RANDOM-CURTISNESS

poetery and weird things I find. this is the pit of my obsessions

[funnyimagesblog]

Funny Images http://ift.tt/1eaTLDp

[poetzombie]

and I thought Shatner was slumming.

[funnyimagesblog]

Funny Images http://ift.tt/1eaTLDp

[poetzombie]

He went to Jared!

[poetzombie]

Various montage

[catboyhunter]

Based on the song we all know and love [x]

[nbchannibal]

Congratulations, this is the first comic-sans post that’s ever been reblogged on nbchannibal.tumblr.com.

[pixography]

Aidan Koch

[poetzombie]

Stepping Stone Poems: 21-40

A Half-Satisfying Mess

whisper of half real words,

still a fully real sentiment,

this is all pain and a solid scar

formed on the side of my face

and sink into rings around my spine

the girls I used to bring back from poetry readings

always asked if those things really happened

and if I really feel that way,

I tell them that there

isn't enough attention paid to me

for inspired artifice,

and all these accumulate

to confession and vomiting

all the worst parts of who I was

and what I saw , only enough art

in this mess to have satisfaction

in the most weak of ways

my being a misanthrope

has not stopped me

from genuinely loving

a few people and I know

the world won't let me

get away with this and for now,

I cover my eyes with optimism

riding the warm waves of assumption

that I can stay this way

the bright light of not looking at the dark details

does not really illuminate anything

and I can feel the basket-weave frailty in my bones

screaming as I walk hand in hand with someone

I love like I have never loved before

I wonder how I can save her from the curse of my proximity

and wonder if perhaps I am just over dramatic , except

I have proved myself right so much

but my weakness is the fact that I still

feel the need to love someone

and I am cruel and greedy with this,

like I am in many other ways

this is the echo of a collapse

picking itself up, hidden under cheap suit-jackets

because I don't want to leave a mess

*

To Hold My Prison Together

planned on living

mind medicated on sadness

built to melancholy and

and numbness is my overlord

across the damaged sphere of my face

there is a half-felt expression

I am as restless as the possessed

dining on the ectoplasm of daily drudgery

nothing is taking shape but I can felt it

the statistical ache of self awareness

that I will escape this weak cage of sanity

no matter how hard I try holding together

this gentle prison of civil identity *

Winter Haiku

it's raining again dull routine of slow drowning Portland Suicide

* feeling statuesque joints swollen big as my damn head will stand here for now

*

angry apparel pulling of my jacket,rain flies into my eyes

*

Sums Up Everything

Because, it seems the only two kinds of poetry that I am able to write  these days are either

are sappy love poems that people seem to like Or

bleak poetry about how I have hated most of my life, occasional bits of metaphor blended into  the bleak details,  people slower to like them

So , tonight, I will say this:

Dear wife, I love you more  than Antony loved Cleopatra  More than Portlanders love  being poor and pretentious

To the rest of the world, I hope I Live long enough to watch the rest of you fall to shit

*

Due Process Is Not An Emotion

No love is put on trial,

but as we age,

we will let it  stay under suspicion,

the things we did to ourselves  just for it, some kind of crime to be sure

so we spend years, not wanting to feel anything

to let that silently accused thing sit in bars of bone turning to iron

*

Still-born Rebirth

It is easy, too easy, perhaps, to think of the darkness that nests in actions I tried to bury, but with a thin layer of years, you can still smell the rot. I have gotten older , and a slightly more decent person, and despite all the skin I have shed, all the self inflicted scars show up in all the new versions

