Dark Days

WHEN IT'S THE DARKEST,THEN YOU SEE THE STARS.

Perhaps it's the cold temperature, or the snow on the ground.
Perhaps it's the shorter days, and longer nights.
Perhaps it is yet another holiday that should be filled with joy, but will not.
Perhaps it is the nightmares that wake me every night with just an empty pillow beside me for comfort.

I cannot smile anymore.
I cannot find the laughter anymore.
All I see is shades of grey.

No red, no green, no colored lights.
No precious silver and gold.
It's all dead, like the leaves on the ground in Autumn.

I can look out my window, and see stars.
Beautiful and bright, but as everything else,
Too far away.

Perhaps I was once comforted by nightmares
Perhaps I was happy with anything other than reality

Days filled with tears, lies and brutalilty
Nights filled with the haze of drugs and banality
Sobering days and browned out nights

A life grayed out and devoid of light
Color gave me too much information anyway
There was enough going on inside my head

The stars they were sure ready to play
And the day was now night





[edit on 22-11-2008 by Excitable_Boy]

My house is small
my windows look out on a grey courtyard
there is no view of the sea
will you come here again?
I will entertain you
as well as I can
I will make you comfortable
in spite of the cold

A poet walks in the cold wind
his head raised humble and unafraid
death round him filled
with waste and banners
death all around him
walking alone with chamisa and stone
sounds are heard and the sky
glows in darkness
Que desea usted?

once I was huddling
once I was sitting apart
it was bleeding in time
We ate and we drank
and we slept and we
did something else
we should not talk about.
Was it love? It was all
supposed to be love.

I woke up this morning
about three, thinking
about my hat.

It's grey with a narrow brim, small
white pinstripes &
Sometimes it sits
on top of my balding
head. I bought
it at Walgreens and
paid for it with my
visa card. I wish
it had of been a
gift from a female
admirer with large
breasts.

Once when I wore
my hat a man asked
me what mantra I used.
I said "in Zen you don't
have to worry about any
of that. You can just
play with the Beads"



[edit on 26-11-2008 by whaaa]

Perhaps it was love
Perhaps it was lust
Perhaps it was just a lunch quickie

I bleed so much and so sickly
I don't understand how I don't bleed out
The bottle thins my blood

It turns my blood to crud
It turns my stomache
My stomache vomits up my life

I need an end to my grief
I need to fly without wings
I need to bleed out on the rocks

My room looks out on the docks
Perhaps I'll go for a swim
Without knowing how

I'll swim in the gray sorrow
My body will washup tomorrow
And I'll be at peace

Why do I feel so
dark and not Thankful
on this day?
I know; My Mother
died last March
and I miss her.
I wonder
why I didn't miss her
when she was alive.

I eat the choclate covered
cherries she liked and I
start to cry. I have
all her furniture in my
house now and it breaks
my heart.

I'm not looking
forward to Christmas.
Dark Christmas
Dark Days
Dark Nights
Dark Time

Perhaps it will pass
Perhaps I will find a purpose
Perhaps I won't feel so worthless

Someone stop the bloodletting
And I'll stop the bedwetting and sweating
Waking up at three in the morning

Half a bottle shares an old movie
That Bette Davis was never goodlooking
Just another bloodsucking death machine

Perhaps we so enjoy misery that we can't live without it

What happens when there is nothing left
When life has taken everything and left nothing
What happens then and where do we go

We roam from job to job
From one hovel to another
Each more awful the the others

Sometimes we live in the streets
Get the shoes stolen off our feet
What can you do without an address

How can we kill ourselves
When there is nothing left to kill
When we walk around already dead

And we are driven
by forces we have
no control over.
Only in the Poem
comes an image,
we rule the line
by the pen.
Pushed on by
the incompletion
of what goes
before me like
Paul Klee scratching
for the perfect line.

Writing poems
about writing poems,
somehow seems
pornagraphic
and silly.

My dogs are
watching me
write this. They
wag their tails
in anticipation
of me finishing
this poem, so
we can go
outside and
chase each other
around in the
Moonlight.

13 Days to Go


I can't live here anymore,
and I refuse to do myself
IN.
And you can't kill me.

The geraniums live,
my Honda, and my
Alarm clock. This ink.
I won't leave.

I shall be who I am,
Free, a genius, a fool
an embarrassment.

To no purpose,
I tell you anyway,
as a kind of loving.

