Archive for March, 2012

sweating blood? at least you still bleed.

Posted in Expression in poetry on 28/03/2012 by markcalles

Bitch, bitch, whine, moan. this is getting tiresome. i need to find the root. its somewhere. ive come far enough to know, its always me. we are always the root of our own problems, however existential they may be. so, here is my frustration. plain and painful. i hope i get out of this funk soon. egh. self loath, rinse, repeat.

 

She says

I should write.

“at least three pages a day”.

Shit, I can barely manage

half a page.

At least

of anything worth

a damn.

 

Fuck her.

 

Painful thing is that

I can feel it.

Waiting to breach. Wanting to breath.

Instead,

its suffocating.

A glass ceiling. Salvation

just out of reach.

And what am I left with.

 

A god-damned parasite.

Slowly

 

eating at me.

Slowly

 

sucking me

dry.

 

This block,

it’ll be the end of me.

Maybe not

this time around, but it’s like a

venereal disease.

A bad one.

One that’ll stick with me.

One that’ll

pop up when least expected, and

wanted.

It’s a bad neighbor.

Its gonna burn through lovers.

 

See now,

I know why they call it

a block.

Not because your mind

is stuck, or

because there’s a wall, or

sign, or

row of cows in the road.

Fucking inconsiderate fucks.

 

No,

this shit is clinical.

It’s the worst case of constipation

imaginable.

Like the whole

system has shut down.

Like your asshole has

dried and puckered up.

Damnedable Satan’s raisin.

Nothing coming out.

Or going in,

and I may regret saying it, but at least in would provide some relief.

 

Now I’m just

backed up.

My bowels are

slowly leaking into my blood stream.

I’m poisoning

myself from within.

It’s a slow death, sick and writhing, and

full, of shit,

and piss,

and vinegar.

My bile is fermenting.

Full. So

because nothing

gets out,

nothing gets in.

 

I’m stewing in

my own filth.

And I’m angry.

Time

to ruin some things.

“no don’t do that”

“you’ll regret it”

Fuck regret.

She’s a sour cunt.

Never cared for her,

anyway.

No choice, when all

the weapons I’ve got left are

spewing out of me.

a froth of half baked thoughts

strewn on the streets.

 

and this?

I squeezed out of my pores.

Now,

I’m sweating blood.

At least I can still bleed.

 

Here, I finger painted you

something.

I hope you can still read.

 

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In my head my brain

Posted in Expression in poetry on 23/03/2012 by markcalles

sometimes i wonder if im doing this to myself subconsciously. in the past weeks ive left more and more pieces half finished. ive left a trail of half born children, still, and holding their breath. its a bit disturbing, and the block is getting to me. but then, today, i wake up fresh and ready. go about my morning routine. piss, eat, tidy up, talk to the roomie, and thats when it comes, but not like i used to know it. its like im forcing myself to think around the block, to not fall into the same pattern and style i had written in before. so i sit down and spit it out. i go start to finish. i dont edit. i dont line break. i flow. till its out. till all the water has been poured out of the bucket. its something i havent done for a long time. i remember during some of my writing/poetry classes using this as warm up. continuous writing, or flow writing. its freeing, and maybe its just what i need. if you know me personally, or have read my works extensively, you know, i have the propensity to over think. im over critical and my brain is feed up with it. its putting my censor on break.

so, i go back. line break, gut some. add little. and its there. the feel is there. i havent added anything that wasnt there already. i havent spent hours fretting over specific words, tailoring the metaphors, clouding the context. its plain, mostly simple and mine. quite a bit like my last piece, with editing. and if this is how its gonna come out, well, i have no choice but to take it. got to ride the wave. got to play the game. enjoy.

Im wasted

and I haven’t had a drink

for days.

My mind has taken

over. It flips and flops,

sloshes

around like a fish

in a puddle

that has slowly shrunk

away.

;

I try to

calm myself,

to pull

the reins.

;

“it’s okay.

It’s all

gonna be

okay.”

;

But my weak heart

cannot

control

this restless brain.

And my soul

is on vacation.

My morals, my

integrity,

my idealism,

my wisdom all

out to lunch.

An indefinite

break.

;

And the engine

starts.

We are all so eager

to run

the race.

Who wins

this time,

in time.

“what’s the

time?”

Eager to see,

but none can say.

;

Another blank shot,

so fire the gun.

“And they’re off.”

Another turn of the crank.

Fireworks

Posted in Expression in poetry on 15/03/2012 by markcalles

its been awhile. i know. ive been wanting and trying, but it hasnt come. you see, i have a block, and the thing about a block is, it takes time. its part of the natural process. its part of the cycle. so, i didnt push it. ive waited. ive collected. ive written in other ways. but ive been itching. saving every little scrap and catchy line and couplet. its rough, waiting for the flood, but it seems as though there is some hope. thats how it happens. out of no where, and its not that i think im out of the woods yet but its a start. just a flash. thats what this piece is, just a flash that i rode. completely from the hip, no real editing besides sentence and line breaks. i didnt nit pick this one. i didnt foot or meter or rhyme scheme it. i just let it be, and, i like it. its personal. its raw. just a stream of thought as best i could get it out. its the result of thinking a lot about how and why i write. im definitely trying to channel a bit of other styles. i want to broaden my scope of writing. i hope you like it, and if you dont, too bad, im gonna ride this one as long as i can. time to go exploring. criticism appreciated.

I saw some fireworks

tonight.

I first spotted them

from my window,

bursting and

raining down

color above the buildings.

 

They were echoing

down the streets.

Sounds chasing

after the lights they matched,

booming off every building.

 

I rushed out

to see them.

Rushed out

to you.

Half expecting you there,

head tilted back

staring up

at the sky,

beaming like a child.

The colors

washing

over your face,

over your smile.

 

I always enjoyed

watching

you do

or see or

hear something you liked.

There was such

an innocence that

shinned through.

Something

that pushed

aside the bad that had

been done to you.

Something that burst

out of you,

through

the scars and

damaged tissue,

out from that

heavy heavy heart.

 

I miss it.

It was like watching

someone be reborn

again and again. And I knew.

I knew it was why

I love you.

Because you have life

in you.

And now, I just miss it.

Because I only get to remember.

Because I am a fool.

Someone you

breathed life into.

 

So now, I see nothing.

I remember,

I talk of it

as if it were so long ago.

A different place.

A different age.

 

No longer a

warm devious smile.

No embrace.

No fights.

No walks,

or talks.

No making

Love. Sweet

and slow and passionate.

No fucking.

Raw

and dirty,

tied to the radiator

red assed.

No fucking fireworks.

 

Because already

I am not the person

that lived

there.

Lived then.

 

That man

is dead.

That man is empty.

That man is alone.

That man is

a memory.

That man is cold.

 

Fucking

fireworks.