*

The Help Of A Migraine

here we are

in life,

and despite my headache

I will pretend

that I don't hate life

and most of the time

I do not

but I am sick of being myself

life is beautiful when I am not part of it

so I stand away from my damage

eyes to other people

listening to music

watching a movie

here, headache,

make me want to be nothing more

than vision pointed to another

*

Civilized Sunday

it will be a sunday

and I will try to act civilized

and my wife will be sleeping

and my headache will not stop

and I almost yearn or the days

when my illness was obviously killing me

instead of the slow days of

it being nothing to worry about

the facing of the end of ones mortality

makes one feel stronger

like in the midst of a prison break

just have to get over this wall

but this is the full weight of chains

and four square walls , and the door

covered by new bricks

and the idea that someday the bricks will fall

and that it was never that big of a deal

as the head drum pounds on

and I am alone in distance,

the football game my wife wanted

to watch, I failed in waking her,

the cats stay at the other end of the room,

everything on netflix is unwatchable

and time ticks on promising only more of this

*

It Feels Logical

the headache builds, and you try to write

All the sensations fall to abstraction

Aching brain is a quivering vessel

no linear logic is welcome in the bleeding drum beat

it will never stop, non-pain life is beautiful cadaver

the tortured artist in me is perhaps punishing my mind

for writing happy love poetry, this, the pure repentance

write these,and WITH these :

Sin-tears of diamond , Horror memory trembles, brain prisoner dream-flowers all wilting, Lavish fire kiss, rampage of steel monsters through skin attic

It does not need to make sense, it just needs to stop

*

Arch of Ache

head hurts

body hurts

world is burning

through my skull

and I have to write this 

damn poem out of discipline

if I die, I can get out of it,

if this poem looks finished, 

I have not died

*

Because I Just Hate People

this is  an almost poem, little more than  moving fingers, the echo hating everything but speaking  in abstractions letting words become worlds where you  don't recognize  even yourself  the broken distorted mirror  the silent storm that gives you drowning lessons soft reactions of when  someone posts stupid things on facebook,  I become  ashamed of  my mellowness almost missing the days  of when  people thought  I may eat them  if they angered me  and seemingly they thought anything would  anger me  but I've  aged and  grown weak civility becomes cracks within my bones and I am too quiet now,  fire fanned ashes scattered emptiness is too dramatic a term for exhaustion that replaces each cell for a  husk from forgotten days  just wait  just turn  into this  and watch  the stones become family  and air become sharp  and life a taunt and all the new hit songs more proof  that you  understood things better before

*

Feliz-Navidon't

The damp roots of winter dig deeper

allegedly, this is the time for holiday cheer,

the gardens of melancholy never show signs of wilt

and I can do little to amass the Christmas spirit

other than buy gifts for my true love, and I have not

done so yet, I bring the horoscope , I bring predictions:

Will never be happy with what I get her,

I will never be happy with the husband that I am to her,

and I simply sit here , a chair as a throne to a kingdom

of my own brokenness, complaining only in poetry,

where you can excuse anything as art

although nothing is art, art is subjective ,

and things that scar you are never subjective

I can think up a countless river of excuses for my scars

*

because discipline

This is a sort of poem

to fill a space

because I said

I would write a poem every night

and there is a concert.

Defaulting on discipline

*

Abstract Silhouette

blue days with rain scars

I am not depressed, I just echo melancholy

pop my finger joints before I head out to buy dinner

my age written in bones,not caring for what years says

I will keep my stories hidden in my joints

I will keep the nasty motivations of my survival in my stories

I can explain , it falls broken to abstract terms,

but this is the falling sunset that turns an ugly man to an artful silhouette

it is better to not see the fine details, everything about me

is acceptable only as an outline

*

Winter's Misanthropic Splinters

winter day,

here and there, I bring myself

out into the cold the rain

it reminds me too well

that I am not a fan of humanity

lives are lies and faces are poorly told stories

do not blame me for

how clumsy the story of your skin

was told to your bones,

no lovely epic was I crafted from either

enjoying more than anything my weekend

the ability to pretend I don't exist

the sweet and rich sensations of sleep

the weaker little brother of death

needing nothing to make me feel alive

or an urge to stay that way,

feeling everything else that could

come is well worth the wait

the sad words that fill my marrow

were not pulled from the cigarette paper bible

the prophecies of the inevitable and provable

are miracle enough

*

Spirit of the season

When you think back to youth and remember when parents thought you were naughty there were no lumps of coal in your stocking,  There was only being beaten then tied in a corner looking at the Christmas tree  with your feet almost touching the wood stove and now , very grown Christmas gifts are cold sheets on the bed in which I tangle my feet

