Archive for the creative writer Category

Forgot your password?

Posted in art, artsy, creative, creative writer, creative writing, lonlieness, morning, original poems, original poetry, poems, poets with tags , , , on May 19, 2015 by unsensible

Life is a Password that I forgot to remember – and wouldn’t write down – the last time I had to change it
because I misremembered the old password
(between 3 to 6 generations of passwords ago)
for a web site I don’t recognize and can’t understand how and when I registered.

And I should be working, but facing a dozen open browser windows, I can’t recall what I was doing in the first place.

I can conjure up the timelines and origins of the many wrong passwords
I can remember why I made and what it meant to me
in the ancient history of nostalgic 2014, 2013, 2012, 2011, 2010, and distant 2009.

When I lose my mind, social media will be the most reliable record of what I was actually thinking
I’ll go online to learn about more about myself
and my stunning lack of foresight.

Advertisements

Beatitudes for all my friends

Posted in art, artist, artsy, creative, creative writer, creative writing, creativity, dream, friends, original, original poem, original poems, original poetry, poem, poems, poet, poetry, poetry of the day, poets, portrait, short story, Uncategorized, writer, writing with tags , , , on May 18, 2015 by unsensible

Itinerant dreamers and hopeless bastards —
Would-be, part-time heroes and recreational junkies
Apparitional screamers and unabashed mashers
Button mashing, pleasure center, delectation monkeys

Bliss huffing ciphers of porno panaceas
Buttons up and zippers down, zippos aloft we hail you
Beautitudinal fevered hosts of all-night pizzerias
Angel dust and candy rolls, nothing to gain nothing to do

Prognosticating paramour come fuck me into nullity
Reflective pools within your eyes a functional nonentity
You were right, and they were right, may Holy Smoke objure us
Daylight doesn’t follow night and their kind can’t endure us

Communion then with the holy voids then let clouds of obscure us

Stop pretending

Posted in art, creative, creative writer, creative writing, creativity, original poem, original poems, original poetry, poet, poetry, portrait, prose, Uncategorized, writer, writing on March 31, 2015 by unsensible

Stop pretending
You don’t have a choice
When choice was always there for you:
Hate the life you live
Or live the life you hate

Say you’d do it differently
But history disagrees you
Protest you can’t go on
But heaven knows you will

Genuflect before the truth
The only one that’s clear to you
Whatever doesn’t kill you
Still really hurts like hell

What a Piece of Work

Posted in creative, creative writer, creative writing, lonlieness, original poem, original poems, original poetry, poem, poems, poet, poetry, portrait, Uncategorized, writer, writing with tags , , , , , on March 26, 2015 by unsensible

Consider this the basis of your daily affirmation
Acceptance and endorsement for excessive masturbation
Inalienable permission to drift sidelong into traffic
On opiates, and delusions, and a constant buzzing laugh track
Be utterly assured of your festering uncertainty
Of healthy suspicion and apoplectic insecurity.

Man, what a piece of work we are
Infinite in rocky reasoning espoused in shady bars
Expressed in the universal belching of frustration
Devolving deniability and lusty admiration

How like an Angel, flightless, drunk, and apprehensive
An ersatz son of God comes home when drinks get too expensive

Argonaut, 20 years after

Posted in art, artist, creative, creative writer, creative writing, original, original poem, poetry with tags , , , , , , on March 17, 2015 by unsensible

Cut to: 20 years later
Our hero (the best we have)

More angry
More sorry
Frightened and cruel

Cataloging horrors by order of relevance
“I’ll give you something to cry about.”
He has more than a few to spare

New ghosts have gorged and grown fat on the old

A Coward’s Cadence (Keep Emergency Exits Clear at All Times)

Posted in art, artist, creative, creative writer, creative writing, creativity, lonlieness, original, original poem, original poems, original poetry, poem, poet, poetry, Uncategorized, writer, writing with tags , , , , , on March 14, 2015 by unsensible

I’ll fall into you,
if you want me to
make your breath the atmosphere of that moment of my time

But I’ve got your back (while I’ve got mine)
With fine schema of all the fire
escapes, steel doors, and emergency signs

In an age when nations, loves, and creditors boldly
Draw retroactive boundaries squarely behind me
In practical, unemotional Maginot Lines

Marching backwards, hold your arms out and I’ll show you mine
Bearing firearms overheated in the fullness of time
May you and god forgive me my shamelessness of candor
if I insist cowardice is the finer part of valor

Blame the hopeless romantic

Posted in art, artist, creative, creative writer, creative writing, original, poetry of the day, poets, prose, writer, writing with tags , , , on March 9, 2015 by unsensible

As a young man, I loved love
and the idea of love
everything about the ideal love
and the humming, golden idol of love
so I did everything in my power to avoid its reality.

If only I was a conniving, greedy bastard.
If only I’d wanted to use women for their bodies,
Or their money, if I’d only wanted money,
Or their time, if only I’d wanted to waste their time which is more precious still.

If only I’d developed a heroin addiction,
I could have woken up 5 years later,
With everyone gone, $60,000 wasted,
No sense of who I was or where I was meant to go.
I could have spared so many so much heartache.

15 years later and a half million dollars poorer,
I know no finer addiction.

Romeo is a joke, folks.
Read it again and you’ll see what I mean.

Love, birth, and war are bloody affairs.
It takes TV to make it antiseptic.
Till you lose everything on a hit,
you have no business hustling with the professionals.

Love is waking up at 6 a.m. after a night of crying
It’s so cold the linoleum hurts and so dark you think your gods have abandoned you
on an early February morning.
You still do the dishes in the sink
Pick up the broken pieces of crockery
And make her a cup of coffee.
Because you do, that’s why.
And because there’s no one you’d rather talk to,
even when she’s not there and you can’t remember having anything to say.

And because you’re sick of your own shit.
That’s when it’s worth it.
If a starry-eyed poet tells you otherwise,
turn around and run.
Or, better still, break his nose.