On my sunday

I've been thinking about what makes me want to be a writer, and what I've come to realize is, it's the other writers. So many people I read are able to establish connections with both the fictional (or fictionalized real person) characters they write about, and relate this connection with the people who read it (for me anyway). So I figured if it's the writers then they must be reflected in my writing. So I pulled out my dog eared copy of poems by blake and got to reading. He was not angry, and was not especially sad. I say this knowing almost nothing of who he was. However the fact he's so good made me angry, and thus I desecrated a bunch of my older writing is inferior. I now greatly regret this. If I've ever given you a poem, I kept a copy. I no longer have these copies. If you have a copy, and you see it's not on my site please send it over to me as I now have no back catalog, and want to vomit over my drunken destructive stupidity. That's the last fucking time I try to read and abuse drugs at the same time.

Why I write the way I do

Because I can be better than this dip shit

A Supermarket in California
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit-
man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees
with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images,
I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of
your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam-
ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives
in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you,
Garcнa Lorca, what were you doing down by the
watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old
grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator
and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed
the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my
Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of
cans following you, and followed in my imagination
by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in
our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every
frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors
close in an hour. Which way does your beard point
tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets?
The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses,
we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent
cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-
teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit
poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank
and stood watching the boat disappear on the black
waters of Lethe?

Allen Ginsberg

Why I Don't Write in any rhyming schemes

Because I'll never be as good (or close) to those who came before me
Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

William Blake

Invalidation (I don't know why this didn't post right the first time)

Invalidation

The snapping intensifies
my senses aroused
I know she's trying to get my attention

*Slap*

Perhaps a bit more than physical

She gives in to her qualms
I give in to my idiocy
I can't help the coward within

She lashes
I wilt

Well this isn't the sort of S&M I had in mind
No leather
No whips

Just myself

Beaten red
no release
no satisfaction

(unsure if this needs more lines. Does it get the point across? I mean what it says. The expectation of one kind of give and take of pain, and the reception of something else. I'm just not sure if that gets across.)

For Liz part Deux (written with her words)

I believe

soulmates who eat sunshine.

butterflies and babies;

finally at peace.

giggling because I've found her,

finally found her,

I found her.

alone and decrepit.

Cerebrally vacant.
Metaphysically evil,
but

vivacious in body
My perfect soul mate.

Written right after I came back from Amsterdam with Chris Bill and Dough

Amsterdamnit

How agreeable it is to be touring Amsterdam this winter,
wandering her streets and ascending her breakneck stairs.
A pleasure to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every road sign and billboard
the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.

There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon's
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.

How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?

Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.

And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone
willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner.
I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal
what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window.
It is enough to light a joint and smile

more fucked up shit I wrote after molly dumped me.

Suicide Note
If I die
It will be by my own hand
The rest of you will be left to wonder
why I
was trying to get away from
me.

Wow I was depressed when I wrote this (but it's pretty well constructed)

Ending

flaccid seated upon the couch,
midnight, lapping cheap vodka
from a cup, Jesus, have I come
to this?
I once battled at parties
for a laugh.
now I'm not laughing.
I swallow joylessly and wonder,
How much time will be asked from me?
how many days?
my soul is empty and
a stupefying clarity rests in my brain.
things arrive; they pass
they go to nothing.
I understand the fall of cities, of
nations.
Light shimmers on the cock pit
of a large crane.
I look towards it as if it made sense to
look upward. it's true, the sky has rotted:
it won't be long for any of
us.

Another one along the same lines. This is the worst shit ever.

Do you think of me
When the music of morning
First begins to sound,
When his barks and their horns
stir your world with their singing?

Do you think of me
As the sun lengthens shadows,
Until all the world
Fades into one big shadow,
And the night music begins?

Do you think of me
As your eyes close, and the night
Folds in around you,
Like the arms of a lover,
To hold you until morning?

You are in my mind
During all of these moments.
You are the music
Of my life, but I wonder,
Do you ever think of me?