*

Too Late

I was going to say something a piece of myself broken off Showcasing how fragmented I already am but it's too late because words can't outrun what you must have seen immediately

*

This Is A Shitty Poem , Please Don't Read It

I am sick through the edge of night before my  least favorite holiday though I doubt I have a favorite

and I only want to  spew out my words since I must make something some sign of life

and I do not want  to leave a trace of myself but word portraits of the disease that is the inside of my head seem least profane

so I shall end this  exercise of trying to exercise having been only mildly profane and showing only sneak peaks of  my disease

*

Unwrapped

Christmas nearly over and we resume watching movies No fancy dinner and the sound my own joints popping feels festive enough

*

Es Ist Nie Uber

In meiner Wohnung, ignoriere ich Weihnachten Wrack Winter technisch sanft, mein Geist viel kälter Computer malt meine Haut, im Gegensatz zu Windows Ich slouch nach unten zu meiner eigenen Demenz auf das Wochenende, nichts zu tun, mehr als ich ch fürchte, dass ich eine sehr lange Zeit, wie diese Person zu leben, immer noch

*

[incorrectsylviaplathquotes]

Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal.

Sylvia Plath (via incorrectsylviaplathquotes)

[disney-hearted-girl]

[poetzombie]

Three Poems

Translator  of Doom

cursed to 

be a poet

which means

that you keep 

a tiny apocalypse

in your finger joints

the curious ask

to see or hear

your work, 

with no choice

 you come pazzuzu 

and they, the wheatfields

* 

Dreams Of Fear sometimes I don't dream

I fall back in time 

to when I was a child, 

honestly, just a canvass for scar-art 

I will hide away, in the bathroom 

afraid to show my wife

that I can remember 

what good artists my parents were

*

The Decaying Merry-Go-Round 

In the morning , You will find yourself 

eager to fall 

into routine because

that will be the only way

to convince yourself

that you have any worth

Put on clothes, and make a breakfast wrap for the wife

who is showering away 

the sleepiness that clings to her still Check all of the social media, 

and drag yourself to work and to 

interactions with your own species,

which you are no fan of 

and all of it is to prove to yourself

that you are something like sane ,

even though routines fall apart

it is all like riding a carousel of rotting meat, 

and only the flies that swarm you

notice that you continue to ride 

[poetzombie]

The First 20 Stepping Stone Poems

Threadbare

and love is too small of a word,  I fill my tongue with a billion versions of that word,  to try wrapping kite string around Jupiter , no bits of sound  will do justice to the tiny earthquakes that run through my body when I see your face or think your name

Into Winter

because the sun grows less tolerant  of us, and the fingers of cold come I must drink more coffee before  I venture out to do all these human things to keep a grip on a job that holds a tighter grip on me

we live in a gentle place,  but in my 13 years here,  even I have found it to be cold I have lost my mind of winter, forgive me , Wallace, it stays preserved like Viking rations in eastern Oregon snow

the entire city froze in  its tracks last week,  the threat of snow that  came only as a sneeze  of sleet, even the clouds are laughing at us

I qualified as an old man before  people started telling me I was young, the sky is gray and heavy enough my joints swell to birthday balloons , the back under my skin a stain glass church window in the evening , I envelop my wife as I am a coat of frost and melancholy

let the outside world be nothing tonight , social concerns and scattered responsibilities sentenced to hang on the coat rack , tonight, let there be only the hiss of a space heater the solidarity of cats and two people who escaped  into the warmth of together,for a few hours more

Re-Shelved

go to sleep  hoping that  all of today  that hurts  will be put away on the shelf in back of my mind

headache and sore back  the feeling of aging  a few more broken trophies above cob web covered bits of past anatomy , on a shelf in a darkened corner

