Monday, September 13, 2010

Sad Bastard Poetry

This will be the titular piece of my next book, featuring three short stories, and twelve poems -- including this one -- alongside original pieces of graffiti by local artists. Publication date: May 2011. Hopefully.

***Author's Note: work is still in progress. This is only a third draft.***


Sad bastard poetry

    Speaks to the blue hearts
the despairing ones, the bastards of love
who sing broken songs on toy instruments
filled with play-dough

    They make melodies
sadness seeps so sweet
it tastes like melancholy
and these words are a testament
to the beauty of sadness

    So let it run down these pages
like an ink black river
we can to swim into
    (I want to read too much into)

    You might've been happier
you might've been better
but the cycle is slanted towards a blue-scale
and your blood runs from crimson to cerulean
and your heart breaks like old jewelry
glass dance across the floor
into these words which I'm writing to you
    they say, "love less for love hurts worse
    when you love more than anything else"

    As dim light reflects off those letters
the walls surround like bare arms bared
prison bars of someone else's flesh
    (or are these my hands covering my eyes?
    I can't see too clearly
    through the glass of my frozen tear-drops
    I can't see too clearly
    through the lost thoughts that have taken up guard
    around the cage I've shaped myself into)
hugging my body close, as close as I can
because there's a hole there
where I used to remember what love sounded like
    (or is that my heartbeat fainting?)

    I'm trying to stop the leak of blue-blood
of a poor sad bastard lying on the floor
next to the bottle of tequila that did him in
next to the love letters that he wrote her
next to the presents that he bought her
next to the pictures of them kissing
next to the old sheets that smell like her hair
next to the clothes she left behind
next to the phone laying open on a missed call
he couldn’t pick himself up, let alone talk

    And I know this for a fact
because that guy there is me
broken, bleeding, and staring
from the gutter of my kitchen
to the hole inside my body
where I can at least glance up at the stars once last time
to remember what light looks like

    That is sad bastard poetry
emo-kids can't touch this
suicides don't ever get far enough
even the lost children of wars and rape
haven't seen the depth you can fall

    If only some crack could crack your heart
and then that crack became a fault
and that fault became a failure
and that failure became a break
and that break turned to shattering
and those shatters turned to tatters
and we hung the tatters from our wasted frames

    Because when all you are is gone what else
can you do but reassemble the pieces into strange shapes?
what else can I do but super-glue?

    Even kindergarteners know how weak macaroni gets
when it's plastered to a paper-plate with Elmers
but it's all we can do
and we've got to do something, anything
to get past the pain
not being able to do anything

    My pain is so great it swallows oceans
drinks them like a shot at the bar
and I ask for another please, because I don't want
to be able to pick myself off the floor
but my pain keeps growing
keeps showing me how small
we are compared to it

    Compared to pain, strength is meaningless
when true power lies in numbness
when real strength is being too weak
to lift anything, so you don't even want to
try in the first place

    Compared to pain, wisdom is foolish
where it's smarter to be stupid
safer to be ignorant
blissfully in a state of total

    Compared to pain, love is weaksauce
love is an emaciated Holocaust survivor trying to eat a loaf of bread
whose body wracks with death-throes
from all that food suddenly in such a small stomach

    Compared to pain, I am nothing
because pain defines me such that it becomes me
hurting is now living
lets me know I'm alive
and so when I start loving all that pain turns
love to suffering, till I can't disentangle
where my hurts are and where my love is

    Which is why I've got this hole in my chest

    Because after years
of emotional investments bankrupting my senses
false excuses for selfish actions
accidental prostitution of my compassion
infidelity masquerading as genuine
users hooking themselves up to me
and taking hits off my generosity
    because after years
of relative's deaths
and moving from home to home
    because after years
of being forced
to take medication
and see therapists
(like strangers know anything about me)
and endure bullying
and ignore discrimination
and pretend that my life wasn't one-step from suicidal
    because after years
of love being the only thing to hold onto
and watching others grease my fingers
I finally slipped-off the monkey bars

    At only twenty-one I fell
    and haven't stopped falling
    in love
    with pain