To Sleep

My favorite thing to do
is dream
though I pray you understand
I don’t mean those boorish dreams
dreams of things that may one day
come to pass; no, I do not
dream as Martin Luther did
of a distant powerful goal

No, I prefer the kind of dream
that comes unbidden
as I sleep
the kind of dream that could never
come to pass in any way
dreams where I can fly or die or cry
or any of the other million
things I’ll never do

of people I will never meet
some fictional, brought to this world
by someone else who dreamed them up
then let them loose for me to take
and believe in and become friends
with until I awake and sigh

or the people that my mind
creates on its own, that talk
to me and walk with me and cry to me
and die for me
who are these people that don’t exist
in the worlds that I control
where I can do anything or nothing
without
trying

and that’s why I love to dream
to close my eyes and then become
the knight or priest or president
or just someone normal in a place
where everything is different.

Basically I just wanted to write a villanelle, so I didn't give a shit if the content was crappy as long as I jammed it into the proper form.

A Modified Villanelle on My Favorite Passtime

It’s hard not to drink when you don’t give a shit
about the trials and troubles that plague you all day;
I say, what the hell, let’s go out and get lit.

Man’s harsh lot in life is starkly backlit
by the world’s indifference, or so they say, but
It’s hard not to drink when you don’t give a shit.

Bills and pills and violent ills can prompt a screaming fit
but only if you let them in your head and in your way
I say, what the hell, let’s go out and get lit.

Wars and hate and death are complicated; to wit,
That world’s not black and white, but all shades of gray, yet
It’s hard to not to drink when you don’t give a shit.

The man beats you down and makes you want to quit
but despite his assaults I feel winsome and gay, so
I say, what the hell, let’s go out and get lit.

If stress and duress control your life, observe this holy writ;
The only things that hurt you are the things that you say may.
It’s hard not to drink when you don’t give a shit;
I say, what the hell, let’s go out and get lit.

Truth

Okay, so, I had to turn in a poem by noon today, and I was fucking wasted last night and I couldn't come up with shit, and then I woke up today and checked to see what I'd e-mailed my professor and this is what it was. I was gonna e-mail a different one and ask that we workshop that one in class but then I checked the class's website and he'd already posted it to be workshopped tomorrow. I mean, I dunno, maybe it's not totally terrible, but I can't believe I submitted it. Alas!Truth Metaphors are for fucking pussies.
I can’t respect anyone
who can’t deal with the shank that is life
slamming into you as you try to eat breakfast
right between your third and fourth rib

Unless you’re in a good mood
then it stabs up into your nostril
past the cartilage and soft tissue
burning past thoughts and feelings
and tiny ruby drops of blood that slip down

A really nice metaphor is the best orgasm
that ever blew your mind while you were
getting drunk and getting high and cutting
yourself as you contemplated
how much you mattered to the universe

Love

I've got to write quite a few for one of my classes this year, I'll probably post 'em here, why the fuck not, right?

Love

Love is kinda like a milk bone
‘cause it hardly costs you anything
but when you give it to someone they get so excited
and you can see their little tail wag so fast
and sometimes they pee on the rug
Well, maybe that’s just puppies

On second thought, love is kinda like
Riding on a rollercoaster
‘cause you’re excited and afraid about what happens next
and sometimes you throw up cotton candy and popcorn everywhere
No, that’s no good either
Man, what the hell is wrong with me

Maybe it’s more like a bowl full of flowers
that light up a room and smell like spring
and get into my nose and make me sneeze constantly
‘cause I forgot to take my Claritin again god damn it
Okay, these girly metaphors aren’t working out
Let’s try something different, I swear it’ll be better

Love is like fighting flesh-eating zombies
‘cause it’s totally awesome and you feel like the man
and you save the girl and live happily ever after
‘cept as the credits roll she bites your neck or something
and you know it’s all going straight to hell
No, that’s no good either, scratch that, one more try

Love is just like a fast food cheeseburger
‘cause it costs about two dollars and might give you a disease
Oh Jesus, never mind, this stanza only gets three lines

I guess love’s kinda like this poem
‘cause I think it’s sorta awesome
but mainly retarded
Just kidding! Don’t kill me!
Man, this poem’s in a rut
I guess love’s sorta like getting kicked in the-

Another poem for class
But I figure I wrote it anyway, might as well display. Again not exactly my style, a little too formulaic, but this one's a little closer to the sort of stuff I usually do.