A Small Fire

I will avoid the ocean waves of epic love poems  and just say she is a small fire that burns,  providing the carbon base that makes me a life-form

Back to Forward

something  stays here,  in the broken  glass world  of my memory my blinking eye looking back  because all  the sharp edges  of the past  keep my walking ignoring wounds I move forward  only because  looking back  proves that  I never should  have been there

Something More

Poems sometimes are never  enough , just a hunger falling from fingers  hiding in paper pretending to  be a statement  the less you write,  the more relevant  it is

Lascivious Grace

1

The art of growing up is teaching your skin to become a mask factory  All the orifices stuffed with paper , tainted with vulgar poetry

My transgression is to pretend a part of me is still innocent  calling back to my own instinct , be as dead as a statue

2

Some nights, I am left in moods I thought I have left behind , guilty feelings over my wife  mopping up the mess  of my self-evisceration

I remember as a child I would feel bad for standing outside obstructing sunlight from  a boy shaped patch of grass

now, in my mid-thirties,  a part of me still has not  grown secure,

wanting to stay quiet  about wounds, who  still sometimes  feels the echoes

of being told  how worthless I am ,  at nine after  harvesting a whole  onion field by hand,

or the times younger

left with the responsibilities  of alleged adults,  the pedophile who hated his life and fatherhood ,

or the mentally ill woman who would't get off the couch  to do anything except kill my pets in front of me  when I was behind on chores

they are the ones who called themselves farmers

and they have left seeds  which I have tried pulling out of my bones, but you always look insane when trying to circumvent your own skin

sometimes at night,  I can feel a bumper crop coming on

3

Because I love to be not loved

they will ask me what my damage is

and I will say impiety is a comfort

when one was raised with grace used as a weapon

my future is a success if others fail to make sense of me

4

I learned what innocence is,

birth throws us into a world gentle and illiterate ,

we age, hording weaponry  our skin turns to armor  by reading sharp edges,

this is a world of broken glass streets every human soul a bottle ready  to fall off its shelf

Because I Watch The News

keeping yourself alive by believing in the gorgeous cause , the idea that justice is real  and that you can see it

But then, you actually pay attention and these things you hoped for become stained glass portraits in church windows as seen by Atheist eyes:

dedications, so very pretty,  likely to nothing at all.

Writing Wasp-Eggs

poems come from the abyss  one always hopes to fill, at least for me , no lines from heaven

behold the joy proposed of being an artist worrying that you really did fail  in turning your soul to statements

the true nature of what we do , unknown to us letting the decay of sanity sink in,  we hunt beauty by way of letting logic fall to abstraction

close your eyes, let the right line and word and image be a piranha hand goes in the water, hoping for a bite, for something to  latch on so hard you can pull it away with you

the loving breast of an artist allows eggs to be planted inside it, only for them to devour till fat and mature, to burst away  and take flight, as far from you as possible

No Matter,No Statement

No matter how many love poems I write,

Or times I try explaining all of it to you

None of it would be as effective  as if I were to simply place my heart on a platter

and that would be an act whose gruesomeness  would be profane,

no statement is proper no statement is effective

and you tell me that I don't need to try explaining it ,  but then sometimes lying next to you, I am afraid that I am draining too much and not opening my own floodgates

Gray Fragments

stars, forever shine,unburnt * fast melting eyes of ice cry * this heart bruises itself with every beat * I will survive my dying

I Am A Barrier

1 writing to devour time as time devours bits of me, wrinkles are gaps

2

I break through walls,  barriers made by saying only human, if enough bones break I will heal to inhuman

