I am sick of writing bad poetry, so there isn’t going to be anymore. After this, there’ll be no more updates.

Besides time constraints, I am growing sick of writing without any defined purpose and don’t really want to anymore, and have felt this way for some time now. This is just a post I have been putting off. For far too long my poetry has only parodied itself, which is not a good thing for anyone in any medium to continue doing beyond the first time. Poetry was the final straw; how many things can I really write before I realize I was never very exceptional in any of them?

If you still want to read good poems, I recommend reading Darren, as he doesn’t rely on kitschy literary devices to be good or entertaining (as I did). If you for some reason enjoyed these, RSS this blog feed. If I ever start something again–here or elsewhere–I’ll use this to announce it, more than likely.

Good night.

just read the sequel to ‘drunken’  here okay

you will want to read this properly i wager 

i:
new york kids stand sidebyside lined up
for cafeteria deliverance

these jeans washed out and bluer than
our sky is this day i think “
but is it not a sin to
dream of twisted metal
?” of shrapnel bent flaming sent spiraled
13 boxes of bullets (for
luck
)

ii:
less&less daybyday underneath a sick roof
ill with one too many bad dreams
“where now lie the fruits
of our madness &can anyone be
brought back to us
?” but repsonses are none.

their tears are fought like enemies
because they are
and rather than lay down their demon
grin they
march ever onward to
ward oblivion

iii:
albany adults fresh with jailcell soapscent
sifting through paperwork
counting personal statistics
i ask them “what is the
best use
of company time
, do you think ?”
they answer pornography
faces scarred and throats stained with drink
and–
smoke. they are unforgiven still &so i think
of the women they must
masturbate to under computer desk canopy
or between bathroom stall walls

iv:
a return to old haunts leaves many men ghosts
however these old bucks unwise in their
thoughts they do seek to entertain the
young impressionable types
leaving mislead loyalties and blood feuds
in their wake or
perhaps at it

they don’t know if killing each other like
this is
genocide or suicide
i say “both”.

v:
end of the line and all but one
have satan’s brimstone hand took ; all but
one has fallen in battle so
‘honorably’ (inexorably)
quiet and sick these liver spots see out unto the earth
a thousand tiny plagues for the final horseman
and the apocalypse he never brought.

vi:
“i let my
mother
down.”
a final regret.
“i left my father
shamed”

my great-grandmother
just died and before
she gave me catch-22
to read. i never did
read it but while we
were in the hospital
one day i told her i
had read it. i liked
it, i said. though i
didn’t realize it at
the time i know that
it was such an awful
lie to make. but you
know, i knew how she
would be happy, when
i told her that. and
i thought it that it
was very important i
tell her that. very.

she said when she gave me her old
copy, “if i am down, this is what
i read to be cheered up.” and, i-
i said thank you, i said i’d read
it, i said i was looking towards,
waiting for the chance to read it
after i finished my current book,
i said, i’ll read it. and i never
did. i never read catch-22, ever.

but i am not sad yet: i keep waiting, and nothing
comes out. the rest of my family is devestated or
what-have-you, afraid of us falling apart because
she always kept us together but i am sitting here
just thinking that it doesn’t feel real. my uncle
reads a letter from another family that was there
in icu near us about how great she was, even near
death, and i can only think that it wasn’t really
right she was taken like this. that is all i will
think for hours. i never cry. i don’t feel sad. i
wonder, have i merely accepted death? have i just
recognized what always has been and what must be?
i think this is foolish because why can’t we all?
why can’t we all do that. i know they aren’t dumb
or anything. but why don’t i feel? i want emotion

catch-22 is on
my bookshelf i
remember. it’s
waiting. just,
when will i be
sad? can it be
sometime soon?

it’s true

anyways: yet another poem written in a way i don’t myself understand

saltwater
drip
drip

drip
saltwater
drip

drip
drip
nothing there but empty space
oceans
evaporated
even we are
wonder
think for a moment do
emotions have emotions
feelings have feelings
thoughts have thoughts
sapiens have sapiens
ghosts have ghosts
scars have scars
jobs have jobs
you have you
we have we
I have I
have

? &

it feels like there sho
uld be more to this but mayb
e there isn’t. it feels like
there should be something ex
tra but there’s not. i am ne
ver sure what i should expec
t from myself there is never
a precedent.

saltwater

saltwater

nothing there but empty space
oceans
evaporated
if there were any to begin with–
+one would think
(or wou
ld one
? I su
ppo se
that i
s alwa
the qu
estion
isn’t i
t.)
that people would
have this natural
naturally built in
that
people would have this
naturally
built in you would
think.

it wouldn’t be the first time
i
found i was
somewhat defective
we all know that for a fact
i guess.
this winter is not my return to winter
this winter is not my return to anything
this winter is
not a winter at all and–
this winter will
be postponed this much
this winter i know will be inevitable
this winter is not a winter

except
i forgot about
the
second coming
of cold
maybe everything will hit me
then in the january rain so wet and
soft
;–& i bet you’d like to know
if things are going to
materialize in front
of you
but i can’t say
who can say

just waiting for my
saltwater drip
drip
drip
drip
drip
drip
drip
drip
drip

okay enough of this shit.

i slanted this so read it at a slant

not thinking
i left all my victuals
and thinking i
left all my victuals i
thinking not i my victuals
left all my thinking
and victuals not
left i thinking and
victuals thinking i left
all my thinking not i left
not thinking
i left all my victuals
and thinking i
left all my victuals i
thinking not i my victuals

probably you need to read this how i wrote it please

in my mind there are
sixteen sounds of old trains
running lengthwise round the corridor
i can’t remember anything anymore but
that is hardly new
underneath i
don’t always know what is happening to anyone
sixteen sounds of old trains
i think all my friends are sick of me
forgetting, conceding, laughing
some things are easier than others
labcoat abominations won’t let me asleep
i don’t entirely know anymore
sixteen sounds of old trains
in my mind there are
electric malfeasance if you
know what i don’t mean, alright?
sixteen sounds of old trains
standing in front of ten
waiting, waiting, watching, waiting
i was a liar once
rook to e4, bishop to g6, queen to a1
probably, i will never amount
or
anyways. i think i’m done
my eyes hurt and i don’t want to
but here we are
sixteen sounds of old trains
and none of them are familiar
not even
remotely.
i

i have to leave in ten minutes
every word i think slides across the back of my eyes like
a wretched typewriter font
i look at things and try to guess how many pixels are in them
what is the dpi?
i hate it
the words are wonderful but
asking myself, should i convert to cmyk to look at this sky,
today,
that is awful.

i feel sick
tired

eaten up

throat hurts+
feet hurt+
who cares.

i should have studied
philosophy