Archive for January, 2010


Posted in playing with matches and pissin' the bed on January 26, 2010 by tony saputo

corners look forward to find me
here, quiet, alone, deserted
in the past 6 hours i have said nothing
but have discussed so much

and swallow all your pride
know our differences
wishing i could wipe you all away
knowing you have beat me to it

how much sorrow does an existence deserve
because she likes to spill out her words
like the miss minded drunkard’s glass
the mess only grows more spastic

we dissolve into all these frames of our city
the still life portrait of how cool we fuckin’ are
the shallowness of a fucking pose and a flash
the slight instant that no one could give a damn of

everyday i wake up is the same i sleep to
it leaves me to dream of biting out the veins
and chewing on all the cords in between
revealing a power to not care anymore

the easiest thing about burning it down
flick the match and smile
as the hardest thing ever to complete
will be exhausting every ember i started


swiftly walking

Posted in a walk through the deep end of nothingness, what day is it on January 26, 2010 by matt questionmark

swiftly walking
cold concrete mild january wind
blowing hood off head
stoplights create floorshows
of light
reflections of right or wrong
pen in mouth
writing on the fog
lost tantrums of 2005
mexican food
blur as fuck
shirtless in art
save the sisters/lose the brothers
an education worth dropping out of school for
smashing gin
into lime
cut my teeth with benzodiazepines
like egypt sucking pigeon
all these failed escape attempts
back to the past
over the river
over monk’s mound
under acid bridge
out beyond the tracks and the rock pile
burning oil like unnamed torch
on tractor death backroads of eastern madison county
only makes the fog dissipate
into white noize blowing
weedsmoke out my nose
snotting breeder music
outta my ears.

eye saw ewe

Posted in Uncategorized on January 21, 2010 by tony saputo

today is the day i have seen the axis
and whilst i dream of the quickest turns and spindles
i lie to my own heart

surely this point, like i, stands complete and still
void of this universe who collapses to and fro
like the dreams of the record bouncing from her needles

and i, like this axis, stay quiet and watch
everyones dreams flail from right to left, from right to left, from right to left,
and see there is no space here for us

you see the nature is a strong scurvy evil thing
that deceives and tortures the very essences and beings
of a world that is worth loving

it is so worth it for a perfect moment
that we can at least remember
and smile while our tears head south

refrain and collapse, for it is everything that we have left
no matter how strong our hearts
the beat will steady lose herself

foggy night greys

Posted in is it really real?, what the hell is wrong with us on January 16, 2010 by matt questionmark

sub sparrow slants
weak in this fog
hogging all the corn for the still born
mudded after snow like being
strangled in afterbirth
reaching up for some kind
of spring time
nothing is green
always grey
(is this why you pray?)
piss-poor and out the door
wishing my health was more
carefully social
but you hide your fears through
veiled threats of cloture
still-born/get born
under the mud
all deaded and rot
gut feelings face first in the mirror
15 years of living like
a bad schmuck.

r.i.p. get born

“where the heck are we?”/lebanon rd.

Posted in a walk through the deep end of nothingness, lost in these purposes and collecting ours, what day is it on January 16, 2010 by matt questionmark

this pome is for rome
and for the flowrs that burn cold there
this pome is for mother
and her mother
and all the saturday smiles that crept from they ears
into my heart
this pome is for sidewalks
whose silly cracks i’ve slipped inside
like a vaseline filled glove
i was hugged from within
this pome is for numbers
whose whoring eyes have stripped me
of all my pride
this pome is for the humidity
i hate you
this pome is for lorca
and burroughs and the latter day saints
whose words fill my head like water in a fish bowl
this pome is for the burn-outs
cuz you never faded out
this pome is for this pome
because i never wrote it
because it was always written
and because you’ll never read it
this pome is for the lazy underwear romance
that stays in my backyard frozen with sadness
that we will never fully comprehend
this pome eats its food
shits it out
and burys in a box under a table in our kitchen
this pome drinks too much
smokes too much
sleeps too little
and wants more fucking on the floor
this pome is for the lost years of my life
this pome is for the nostalgia
that drips from my fingers like hot wax
and drys on your spine
every time i sift through my photographs
or hear a song from the days long gone
this pome is for shauna and shawn
this pome is for all those nights i injected
the hot sweet sex that is waffle house coffee
and never corrected our grammar
this pome is for those nights that we stole
and made our own movies without cameras
all our dramas laid out before us
like a new dawn each second that passed
this pome is for rasputin and huncke
slink through the streets
you proud lions of debauchery
this pome is for all those gin and tonics
and the hangovers i never got
because i preempted them with valium
this pome is for camel lights
whose smoke hugs my lungs
like a mother who loves her stories
more than her own children
this pome is for sarajevo
stadiums will grow again from the mined blood of the 1990s
this pome is for kabul
and all that bull……shit
this pome is for this pome is falling
failing and flailing
through this morose evening
drenched in boredom with no sacrifice
only dried skin flakes
and lack of health care.

every time i look out the window, she tells me something different

Posted in exploding heart, is it really real?, lost in these purposes and collecting ours, whore-to-culture on January 11, 2010 by tony saputo

on the dawn of the greyest morning
i awake, despite falling asleep less than an hour ago
an eye stares into this glass wall
knowing me, telling me of all the words and time i have lost
this is where i have been for the past two years

the darkest greyest mourning,
saluting to me, narrating all of my failures and lack of progress
a bottom falling out but never colliding
sending me on, flailing to never attach myself
keeps me knowing i will perish on my own

there is a collapse i missed out on
my dreams are not ones to share
and my hopes all prove to be the same
my own existence is my greatest affliction
a dialect of a language no one will ever even dare to mutter

in the world of selfishness
trivial identities
indecent glorification
and intolerance for those (us) who try to overcome it:::::::::::::::::::
love will surely die