3

after a while, you see yourself as territory others walked over,

by this age, you seek to reclaim yourself, now, obsessed with conquest

Swells From A Dream

it will start

as a dream

slowly rotting to

a memory that

you can't burn

from your mind

it sticks to you

like it did to your skin

and no matter how

nice life is right now,

still it will swell and show

that you are

a basket for shrapnel

of things you survived

but

don't worry,

there is more

than just surviving this,

there is also the joy

of just knowing you aren't dead

and that maybe life can be great

despite the fact that you're still in it

say you're at risk of becoming a partial optimist

just rest assured that this likely isn't a terminal case

Animus Headache

There is a football game playing and I'm sitting in a nice chair

Faking serenity

Behind my eyes my neurons are a forest lightning burning off all the branches

Tell them everything is fine because they can't smell smoke

Hooray For December

Fighting the flu leaves you  embarrassingly brittle

and thinking of yourself as little more than a dump of old sensations stained and barely felt

night is coming , to make it easier to  hide all the wreckage that makes you ,

grab your hot tea, and go under the blanket,  hoping tomorrow makes you less fevered and less  introspective

Yeah, That

the cold the headache the shadow of my age the melancholy that seeps in the soft winter that you still hate the unending backward flow of thoughts  the swollen joints  the cracking back  the lungs like cement covered balloons the fact that whenever I talk about it, I am whining

The progress of poetry

Poetry and it's need to be born is a speeding car, unconcerned about how much roadkill it creates

Some nights it finds itself on a back road of porcupines

Cut-Up Reality (Homage To William S Burroughs)

institute despair here, just here.. there.. invention light seem long as flowers , in the world-wilt you , silently hollow Promise such strength , unkindness lays upon the world,a curse to leave it be  This wooden ice ... melts to splinters Still seem at gently/ violently calm and you silently rock your mind back to farm days  In the horses straw No circle can counsel , you cannot hide from anything making enemies just by being alive though enemies the high deserts ,  the sand that creeped into your bones and became a soul,your body is just snow that sets upon it, pretending we have actual seasons

The stars of winter's poem is riddled with parasites

is wistful of passenger such by their injuries

it all makes sense if you just stop thinking about it

Serenity

because  most often  there is very little left to write about other than my obsessions which usually just focus myself and the likelihood of my failing something  and I try sleeping with this kind of internal shadow  putting frost over my innards  despite the calmness of my life now the obvious reasons to be happy, but really , you never do shake the things that birthed your trajectory, a trajectory you stayed on for so damn long feeling like you did not deserve any better and it is even hard to say what kept you there, what made feel comfortable, after all, you had already changed so much had already let the scars of your youth fade away, hidden under a new  blanket of numb skin that was too old for its age, but at least it was far removed from what it had been,  I swallow my scars and feed my ink-sickness ,  puke out the viruses onto a page and call it writing , and it is winter now, the time when sickness is at its yearly high and I am calm with this, I am contented with this, something like the happy that I am, except this goes deeper, into all the puncture wounds and cigarette burns and razor scrapes and times I screamed my hatred at everything holy, living dead, and Imagined , until my vocal chords snapped like kite string tied to two different cars, and I simply ran out of hate, and people to focus on, serenity is not a state of mind, it is simply a state of exhaustion, where you no longer are able to cause all the problems you felt comfortable doing

Old Again And Again

Can feel the rain in the window about in my mid thirties and everything  is swollen and rusty and I don't complain I allow myself the stigma  of seeming distant because that which fills me most is the urge to complain And there is no value in that it shows you to be the rust , the weakness the baldness  that was once a man as firm as an Iron gate,  If all you feel is ache, do not admit to feeling anything make your mantra a stolen line from a horror movie I am so exquisitely empty

[themaninthegreenshirt]

Diego Riviera and Frida Kahlo with papier mache devil

[giampixxx]

Carl Van Vechten. Frida wearing a Tchuantepee gourd, 1932.

[poetzombie]

will always love you, Frida.

[pixography]

Liz McKay

[buffalo-divine-eden-no7-deactiv]

[poetzombie]

truth

[4gifs]

[doodleforfood]

Senpai…

[poetzombie]

poor guy..

[paganimal]

'Modern Love', couldn't help but to re work it

[poetzombie]

guilty as charged