The one that got away

From high on my perch,
I surveyed the crowd;
A flash of brown hair attracts my stare,
And I swoop down from my father’s shoulders.
I was the eagle,
She was the osprey.

This social room in the church
Was my sunday school territory;
But since the day Beth came to my class
I’d devoted my cunning to another goal
I was the panther,
She was the prey.

I stalked through the room
Dodging inadverdent elbows
Seeking the only one there shorter than I
I careened around neighbors, coursed past the priest
I was the hound
She was the hare.

But I’d lost the sight
And never had her scent
My hunter’s instinct had gone awry
The social hour was ending
I was the wolf,
She was the moon.

Then I heard her quiet voice
Bared my fangs, and could said nothing
So she smiled, and left, and I smiled
And thought the world would end.
Slow-witted, I was a two-toed sloth
And she was a sparrow, aloft on the breeze.

I plodded back to my tree,
Took wing and crashed
Back onto my father’s shoulders
But as we moved into the street I shook my fur
Dropped to the ground, growled at a cat
I was a beast, and Beth- who’s that?

Drunk and lost in Charlottesville

This one ain't really my style, but I had to write a poem for my creative writing class and the teacher sort of insists you follow her POEM ETHOS, so I sort of had to get a little rough with my muse. I'll make it up to her tomorrow with some gentle lovin'. Anyway,
Drunk and lost in Charlottesville
Sitting on a corner in the middle of the night
Looking at my shoes, three feet away.
I can’t go anywhere without my shoes,
So how’d I get here, and how’d they get off?

Staring to my left, I can make out the school
The halls of improvement, the pillars of learning
“Education is the key to a fuller, richer life”
But that road is long, and I tire of the night.

Staring to the right, commercial district
Who the hell’s at work at this time of night?
I’ll be damned if I walk down that road
This corner tonight beats an office tomorrow.

Staring behind me, I think I came from that way
Think I came from a group of drunk cheering kids
From a bunch of punks who say “Party or die!”
Mindless and loud; the party’s bound to end.

Somewhere ahead there’s a room with a friend,
A floor, a pillow, a place to sleep.
I put on my shoes and slowly stand up-
It ain’t much of a future, but it’s fine for right now.

Numb

Okay, so, I had a pretty shitty weekend. Of course, it's because of a girl, it's always because of a girl. Now, this particular girl has always encouraged me to write, because she's all into the arts herself. So anway, had a bad weekend, female related troubles, and I actually found myself wanting to write about it, which I haven't done for a long time. So I wrote about it, and I felt somewhat better. Ain't that some shit? Anyway, bit of background; the weekend going poorly was her choice, though it's complicated; she thinks I'm not emotional, which is true; but she also thinks that what she did didn't particularly bother me, which isn't true. So, uh, I wrote this. Man, I'm expressing myself through poetry again. I hope this isn't a throwback to Ze Whiny Age. Also, the more I read this the less I like it, so I'm gonna post it now before I dislike it so much I won't display it.
Anyway,Numb
There’s a difference between strong and numb
I can hurt and remain dumb

Emotions are tricky, unstable, unpleasant
Generally speaking, better avoided
I turn to go and you stand there
I try not to crumble beneath your stare, try to speak
Worlds in your eyes,
Words in my throat
But banality fills the air

There’s a difference between pain and anger
I can feel pain without rancor.

I’m not a man to bitch and moan
I don’t shed tears, yelp about pain
So when the time has come to go
I’m afraid I cannot let you know, anything except
I’m sorry
Walk away
Don’t look back.

But don’t think because I don’t break down
I didn’t care.

There’s a difference between desire and deed
It’s about what you want, not what I need.

Wake up
Break up
Drink your
Sake up
Try love
My love
But don't
Buy love

Perspire
Admire
I feel
Most dire

See here
Be here
Talk to
Me here

Think hard
Blink hard
The words
Sink hard

Sweat now
Let now
Feel a
Threat now

Fire one
jump gun
It's not
Much fun

I fail
I wail
Time for
Some ale

No dance
No chance
I feel
The lance

Good night
Good fight
Now there's
No light

Wake up
Break up
Drink your
Sake up

And only I know what the hell I was talking about... though you could probably guess.

