“A beautiful thought”
Do you know what it is to be a beautiful thought?
When I think of the days to come rather than the days that have passed
When I go to the store I think of what I’d be getting if you needed or wanted something.
When I drive around and remember that we have been here and there, but not there “yet”
When I want to find you I close my eyes
When I go anywhere with books and look for books for you without realizing it
When I hear music and I want to hear it (experience it) with you
When I smile I want to share it with you
When I have coffee in the morning and make extra in the pot for you even when you’re not here
When I think of you I also think of the extensions of you that I love
When I worry I also worry about you
When I realize the one person I would want to spend life with on a desert island is you
When I think of the possibility of being old with you I smile and feel a happy glow in my heart
When I wake each morning hoping to see or talk to you
When I go to sleep and hope to find you in my dreams
When I find you in my dreams and anything is possible
When I write there is always you hidden in the words
When I think of being my best it is being the best with you
When I met you I knew you
When I’m apart from you I feel you
When you hurt I hurt
When you smile at me I hold on to that moment
When I know the love in your heart for others, it is beautiful
When this list of beautiful thoughts grows each day because you are a beautiful thought…
Do you know what it is to be a beautiful thought?
When I think of the days to come rather than the days that have passed
When I go to the store I think of what I’d be getting if you needed or wanted something.
When I drive around and remember that we have been here and there, but not there “yet”
When I want to find you I close my eyes
When I go anywhere with books and look for books for you without realizing it
When I hear music and I want to hear it (experience it) with you
When I smile I want to share it with you
When I have coffee in the morning and make extra in the pot for you even when you’re not here
When I think of you I also think of the extensions of you that I love
When I worry I also worry about you
When I realize the one person I would want to spend life with on a desert island is you
When I think of the possibility of being old with you I smile and feel a happy glow in my heart
When I wake each morning hoping to see or talk to you
When I go to sleep and hope to find you in my dreams
When I find you in my dreams and anything is possible
When I write there is always you hidden in the words
When I think of being my best it is being the best with you
When I met you I knew you
When I’m apart from you I feel you
When you hurt I hurt
When you smile at me I hold on to that moment
When I know the love in your heart for others, it is beautiful
When this list of beautiful thoughts grows each day because you are a beautiful thought…
Piggy
You pig
Disgusting stomach hanging
Grab my belt
Maybe this will slow your eating
Fattening still and swollen from behind
Tears withheld while the straps licks my back
I've taken charge of my own diet
Each morning a whipping, red scars, dry tears, and nausea
Such work makes me hungry
So I eat
A fried bologna sandwich with chips, doughnuts, and endless suckling of soda
Again I grab the belt to shape myself as my father had
My diet
My father was lean and strong
I am a pig tossed in the mud
Again the cracking of the belt scorns my skin
I am not a man
I am an animal forever domesticating
Yet each slash opens the wounds of hedonism, anger, and salivation
Here piggy here
Even now I maintain a diet of mental leather crops
You pig
Disgusting stomach hanging
Grab my belt
Maybe this will slow your eating
Fattening still and swollen from behind
Tears withheld while the straps licks my back
I've taken charge of my own diet
Each morning a whipping, red scars, dry tears, and nausea
Such work makes me hungry
So I eat
A fried bologna sandwich with chips, doughnuts, and endless suckling of soda
Again I grab the belt to shape myself as my father had
My diet
My father was lean and strong
I am a pig tossed in the mud
Again the cracking of the belt scorns my skin
I am not a man
I am an animal forever domesticating
Yet each slash opens the wounds of hedonism, anger, and salivation
Here piggy here
Even now I maintain a diet of mental leather crops
The Nausea of an enslaved writer
Writing again with the nausea and pain of year’s past
My fingers hardened by the tapping of the keys on my typewriter
The ashes of my cigar sit stale next to me
A glass of bourbon settles me
Hours are lost on the topic
Minutes execute me
Seconds invigorate me
Lust propels me to continue
Words splattering on the page
No sense to this madness I’ve fallen into
Light moves in and out
Each time I sit and stuff myself with the debauchery of language
Vomiting slightly after my coffee
Lighting a fresh cigar
Downing a cocktail of assortments
It’s become a routine of madness
Am I mad?