A kind of loving

This isn't working
I'm doing you a favor
Call it what you want
In forty seven flavors

I can't live here
I can't breath here
You're suffocating me
With your daily drama

At first such a charmer
It was disarming
No harm at first
Then there was thirst

And what's worse
You left me with a curse
Self doubt and self hate
An unclean slate

I once let you win
My God what a sin
What a weak response
To a complete douche bag

I'm leaving
It ain't no rumor
So get over yourself
And get under another man

It didn't take long
For you to be under me
Then get under my skin
Then make me homicidal

Or suicidal or whatever
Then I realized you suck
The best revenge
Is happiness

You complete #










[edit on 18-12-2008 by Excitable_Boy]

THERE IS NO KEY FOR THIS BROKEN HEART

NO GLUE TO HOLD THE PIECES TORN APART

NO LOVE COULD FILL THE EMPTY SPACE

NO MAN WILL EVER TAKE YOUR PLACE

NO PROMISES MADE IN THE DARK OF NIGHT

WILL EVER FILL MY LIFE WITH LIGHT

AND THOUGH YOU HID YOUR INTENTIONS WELL

I FELL ENRAPTURED UNDER YOUR SPELL

SO BACK INSIDE MY TINY SHELL

ALONE WITH THOUGHTS, MY PRIVATE HELL.

Our Peyote eyes
are open now.
We shall enter
the street and
pass among the
old Gypsy's like a
bitter wind.
Stare at their
faces. Their
eyes can melt
steel and their
fingers probe at
the holes in their
clothes.

Look now at the
loose chaos of words
that stream across
our vision.
We've worn out
all the chemicals.
All our friends
are famous, yet
they call all the
other idiots by
their pet names.

I long for Summer
so I can watch my
neighbor water her
garden and sing
her anthem to
grace and Power.
Her life she lives
in dreams.
Her husband was
torn down by the
velocity and distortion
of the city.

So, let it lie
turn off the clues;
the empire of dust
waits for all of us.

[edit on 22-12-2008 by whaaa]

The velocity of the city
Would make anyone not pity
You or your ferocity

The native people slow it down
Like Winnie the Pooh
Like the Buddha

All in moderation
Don’t overdo it
Don’t screw it up

Hot neighbors watering lawns
Can perk up many a man
A good can can

Slow it down
Pull down your pants
And slide on the ice

She says she's loving
But she's not loving me
She says she's giving
But she's not giving me

Not giving me anything
I'm taken for granted
I'm invisible and naked
Why are you killing me

I'm a suicidal saddhist
Where is my love lover
Where did I go wrong
Porked and not kissed










[edit on 31-12-2008 by Excitable_Boy]

Porked and not kissed? That sounds like the jailhouse blues....

Next up is Jedodiah Walters
Doing 7 to 10 for manslaughter

Thank yee....thank yee all. This next little ditty is about my cellmate. I calls it "Cell Block Five." I cant's wait to get outta here so I can get me a kiss during intercourse.

Give me C.....a lively C...

Cell block five
In medium security
Fight too much
Or get caught with a fitty
And you is goin' to SuperMax

I prefers SuperMax
'Cause there ain't no cellmates
My cellmate masterbates
And tosses spunk at me
And tells me I'm pretty

Cell block five
My cellmate stinks
Of beef and cheese
So I shankim in the gut
And do the SuperMax strut

I gonna be dead
When I gets back
But for now I can relax
Go to counseling
Psyche med city

Cell block five
I prefers SuperMax
My cellmate masterbates
And tosses spunk at me
And tells me I'm pretty

Cell block five
A bad place to be alive
My cellmate masterbates
And tosses spunk at me
And tells me I'm pretty

Cell block fiiiiiiive..........


Thank you. Thank you very much (in his best Elvis voice).

She's funny
She says "Well, he's my son"
I say so what
That gives him a license to be an asshole?

The apple
Doesn't fall far from the tree
Is all that is
An asshole begets an asshole begets.......

She says
"You just can't let things go"
I say really?
You all never apologize for being assholes.











[edit on 5-1-2009 by Excitable_Boy]

The old truths are rusted
and blood music,
played on stinking bones,
dirt, from his mouth,
chunks of raw soul.
Poets and singers
pump the non-funky
angry motive, bop
nada hedacaz loco
locoest whipop wago
squom pot dubies.

Placed by God in
his single brested suit,
muddy shoes and straw hat;
He had what all the others
crave and seek.

Tranquilized prophets
gather in the streets,
read my karma kards
and send me packing
to seek the opalized coral
with pick and spade.

Instead I find HER
behind the wheel of a
large green Volvo
with a quart of Bud,
a handful of reds
and tickets to Skynard.









[edit on 9-1-2009 by whaaa]

On the brink of a new day,
Brings another black mass,
The devil and his henchmen,
sneak up on you from the back.

Twisting their words,
they come at you like christ,
You trust them, you love them.
But will bring you blight.

At the end of an age,
who can gage, when the end will really come.
Dark days are forever,
as death is always right around the bend.

Sneaking up behind you like the devil and his kin.
Always giving you hope that you can win!

But in essence no man wins.
Only the women, who carry life within the womb.
May give life to men
who send other children to their tomb.

The old truths are rusted
Encrusted with political gibberish
Rubbish to the British
Pigeon English

The old truths are busted
Liars can't be trusted
I trust the Swedish

Don't care for the Chinese










[edit on 16-1-2009 by Excitable_Boy]