He’s boring
Why is he boring?
What can I do to make it not boring?
More feeling, more thoughts
perhaps a look back every now and again
More what he sees, smell, feel at the sight of all that blood
all the death.
It’s all new to him
He feels they are shouting ‘at’ him because he isn’t shouting ‘with’ them
even though that’s certainly not true.
The typewriter gleam darkly in the moonlight on the kitchen floor
typewriter keys scattered under the oven and some in the sink
The metal piece that hold the letter ‘M’ twisted
Before me is a window and on the windshield is a toaster
The toaster have flakes of crusted bread on top
A plant stand next to it that never dies
The leaves wither and bloom again
I never looked up what kind of plant it was.
The drapes are wet with spittle and spots of dirt from another time
The window is always clear at night
On the outside a shadow walks, stops, then walks again
Did he see me?
A faint light come from the hallway
He might’ve seen me.
Where do people go at night?
I wonder if the bottle I left in the bushes outside is still there
I wonder why I left it there
The papers scatter as I try to lift myself up
a pen rolls away.
What now?
As I lay there, I notice the ink ribbon was torn right off
That hurt me worse than the impact
It’s sunny out and its blaring at me from the window
I rolled under the table so no one would see me
Not that it mattered
I’m pretty sure somebody have been watching from across the road.
Another man stopped outside my window
His head is hidden by the curtain
I wonder what he’s looking at, what he’s doing
He’s been still for a while
being completely still.
The small people finally emerge from the outlet
It’s always a party when they arrive
The keys are put on regular now
and words appear on paper
The little people come closer, fascinated by the tinks and tanks
If it’s good they will continue to party
If it’s bad they’ll bite my fingers
and I’ll end up on the floor again.
I wish those little bastards would just leave me alone.
I must look like a douche
in my suspenders that
hang listlessly down my legs
smoking a pipe while
trimming the cucumbers and
tomatoes plants on the veranda
in my small apartment.
There’s a typewriter in the window…
but it’s a tuesday morning
so nobody cares
anyway.
….that about sums it up, doesn’t it?
but that’s part of the charm
of living.
Did I make the right choice?
What will happen if I do this – don’t do that?
what do I gain?
…life is not all that serious anyhow.
I didn’t turn out the master like I thought, big deal!
I had fun along the way.
And honestly, what else is there?
Except keep wondering.
It’s done, your choices are part of you now.
Then you grow old and wonder where all the dreams went.
Did you try them?
Old people think a lot because
they’ve seen much and
heard a thing or two…
There’s no mystery left in the world
then.
The world is like I see it
I know it.
Perhaps I can dodge around the
question
a while longer
before I have to
make the
final call.
The screeching faltered
light burst through the earth
and everything was blown away
dust lingered in the air
and the trees upended with roots.
Her hair was splayed on the stone slab
that had the corners torn off
her body was somewhere
and the earth around it
was tainted with blood
great vines smothered the trees
splayed out on the grass
and
over gravestones.
some of the stones were tilted
most of them forgotten
the snow put a layer on everything
and all was dead
except the vines.
the vines grew and grew
and people
they
Kept dying.
We do what matter to us
And we remember things we’ve never done
Time doesn’t matter
And the person that I am
Is infinity
There is no beginning
No end…
We continue to forge the path, endlessly.
Some people are better at remembering that journey
what they were and have been
They do the things they shouldn’t be able to
with an uncanny confidence, never doubting themselves
My father is one of them
but doubt is the affliction of all mortals, eventually
It’s inescapable no matter who you are
We know
Every body knows this
Yet it is the biggest mystery in the universe
The pen is such an abusive tool
it demands so much of me
all my attention
and my cognitive thought
It’s a snake!
and it slithers out of my hand,
scares my half to death,
yet I continue to go back to get bitten.
The poison, it fills my veins:
Instoxicating
Hallucinating
It’s scary but I keep wrting
because not writing is even more scary
and I would rather hold the snake
then let it slither away and hurt
somebody else.
Cigar smoke sailed across the tombstones
Their names faded
Their deaths not apparent
Their lives not easy to discern
but they are dead anyway
but time is not done with them
their tomestones are dirty and worn
and here I sit,
smoking a fat cigar drenched in my spit
the smoke taste good
the dead is still rotting
some of them are just bones
some are not even that
just a stone
one guy has a crypt
and a skull engraved on the stone lid,
partly broken
another guy’s coffin had chains
now rusted and the links scattered in the grass
if he was lucky his heart was pierced before
they buried him
but he still appreciates the smoke
smoke of the dead.
Everything taste a little better
with a drink
I bet 99% of them died sober
poor sods.
It’s summer and it’s hot. The sun glared through the blinds of the window, creeping in like a pervert insisting on making my blood boil. The blanket underneath me was cool until I had to flip it over to make it cool again. The ceiling was plain grey and it was nothing to look at but it allowed my mind to wander. My body was soon soaked by the heat, I was doing a good job feeding the microbes that live in the bedsheets but I didn’t notice it.
My thoughts thrashed around, making a mess in my head, my thoughts often running into each other and making weird thought babies. Sometimes I write them down, birthing them into existence – I had to, otherwise they would cry and I would not know peace for a while.
I try to jot them down because they simmer at the surface of my consciousness for a long time and if I don’t pick them up they’ll sink deeper until I can’t get them and I would never be able to get them out again. They get stuck down there, merging with the doubt and fears until they are an intangible mess. Someday my head will get full of those thoughts and I won’t be able to think straight again.
The Horrors of Writing 