Author Archive

A lonely land

Posted in Expression in poetry on 01/11/2012 by markcalles

sometimes it only takes a day full of feelings and a couple drinks to drag it out of you. no empty promises, no apologies, just me, and my feelings, out on display. needless to say, here is some poetry. i don’t care what you think. you never have an opinion anyway. read out loud for best results.


Do you know what it is,

to feel so utterly alone?

I do.

I know.

I have felt this so long.


Do you know what it is to see?

To be so wholly forlorn.

I have.

The painful longing.

A wish to not feel anymore.


I have lived with a burden.

An utterance.

I can no longer escape.


No words,

that can express.

The wish and need to convey.


I do not know what.

My heart dragged through the coals.

I do not know if.

My head grey.

Feet falling through the floor.


A hollow man.

A body full of sand.

A soul on the brink.

One leg,

less on which I can stand.


A time stretched,

further then I can.

A mind destine to sink.

With no home,

in which to land.





a little honesty

Posted in Expression in poetry, Uncategorized on 28/05/2012 by markcalles

i let it lie. i left it alone. now its poking back to the surface, finally. im feeling like the rest was needed. now i have time, now i have stories to tell. i think ill start small. this happened after a night out with a good friend. the talks leaned on the truth and honesty and how, many times, to save relations, the truth is best left unsaid. well, i tend to disagree with that, but i still play the game. whats a mirror with no reflection.

a lie to myself is the only that pains.
the ones to you,
hedged by losses and gains.

honesty doesn’t suit you.
when no one cares,
whats the truth,
when no one knows but me.

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.


its suffocating.

A glass ceiling. Salvation

just out of reach.

And what am I left with.


A god-damned parasite.



eating at me.



sucking me



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


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.



this shit is clinical.

It’s the worst case of constipation


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.


to ruin some things.

“no don’t do that”

“you’ll regret it”

Fuck regret.

She’s a sour cunt.

Never cared for her,


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.


I’m sweating blood.

At least I can still bleed.


Here, I finger painted you


I hope you can still read.


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,


around like a fish

in a puddle

that has slowly shrunk



I try to

calm myself,

to pull

the reins.


“it’s okay.

It’s all

gonna be



But my weak heart



this restless brain.

And my soul

is on vacation.

My morals, my


my idealism,

my wisdom all

out to lunch.

An indefinite



And the engine


We are all so eager

to run

the race.

Who wins

this time,

in time.

“what’s the


Eager to see,

but none can say.


Another blank shot,

so fire the gun.

“And they’re off.”

Another turn of the crank.


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


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


over your face,

over your smile.


I always enjoyed


you do

or see or

hear something you liked.

There was such

an innocence that

shinned through.


that pushed

aside the bad that had

been done to you.

Something that burst

out of you,


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.


and dirty,

tied to the radiator

red assed.

No fucking fireworks.


Because already

I am not the person

that lived


Lived then.


That man

is dead.

That man is empty.

That man is alone.

That man is

a memory.

That man is cold.




breath into you

Posted in Expression in poetry on 05/12/2011 by markcalles

its the end of the school year. its that much closer to getting back to california for the holidays. its the end of the year. its the end of some things ive made. this piece is a bit of a comment on all those things. read it directly. read it heavily metaphored. make the personal impersonal. vice versa it. give it some humanity. take that away. you think its one thing, but its another. and another. and another. and…


The closer it gets, the further from here I feel.

I’ve got some breath that belongs to you.

So let’s fill up before I go.


Bought the ticket, I’ve made my deal.

The ways and whys, I’ve paid my due.

But you don’t even know.


No, you’ll never really know.

How I willed you.

Will you?

six of seven

Posted in Expression in poetry on 20/10/2011 by markcalles

sometimes you just have to air it out. a piece that has sat around for a while, a bit darker and more explicit then some of my usual.


I am Pride’s full posture

The all-consuming Glutton

I am Sloth’s sullen patience

The Lust to scorn lovers


I am the source of all Envy

And Greed’s open hand

Searching only now for His instrument of Wrath