I had only my notebooks to keep me company in the asylum
Only memories to tuck me in at night
Tears of pain weakened me
I lost my pen repeatedly
I was told I would get another
Nothing
Nothing becomes something in this edifice
But I have long since been removed from such sterility
For two years I paced and dreamed
The mental laxatives I took drained my mind
No replacement of nourishment was given
So I write hunched over, smoking, drinking, thinking
More words splatter the page in an array of patterns
The music enamors me
This book, this letter, this thing
It must be written
To slit open my chest and bear my heart
It will be a brief moment of humility and hope
But that day is unknown
I have been exiled to this place where I must write
To whom, for whom, about whom
Too much to be said; too little time to say it all
These fragments will be mended
Hope will transform to happiness
Forgiveness will be treasured
I am a slave to hearts, souls, eyes
Writing again with the nausea and pain of year’s past
My fingers hardened by the tapping of the keys on my typewriter
The ashes of my cigar sit stale next to me
A glass of bourbon settles me
Hours are lost on the topic
Minutes execute me
Seconds invigorate me
Lust propels me to continue
Words splattering on the page
No sense to this madness I’ve fallen into
Light moves in and out
Each time I sit and stuff myself with the debauchery of language
Vomiting slightly after my coffee
Lighting a fresh cigar
Downing a cocktail of assortments
It’s become a routine of madness
Am I mad?
I had only my notebooks to keep me company in the asylum
Only memories to tuck me in at night
Tears of pain weakened me
I lost my pen repeatedly
I was told I would get another
Nothing
Nothing becomes something in this edifice
But I have long since been removed from such sterility
For two years I paced and dreamed
The mental laxatives I took drained my mind
No replacement of nourishment was given
So I write hunched over, smoking, drinking, thinking
More words splatter the page in an array of patterns
The music enamors me
This book, this letter, this thing
It must be written
To slit open my chest and bear my heart
It will be a brief moment of humility and hope
But that day is unknown
I have been exiled to this place where I must write
To whom, for whom, about whom
Too much to be said; too little time to say it all
These fragments will be mended
Hope will transform to happiness
Forgiveness will be treasured
I am a slave to hearts, souls, eyes
My mouth is dry
My mouth is dry
My stomach turns
The world turns from gold to green, red to black
I cannot quench my thirst
Sweat running from my brow lets me know my heart is working
A decorative array of bottles keeps me company
At any given time I collapse
Emotion suffers because of devotion
Devotion to misery and pain, loss and not letting go
Will I wither in this place?
My mind drowned out by music and alcohol
My soul trying to vacate my body
I wish it would
I wish there were 12 platforms to find
But I have been a failure
I haven’t been me
Who am I?
What a cliché of existentialism
But seriously who am I
Others see in me more than I see in myself
Yet I’m here with fresh materials to start again
There are so few people in the world who can cause you to salivate
To moisten your mouth, throat, and body
They can come in any size, shape, and so on
But we rarely recognize and hold on to them
Time befriends us momentarily until the end
That moment where slits in the wrist must be made
Where thoughts collide against one another
Where the heart weakens with a-fibrillation
Where the stomach begins to turn towards nausea
There is no drug or substance to escape the one that held you most
It’s hold is forever binding
It’s intoxication flows through the bloodstream infecting every part of you
And when it’s gone the dehydration of the heart and soul begin again
Sweat now accompanies panic
Asphyxiation grows
And one can only hope that perhaps this time it is for real
That the soul can be released through the miracle of a heart attack
Since that’s what it is
Better to part on good terms than on questionable ones
But I have no luck. I have only the misfortune of living every time
My eyes open and I hear the silence
Another failure, so I must try to fail again, even better
Such a mobius trip of irony, ailing, and thirst
My mouth is dry
My stomach turns
The world turns from gold to green, red to black
I cannot quench my thirst
Sweat running from my brow lets me know my heart is working
A decorative array of bottles keeps me company
At any given time I collapse
Emotion suffers because of devotion
Devotion to misery and pain, loss and not letting go
Will I wither in this place?
My mind drowned out by music and alcohol
My soul trying to vacate my body
I wish it would
I wish there were 12 platforms to find
But I have been a failure
I haven’t been me
Who am I?
