Tag Archives: poetry

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.

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


Dreams are For You and For You Only

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.

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.

Shit Painted Gold

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

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

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.


I wonder why people think
that they need politicians
other than wanting
a face there to tell them
that everything will be okay
that all of the things they
don’t want to think about themselves
would be dealt with
their best interests in mind

because seriously,
what kind of fool would believe that?

They say that
you get what you pay for
but only a real fool
keeps on paying
and then paying some more
for nothing.

World-Wide Unrest

This is the time of night
when the cold wind rustles the dead leaves
when all the flowers wither up into little balls
of dried nothingness
where the radio plays the same song
over and over again
as factories close
and politicians get reelected
the wheel turns and turns
deeper into the mud
the children are made slaves
in order to have a future
and families become separated
over merchandise
while our armies eradicate God
in new lands
and the beasts of burden
perpetually shit on a society
that cannot collectively cry
that instead bleeds random sociopaths
as it rains pestilence
from the products we create
within the systems that fail
under the weight of corruption
and there is word-wide unrest
as thousands protest
against the walls of bureaucracy
while the thugs behind the wheel
laugh all the way to the bank
and all of our principles, virtues and very ideals
are bought and sold
in the institutions they have built.

This is the time of night
that I crack open another beer
turn up the Bach

and am grateful for my cat.

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
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?

Keep Writing

Some things may pierce you so deeply
that you only start to write about them
years after they’ve passed
and even then
you can feel the malevolent entities and memories
lurking in the depths of your mind
suddenly spring back to life:

We’re still here! Oh, do come back…
yes…that’s it…I can see you
looking at me.

Some things you want to write about
as they are happening
and sometimes do.

Sometimes you write
to digest what you’ve swallowed
maybe you should take smaller bites
maybe not.

Sometimes you write
because it just hits you out of nowhere
and you need a pen
right now (dammit!)
to get this out and out of the way
and it’s always when you’re at work
with the boss looming over your shoulder
or on the road busy behind the wheel
or having great make-up sex.

Keep that thought.
It might not come back

But the most important thing
is that you are
not because it’s all part of some plan
or because you choose to become a writer
because why would anyone choose that
when you could be a rock god, movie star, captain of industry
or any one of the other delusions of grandeur
that are waiting to be plucked
from the tree of narcissistic expectations?

You are writing because you have to
need to
right then and there and
for no other reason but that.

And that is vital
because without it
all of those outside things
will get in the way
and before you know it
the fire’s out.

I have always thought that
writing was the way out of

maybe it is
maybe not
but keep in mind…

I have never come across a situation
where somebody
consistently practices what they love to do
and does not get better at it.

So keep writing.

We all need a place to put our pain:

Oh, do come back…
that’s it…yes!
I can see you
looking at me…

and I’m still here.