Intrinsic

Most of my poems tell a story... but I'm feeling more introverted tonight.

Intrinsic

I look in the mirror,
and hate what I see.
I gaze in the mirror,
and there is only me.


I look in my eyes,
desire fire, claim flame,
I examine my eyes,
and perceive only shame.


I scan my complexion,
Where's the iron? Where's the steel?
I stare at my reflection,
and disgust is what I feel.


Every moment of my life,
I remember a mistake,
and every second of my life,
is a second I'd re-take.


Regrets and remorse,
and a life which I waste,
throughout the course
of a story without grace.


The potential lies within me,
I am sure, that I could show
the many evils that surround me,
a resolve they could never know.


Would that I was a hero,
a man of action, with virtues plain,
would that I was a hero,
Instead of Abel, I am Cain.

The Knight and the Dragon.

Once upon a time, in a land far away,
the sun rose up, and it was day.
And everyone was happy and gay.
But that doesn't make a good story.
It's not exciting, riveting, or gory.

So once upon a time, in a land over the sea,
there was a land were everyone could be.
Be happy, be sad, be like you or me,
but that doesn't make a good tail.
At least, not before the Wail.

The Wail could be heard all throughout the land.
Heard by small children, playing in the sand.
Heard by the petty, heard by the grand.
But that doesn't make a good telling.
Not when there's still foes that need felling.

And following the Wail came the horrible Shnauss.
He ravaged, he razed, he made himself the boss.
He never took a shower, and refused to floss.
But that doesn't make a good myth.
Not flossing just gave him a lythp.

Shnauss was really a horrible type.
He ate raw vegetables that weren't nearly ripe.
He murdered and sacked and hit people with tripe.
But that doesn't make a good history.
Why I'm even saying this is a mystery.

Many a hero fought the cruel killer.
Some had endorsments, from Doritos and Miller,
And this whole stanza is really just filler,
But that doesn't make a good fable.
Failed heroes, who just were not able.

And then came along the honorable Shmuck.
A bumbler he was, but had amazing luck.
With the likes of Shnauss he would have no truck.
But that doesn't make a good epic.
Shmuck was ugly, and smelled like a septic.

Shmuck and Shnauss, they had a fight,
but a bald-headed boy was a more interesting sight,
A little brunette laughed, and a tree ate a kite.
But that doesn't make a good comic.
It doesn't even make sense if you're Islamic.

For the dangerous dragon breathed fire,
It burned bright, and the knight's straits were dire,
but he fought back, and struck down the dragon with ire.
But that doesn't make a good rap.
You ask why? I'm afraid you're a sap.

The dragon was alive! It snuck up from behind,
bit off the knight's head, chewed it up like a rind,
And truly, he was very very unkind...
But that doesn't make a good ending.
You're not catching the message I'm sending.

The dragon then flew to the castle of the king,
landed in the courtyard, and let his call sing,
the king came out and pinned a medal on his wing.
And THAT, that will make a for a truly good poem.
For Shnauss was the knight planted deep in the loam.

*shrug* Sometimes I get bored. Weird stuff happens

"On Self Loathing"

Note: While I wrote this poem with Becca in mind, it is really for anyone who has ever been depressed or hated themselves. That road's a dead end... probably literally.
"On Self Loathing"

A man who loathes himself is a man who is a fool,
or at least is unable to see the shining light,
for the world is no easy place, and the world is often cruel,
but there are some things that are out there that are worth the awesome fight,
more rare than gold or silver, more valuble than a jewel,
and it's obvious to those with a profound sense of right,
that these rarest of the rare things are worth fighting a duel,
for just the merest glimpse, the most quicksilver sight.

There are some things among these lands of debauchery and loss,
that shine bright and beckon to the bravest of the brave,
these are the things that glow with an unbearable gloss,
these things that the greediest of the greedy men crave,
and all evil men try to get them in their paws,
while good men defend them against the hell sent knave,
who desires to deliver them to his firey boss,
after sending those who hold them into an unwarranted grave.