What a cliché of existentialism
But seriously who am I
Others see in me more than I see in myself
Yet I’m here with fresh materials to start again
There are so few people in the world who can cause you to salivate
To moisten your mouth, throat, and body
They can come in any size, shape, and so on
But we rarely recognize and hold on to them
Time befriends us momentarily until the end
That moment where slits in the wrist must be made
Where thoughts collide against one another
Where the heart weakens with a-fibrillation
Where the stomach begins to turn towards nausea
There is no drug or substance to escape the one that held you most
It’s hold is forever binding
It’s intoxication flows through the bloodstream infecting every part of you
And when it’s gone the dehydration of the heart and soul begin again
Sweat now accompanies panic
Asphyxiation grows
And one can only hope that perhaps this time it is for real
That the soul can be released through the miracle of a heart attack
Since that’s what it is
Better to part on good terms than on questionable ones
But I have no luck. I have only the misfortune of living every time
My eyes open and I hear the silence
Another failure, so I must try to fail again, even better
Such a mobius trip of irony, ailing, and thirst
A successful failure in five scenes
Scene 1
Born broken, defective, disconnected
The affectionately malnourished pervert
Wanting, willing, waiting, hating
My naissance was pure patience
Filled to the brim with passion, imagination, desire, and hope
I had projects not people
My curiosities were my companions
Autism, asperbergers, and eventually the diagnosis of assholism
I counted the streetlights, the people, the faces, the trees
My OCD was the first sign of my malignancy that would paralyze me for most of my life.
The second was a emotionally self-mutilating tendency to hit myself in front of the mirror as I hate the way I looked, sounded, and felt.
If I was good at anything as a child it was the self-inflicted defecation of my psyche
Scene 2
I’m a parasite, a monster, a menace to emotional sobriety
I’m also afraid, paranoid, and lost in the loneliness of my own sickness
Now as a young adult everyone I touch I tear
Everything I love I hurt
So it is no wonder that I never touched myself nor loved myself
Scene 3
Waking to the stale sterile incontinency of bleach filled rooms I woke up
There was nothing there not even a roommate to comfort me as I tried desperately to avoid the cacophony of psychosis echoing in my head
I had seen these faces and collecting them over time
The sunken depraved and emotionally derelict
There was little agony but angst in that our attempts were successful failures and somehow that was what we had all in common
The pills, alcohol, and elaborate devices I had created to erase my being in the world had failed, yet I’m told these are the best failures to be successful at
Scene 4
I cannot search for a teardrop in the sea though there are many
I have drunk too much of it and now suffer from a wonderful bout of emotional vertigo and nausea of the Sartrean kind
Fuck the philosophers and what they have done to me because now I am one.
I do not sleep in order to fantasize about the number of tear drops in the sea, the amount of internet searches, the number of people going hungry, as well as how many people will be fucking tonight
Is it too much to wish impossible things? That from the sea one droplet will spray about and land in my hand, better yet my tongue?
Scene 5
Scene 5, 2 +3 again the number 23 appears. Like a madman I keep track of numbers even though I was horrible in math.
Yet no calculation can prepare us for that which is an unknown-unknown.
And to my delight the teardrops fall here and there.
I saw your eyes and smile
The history, heritage, gleaming through porcelain
Majestic, beautiful, if not tempting the mystical
The air was moistened by the stale smoke and beer sweat
A cool stream of soma-like intoxication filled my veins
Calm, collected, no palpitations
Equilibrium for one moment and that’s all I was looking for
“The one”, a moment captured where the world is right
There a few and far between for me
That moment repeated itself several times
For once I was me, if that existentialist kind of thing can be said
A moment was all I was asking for and I was given many that night
She was a drug in my veins and I was waiting to feel her again
I have spent the past week thinking of how to die and now feeling how to live
Lastly…
J’peux pas dire ce qu’il dit mon coeur
I cannot say what my heart says
N’y a pas de mots
There are no words
En espanol decimo’ “el” y “una”
In Spanish we say “the” and “one” as signified by gender
Yet there is little to language for you: tois or vous
The ambiguity and limits of my languages leaves me destitute
So with my tongue I will not speak but touch.
An entire book could never be written charting the contours of your body, your mind, your heart
But give me one moment among many and I will explore you until I end, with your hand in mine, and not just as a lover but a true friend
Scene 1
Born broken, defective, disconnected
The affectionately malnourished pervert
Wanting, willing, waiting, hating
My naissance was pure patience
Filled to the brim with passion, imagination, desire, and hope
I had projects not people
My curiosities were my companions
Autism, asperbergers, and eventually the diagnosis of assholism
I counted the streetlights, the people, the faces, the trees
My OCD was the first sign of my malignancy that would paralyze me for most of my life.
The second was a emotionally self-mutilating tendency to hit myself in front of the mirror as I hate the way I looked, sounded, and felt.
