a loud angry love-starved lonely bearer of fine cutlery pounds my door and inquires callously of matters of my tongue engaged I try not to respond we wait in silence until we hear her walk away we wake to find just one dead rose hanging from the door
October 1, 1996
I don't like the way you look For something with a nonstop raindrop rhythm Born as a smooth groovin' incantation over steamed milk and incidental brown euphoria You look pretty ugly Condemned to a life of late-night ramblings From the mouth of a man In a coffee-induced stupor You're no better than a day-old pastry Sweet but dry Like some contradictory wine Oh you'll never see life in print Because I don't like the way you look With your ragged justification Your typographic imperfections Unparallel Incongruous Misdirected anger masquerading as fine art It could be years before you're ready To live in the flat world Of black and white Buster, you'd better get yourself together For now, you're stuck in this coffeehouse On a throwaway napkin You should have never been written down
May 29, 1999
"My Country Tis of thee..." Sweet land of incarcery building jails and building bombs while selling guns like guns can love My country, sweet land of incarcery. Solve your crisis with crushing force dig your hole deeper, my country dig your hole to China, my country throw everyone in who doesn't obey Eat the fruits you yourself have forbidden my country, throw your problems away my country, throw your people away My country, sweet land of incarcery. Break your people's backs but don't bust the banks till it doesn't matter who you kill My country, my country, you're killing me. My country, my country, sweet land of incarcery. Building jails not homes my friends making bombs not jails my friends this is my country, my land of the free. My country, killing its least free My country, land of incarcery. Eat the land, starve the poor. Throw your people away, my country throw your problems away, my country. My home, my comfy cell, my cushy jail. My country, sweet land of incarcery.
and in dili you can't eat without a spy a hell in every hope and a soldier on every corner as graves are hidden for 200-thousand 10 percent can make a revolution as bishop belo prays hail mary it's a holocaust and 33 percent are gone as the british hawks supply suharto timor dies and the empire expands "it is not good here" intimates an inmate of the empire blood and justice and vicious lies indonesia breaks the backs of the oncefree my sister knows the world is blood and everybody has their first and second time soldiers and my sister know who's fucking who portuguese now javanese as my sister knows my sister knows who's fucking who this body their body they own it they broke it as machine guns take aim up at the precipice the grave is formed and left unmarked and blood and lead collide and flesh falls and bishop belo prays my sister knows as well as suharto the blood and leaden cocktails as she and bishop belo pray as she and bishop belo pray.
I awake silenced breathing the air of order stagnant and corrupt with edges that dull my senses order asks if air has edges meaning to hide its flat-headed abrasions polluting realms of randomness and possibility with worship of hammers for hitting heads like nails add six quarts simplicity and blend (do not stir) the recipe for order reads when it smells stagnant sell it Your nails need smashing your nails are bent your nails are breaking your nails are falling your hammer is falling Nails with heads get smashed down Air with spirits gets closed in closets Hammers collapse and pollutions kill And you remain the same or become the same.
Spoken Like a True Asshole:
(not a poem) I'm not racist I just act that way I'm not sexist I just talk that way I don't hate the faggots I just joke that way. I'm not intolerant so long as they aren't near me I'm not elitist As long as they stay invisible to me. I'm perfectly open Because you're perfectly free And I risk nothing When you stay away from me. I'm for giving you jobs so long as you can't get mine I'm for letting you learn if you've got as much money as me. I'm perfectly open Because you're perfectly free And I risk nothing When you stay away from me.
No fucking hello kitty No chalky candy hearts with words written in cheese No breathless moanings and soft sighs If you're going to get cute get chocolate Because only chocolate is truth and sex rolled into one No fucking jello No chewing gum No thinking pink and red and white anything Because only chocolate is truth and sex rolled into one. No more heart shaped boxes No more diapered gods No more cute No more No Because only chocolate is truth and sex rolled into one.
Eat up the pain like a chocolate Sundae but force feed it to me and it'll kill you (Ray, Lesson one). The Well-Versed Voyeur stares not at lost teenage love; no narcissistic regrets nor onanistic loneliness; not at ladies of perfection but nudity and truth. (Ray, Lesson two). Sex, you see, is literate and you should not kill her with old come-on lines. If you haven't finished Shakespeare you don't know what you've plagiarized. (Ray, Lesson three). Politics and sex are alike and chocolate is a taste of both. Profane Sundays like a good Roman boy. Wear no clothes to dinner nor pretentions of unpretentiousness. (Ray, Lesson four). Sex and politics of course. But by all means have a conscience. And wash your mouth out after reading Henry Miller. (Ray, Ending the lessons).
On the limb I sit calm waiting. I dream of exhalations poets and playwrights would have Brutus read by. Here I dream to grow Here I dream to conquer Here I dream of Shakespeare's errors Here I dream, upon a limb. Trees and goddesses breathe inside this limb whilst I sit awake dreaming. Marc will take the world through gentle words and Brutus falls when shedding blood. Here I dream upon a limb As heroes die and heroes grow Here I dream of trees As gods watch swords fall. Here I dream and heroes die As heroes soak in blood red streams And heroes have no homes but hell. Now my heroes cast away their swords.
Cheese left over from high school
A blast from my past...
vision is inner seeing only life experience is ephemeral seeking only thrill now kill later lucid panda dies enigma panic wonders why I I I I I answer when all I have is this little phony lung and lots of friends with guns seeking only thrill kill now later fuzzy agent kills enigma panic wonders why I I I I I question answer question with promise love nature kill nature the human spirit is undying killing itself killing answers with promises to question after finding answers
Some people just don't know sex when they see it... or don't see sex if they know it... or something that Jesse Helms-esque like that.
Black. Knife. Bloody. I am so alone.
(Variation on minimalist teen angst poetry). Teen Angst Poetry Game Poetry must include something dark, something sharp, some blood, and the phrase, "I am so alone.")
Roses are :) Violets are 8) The vax is ;) with too much *-(:-) I wonder if it rhymes.
© 1993-2000 by Jason Truesdell. All Rights Reserved.