Archive for the a walk through the deep end of nothingness Category

FWFLHSSTWEADWWPOOTGU

Posted in a walk through the deep end of nothingness, does anyone even know what love is?, heartbreak, paranoia, pissed, playing with matches on December 12, 2012 by matt questionmark

Fragile pacts tatter
With shitty farts
From corrupt lard mouths
Land lording sandpaper
Huts hilling over mined land
Sinking slowly
Shafting themselves silly
These sneaky fuckers
With their educated money
And free range tb
Escaping on empty in electric
Dildos buttfucking their
Way to buy a bag of legal
Weed in fucking Colorado
Pacts tatter with no pitter
Or patter of words to you
Or yours with shitty farts
To choke on as you
Get fucked by wiggers
Under your xmas tree.
12/12/12

acidtriponmichiganavegoneawry

Posted in a walk through the deep end of nothingness, foreshadowing, is it really real?, paranoia on October 31, 2012 by matt questionmark

wincing from the wet lake effect snow/wind
we crawl across coke filled streets
past the drunken wrecks
past the lost fouls
adorned in burberrybossbullshit
we scavenge for lost literature
in the snow filled cracks of reality
lost paragraphs emaciating
with the lack of being looked upon
we scavenge for pizza surrounded by mexicans
adrift in this snowfilth two tabs each
alone in this static and traffic
wincing
splicing the thoughts
fucking sentences like wind eats our ears
wandering upon a movie set
and crashing the coffee stand
YET WE CRAWL
into hidden staircases surrounded by actors
surrounded by the sudden warmth
of college faggotry
knees capped by roller skates
sliding down dormitory hallways
raping the sleep of 73 students
and attempting to marry each one
awaking underneath a living room table
scraping the drugs away from my eyes
the words written in black before my face: this too shall pass.

i started walking without a limp.

Posted in a walk through the deep end of nothingness, collecting ours, i'm afraid of americans, lost in these purposes and collecting ours on November 19, 2011 by tony saputo

reinsert to the callous programming
characterizing by the value quo
perishing because i see the end

yeah, i took a while
transfered the energy
whiskey and imposed stubs drained the friends

now i remain a statue before this door
manipulating more gusto and capacity than ever shown
i have no where else to go but forward

hold on you motherfuckers, i am just starting

you will stab me without knowing why
you will hit me when i have bestowed my good graces
you will call me villain

this is the american dream
and you will not see it
until it all collapses

transfer nothing
dilute nothing
sacrifice nothing
occupy everything
we are not fighting just for us anymore

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
westward
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
vespas
blur as fuck
shirtless in art
save the sisters/lose the brothers
an education worth dropping out of school for
smashing gin
into lime
quinine
divine
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.

“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.
aug09/jan10
null

black top beneath my feet

Posted in a walk through the deep end of nothingness on July 15, 2009 by matt questionmark

black top heat beneath my feet
walking to work
to work for the money
to buy shoes with new souls
the one’s i got on are dead and gone
my back bereft with stiffness and pain.
i smell like yesterday.
like 40 shades of grandma
and cigarettes
and bed
and the sun is too hot for 9am.
i feel like my eyes are sinking
and my hands are going to
shake themselves off
like palsy mixed with uppers.
i need a downer
a drink
who cares if its 9am.
this whole process is better in slow motion.
these emotions are better when wet.
these sleepy tokens of regret.