and giving me the thumbs up.
Why? I’m not fucking sure.
I don’t think I ever was.

I felt the bag in my pocket.
The sun was staring at me in the face.
I forgot what I was doing
and I needed a drink.

It was going to be a long day.

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A Letter and a Gun

I fell in love with my first cousin.
Yeah, I know.
But I’m not ashamed of it.
You should have met her
then you might understand.

My last night in Buenos Aires
we got drunk and I
put my hand on her knee.

That was it. I realized what I was
doing and removed it and
she never seemed to notice.
But I was mortified
for so long afterwards
not for what I felt but that I had almost
acted on it.

A year later she had gotten
accepted into medical school
and was leaving her boyfriend
to attend
a few cities away.

That did not sit well with him so
he went to her apartment
and shot her in the head
before turning the gun on himself.

My aunt had discovered the grisly scene
the next morning.

One of the last things my cousin had written
was a letter to me.

I have a safe beneath my bedroom desk.
It contains my birth certificate, passport
and other vital documents
along with copies of each book
I have written
and that letter
right here
at my feet.

I still have not read it.

Some things never truly die.

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