The Hunt (correction this is about a bad first date that ends in sex (possible all first dates that end this way are bad))

To cleave through the night
Like an butchers knife
Carving this very second
Exposing the bone

To sprinkle on it
That which fills my ears
The electric clink of silver on teeth
The boiling, brimming murmur between
Launching myself like a ship to sea
Through the aroma clouds
Stinging, clinging molecules
Of beer and ash

Dipping it into this glass
Ensuring my platitudes with the burn
That rolls down my throat, molasses-like,
Flesh-numbing, happy

Finally framing it with the walls
The corners of this stinking place
So it would never powder in palms
Clenched, losing

Then I would have you

Invalidation

The snapping intensifies
my senses aroused
I know she's trying to get my attention

*Slap*

Perhaps a bit more than physical

She gives in to her qualms
I give in to my idiocy
I can't help the coward within

She lashes
I wilt

Well this isn't the sort of S&M I had in mind
No leather
No whips

Just myself
reddened, and bruised.

fucking the dog

All you have to do is walk this way
around the bend and just past the point of no return
you, simply,
open your mouth and remove all filters
say what you want
liberate your ideas.

Do not spare feelings,
Do not parse words
Do not hold your tongue

This path of openess
is mostly a route to your pettiness
revel in your inability to express
do not revile your ability to upset

Own your shit
You will make people mad
They will hate you
Or at least think you odd

You will be well on your way
to that glorious place
where you've fucked the dog.

oops the for liz post was supposed to read this

Boom
My head explodes
Your face is coated.
It's strangely erotic

This look, you covered in my gunk.
Fascinating
beautiful young woman
Thoughtful and kind
Covered in me

You were the cause of the head explosion
It's your own fault you're covered in my ick
If only it weren't my big head you'd made burst
"Women exist to serve men"
Ugh

Off the top of the dome (be kind about spelling as I had no spell check and am totally reliant)

Conversations I have with myself and others all the time. In free flow writing poetry edition

Word Vomit
If I don't spew something I might die
I will force these words

Uninspired dribble

Unintelligible, Unrelated

Worst of all unfeeling

Still, they are guided
they are forced to surface
They will not be drowned
their air was almost up.

That's it.
The build up of toxic gases killed it's reason
The nascence of a mush brained poem

I wanted to right this for so long
it would not be written.
It could not be righted.

I can't believe this is the poem I dreamt about. Fuck I'm such a loser.

I'm a liar, but this isn't a lie. I hope
Hi have we met?
My name's Max.
If we've met, I've lied to you

The compulsion propels

A viscous cycle
too sticky to escape

I tried being honest with people
it turned my interactions...

It grated my relationships.
People hated me
Narrator included.

I tried telling you. I'm dull,
I'm nervous,
I'm happiest when I'm alone,

It didn't matter.

you were only happy with me: aggressor.

I made bad jokes,
I spoke brusquely,
I was sexually aggressive with all the wrong girls.

I was emotional.
I was weird.
I was the center of attention.

This is the man I'm known as.
This is part of the man I am

I am my own actions,
I own my reality,

and yet

I am vacant.
I am lost.
I don't have a fucking clue how it ended this way. Why do I insist on making a fool of myself?

Oh yeah the pussy.

Floods and Droughts
Allow me to introduce myself
I am mustache Max
hiding something behind a thin vail
Like a gay man with... well... a mustache.
I am a creator of bad words, and a provocateur of hair brained schemes
I am the impetus behind an entire school of thought.
Maxian: Posturing is victory
Learned in the ways of savage beasts
I spit soap box philosophy Enlightening a minority
I will change your life

Or not

I'm really a self important loser with a big nose

I'm out of shape, and out of my mind

I don't know why people are impressed with me.

NOTICE to readers It's A Sham.

My confidence is so tied to others
not just their liking me,
but their agreance.
Tacit, or other. In my mythology

I am a legend, or I want to kill myself.

I just wish I had a middle speed.

I don't think anyone else does this (all assholes do this)
I am unique.
A precious, precocious snowflake.
No don't look that way,
I'm original.

My jokes? I came up with those
Oh you'd heard it before?

Shit.

Why I use drugs
Because.
They.
Make.
Me.
Cool.
no lie.

Is That Right?
Her smooth skin glistens
a light sheen of sweet sweat upon my lips

The flow from the left foot
to the left hip
along her shapely side

Enticing

Her right side buried
At peace

Her back rhythmically pumping
Up and down
Gentle reminders of her exhaustion

Lucky me.

Witness to sated beauty.

Her body tells me she wants to be held

I just want her to go

Please leave
I've got a lot of work to do tomorrow.
I really need a good nights sleep.

I stay silent.

I move to the couch.

Nice Blind Date is on.