Archive for the what day is it Category

where shelters fail

Posted in is it really real?, paranoia, what day is it on July 7, 2011 by matt questionmark

Where shelters fail
Your wars prevail
Rooftops and bottlecaps
Boomboxes
Reflexed
Against heavy foggy dogs
Their teeth like sand in your water
Their breath watered down for pure percussion
Of the under currents
Of the slander
Of those great soft eyes
Tall drinking walker
From a place of palaces
And fear
The stones of forefathers
Reaping from the raped
But you stand by quietly
But you stand
Nonetheless
In pigshit
In the juice of a thousand cunts
Infected by bee stings and soaring stupidity
Sick steam rises from the awful menstrual troff
Appeasing the sneezing
Slinging the the skeez
Across a gentle humid breeze

In Red Wine

Posted in is it really real?, this living is less than loving, what day is it on December 5, 2010 by matt questionmark

intertwined
whilst grasshoppin
through thee
merriment of your
afterlife.
eyed lovers spoke treatments
and humanity kissed my cadavers
7 muscles flex
eating eggplant
and smoking meth for Philip the Fifth
James Beam
Sally Jesse Ralpael.
tell your mothers!
tell Eugene O’Neill.
along the highways
into the mud
eyed lovers intertwined.
kissing in the merriment of mine afterlife.
-july10-

Posted in paranoia, Uncategorized, what day is it, what the hell is wrong with me? on February 16, 2010 by matt questionmark

o! damaged thought process
chaining me to slaughtered cities
impoverished by indifference
pummeled by pestilence
annoyed by aneurisms
this hilarity is too much for me to bare
this hilarity
this fucking joke of an existence
i’m just waiting for my face to be slammed into the mirror
blood and flaws
cowering in slushy STL streets
constantly surrounded by what was and what won’t
hoping no one will look
hoping no one will make eye contact
out of fear that i might have to acknowledge
the icy deafness that surrounds me
and speak.

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

expulsion/creation

Posted in lost in these purposes and collecting ours, paranoia, what day is it on May 25, 2009 by tony saputo

it would seem strongly ironic that i am here to say this
but i digress:

i have been working on something new for quite awhile
shoving everything i love in a box,
keeping it away from the poison of this city, of this world, of these words
and soon

i will put myself in and seal the last opening
never to be known
and all that will be left is a monster
never caring, never showing the world who i ever was
motions and flesh aside, all i will ever be
is a ghost waiting his turn

peel bang

Posted in exploding heart, foreshadowing, is it really real?, lost in these purposes and collecting ours, paranoia, what day is it on April 4, 2009 by tony saputo

it is honorable when we peel back the skin far enough to really let the meat hang out
tender vessels of bright red tissues; symphonies of contorted fat and ligaments
but more beyond that is the structure we refer upon as strength
and more beyond  that is the protection of cages and calicium
and more beyond that is our hearts

cautious and quiet, never stopping, we waiver these pumpers to demons and angels alike.
we salt our earth with blood spills and jealousy
and we do it for our passions, lusts, and farce beliefs.
we take all we can and in wiping our gorging mouths off, we ask for more.

when you dream, is it of the most wonderful things ever anymore?
or is it when did we happen? how did we get here? who the fuck am i?
all i ever wanted out of life is to take something ruined and fashion it perfect.
peel back the surface of this earth and show the wonders of everything we cannot see.
peel back myself and show selflessness, patience, and heart.
peel back the world and guard us from evil
peel back the world and experience the extraordinary

tequila on rocks and the nervous cigarette like to tell me that i may never have this opportunity
I tell them, “they better hope so, cause i’ll take this whole world out in a fucking bang.”