If I was good at anything as a child it was the self-inflicted defecation of my psyche
Scene 2
I’m a parasite, a monster, a menace to emotional sobriety
I’m also afraid, paranoid, and lost in the loneliness of my own sickness
Now as a young adult everyone I touch I tear
Everything I love I hurt
So it is no wonder that I never touched myself nor loved myself
Scene 3
Waking to the stale sterile incontinency of bleach filled rooms I woke up
There was nothing there not even a roommate to comfort me as I tried desperately to avoid the cacophony of psychosis echoing in my head
I had seen these faces and collecting them over time
The sunken depraved and emotionally derelict
There was little agony but angst in that our attempts were successful failures and somehow that was what we had all in common
The pills, alcohol, and elaborate devices I had created to erase my being in the world had failed, yet I’m told these are the best failures to be successful at
Scene 4
I cannot search for a teardrop in the sea though there are many
I have drunk too much of it and now suffer from a wonderful bout of emotional vertigo and nausea of the Sartrean kind
Fuck the philosophers and what they have done to me because now I am one.
I do not sleep in order to fantasize about the number of tear drops in the sea, the amount of internet searches, the number of people going hungry, as well as how many people will be fucking tonight
Is it too much to wish impossible things? That from the sea one droplet will spray about and land in my hand, better yet my tongue?
Scene 5
Scene 5, 2 +3 again the number 23 appears. Like a madman I keep track of numbers even though I was horrible in math.
Yet no calculation can prepare us for that which is an unknown-unknown.
And to my delight the teardrops fall here and there.
I saw your eyes and smile
The history, heritage, gleaming through porcelain
Majestic, beautiful, if not tempting the mystical
The air was moistened by the stale smoke and beer sweat
A cool stream of soma-like intoxication filled my veins
Calm, collected, no palpitations
Equilibrium for one moment and that’s all I was looking for
“The one”, a moment captured where the world is right
There a few and far between for me
That moment repeated itself several times
For once I was me, if that existentialist kind of thing can be said
A moment was all I was asking for and I was given many that night
She was a drug in my veins and I was waiting to feel her again
I have spent the past week thinking of how to die and now feeling how to live
Lastly…
J’peux pas dire ce qu’il dit mon coeur
I cannot say what my heart says
N’y a pas de mots
There are no words
En espanol decimo’ “el” y “una”
In Spanish we say “the” and “one” as signified by gender
Yet there is little to language for you: tois or vous
The ambiguity and limits of my languages leaves me destitute
So with my tongue I will not speak but touch.
An entire book could never be written charting the contours of your body, your mind, your heart
But give me one moment among many and I will explore you until I end, with your hand in mine, and not just as a lover but a true friend
“Four flying ontologies”
“For art to exist, for any sort of aesthetic activity or perception to exist, a certain physiological precondition is indispensable: intoxication.” - Nietzsche
“That's the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen.” - Charles Bukowski
“Drink moderately, for drunkenness neither keeps a secret, nor observes a promise.” - Miguel de Cervantes
Can't go home alone again
Need someone to numb the pain
You're gone and I gotta stay
High all the time
To keep you off my mind
- Tove Lo, “Habits”
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
There is intoxication
There is inebriation
There is drunkenness
There is being high
All supposed states counter sobriety
All I’ve been accused of more than once
But if I am intoxicated, a word Nietzsche loved, on you
Then fuck sobriety
I drink not because I like inebriation
but because numbness helps the pain
Drunkenness is merely immature inebriation
Where one holds one’s cock in lieu of one’s liquor
Disorderly and dumb
Missing the queue of numb
Being high on marijuana is an obligation from time to time
Mostly I sleep or dance with Dali
Sometimes being high is necessary for the balance of intoxication and inebriation
“For art to exist, for any sort of aesthetic activity or perception to exist, a certain physiological precondition is indispensable: intoxication.” - Nietzsche
“That's the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen.” - Charles Bukowski
“Drink moderately, for drunkenness neither keeps a secret, nor observes a promise.” - Miguel de Cervantes
Can't go home alone again
Need someone to numb the pain
You're gone and I gotta stay
High all the time
To keep you off my mind
- Tove Lo, “Habits”
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
There is intoxication
There is inebriation
There is drunkenness
There is being high
All supposed states counter sobriety
All I’ve been accused of more than once
But if I am intoxicated, a word Nietzsche loved, on you
Then fuck sobriety
I drink not because I like inebriation
but because numbness helps the pain
Drunkenness is merely immature inebriation
Where one holds one’s cock in lieu of one’s liquor
Disorderly and dumb
Missing the queue of numb
Being high on marijuana is an obligation from time to time
Mostly I sleep or dance with Dali
Sometimes being high is necessary for the balance of intoxication and inebriation