For they are the strong holds against the enroaching dark,
for they are the things that hold back the ever approaching black,
and they are the things that fly above us like a lark,
and those who hold them never feel a single lack,
for they hover above bereft of the smallest black mark,
and guard their owners from a hell driven knife into the back,
and you can hear the hellhounds pursue with their infernal bark,
and the demons trying to steal them through guile and tact,

but they will never leave those that hold them all alone,
but they will never give cause for a despairing groan,
and even once we lie cold and dark below the grassy knoll,
we will live on in paradise through the power of the soul.

Everybody has a soul, at least in the beginning. Through our actions and our deeds, the soul can grow strong and proud, or shriveled and weak. Still, we all have one, burning inside us like the sun. The darkness would like nothing more than to consume that never ending light and transform us into the lifeless monsters you can see every day on the news. YOU CANNOT LET THEM. Self loathing is the devil's tool which he uses to drive those who could shine like the brightest star into the blackest hell. However, it is only an illusion, which can be banished with a sight of the light. Whoever, wherever you are, know this; somewhere, somebody loves you. Guaranteed. _I_ love you. With the knowledge that someone loves you, how can you do other than love yourself?

For the uniformed; I have been charging everyone exorbant fees to talk to Buffy. I don't know why or how; I just have. This poem is based on that.

Happy Birthday Buffy,
I'm afraid I'm a day late,
and I must apologize,
for forcing you to wait.

And now I will quote,
without further ado,
This poem that I wrote,
especially for you.

One day, sometime during last week,
I decided to go for a walk,
and other Unwashed I would seek,
because I wanted to talk,
and so I went about the town,
and everyone I met wore a frown.
and everyone looked really down,
in the village that is Unwashed.

So I walked about and begin to inquire,
what had made everyone sad,
surely things could not be that dire,
come on, perk up, be glad!
and the people, well, they said to me,
if you want to know, then you will see,
our awesome debilating sadness's key,
is your terrible, awful, horrible fee!

We cannot afford to talk to her!
You charge to much! It is not fair!
You loathsome snivelling whining cur!
We can't believe that you would dare,
to charge us to talk to our favorite nurse,
if it's bad now, it will get worse,
and then they threatened, with words that were terse,
to beat me with a lead filled purse!

Okay! Okay! You'll get your way!
I yelled, to avoid the beating,
but only for a single day!
That's the only demand I'm meeting!
And so, because I'm a nice guy,
my generousness would make you cry,
and I swear I do not lie,
you can talk to Buffy for free *sigh*

But only on her birthday.

I wait in the night for the stars to come out,
not really sure what it's all about,
I wait in the night for the stars to come out,
And all that I feel within me is doubt,
I wait in the night for the stars to come out,
but then I can't help but let out a shout,
of pain, of loss, of the absence of light,
in the cold, dark night.

I lie on my back and I stare at the moon,
the light that it casts is a tremendous boon,
I lie on my back and I stare at the moon,
I'm getting tired, I should go to bed soon,
I lie on my back and I stare at the mooon,
and all of my neighbors think I am a loon,
when I scream out my pain and my sorrow,
and wait for the light of tomorrow.

I wait in the night and I scan the skies,
and something deep down within me dies,
I wait in the night and I scan the skies,
and the words of hope on my lips are lies,
I wait in the night and I scan the skies,
and fill the darkness with my lamenting cries,
for the only light in the enroaching gloom,
is the moon, and soon, it will meet it's doom.

For there are no stars shining brightly above,
there are no signs of an enfolding love,
for there are no stars shining brightly above,
there are no bright pinpoints for bards to sing of,
for there are no stars shining brightly above,
only smog, which can sour the white of a dove,
so I howl of my loss to the polluted air,
and hope that someday my supplanters will dare,
to love, to hope, to show that they care,
to the planet which has had the burden to bear,
to the world the humanity has made it's lair,
to our earth, which once was so shining and fair,

and now only reeks of destruction.

One day Doombot went to town,
passing many on her way,
and as those people saw her frown,
they began to say:
"There goes Doombot, she looks down,
It must be Waxing Day"

She walked through the town square,
frowning in a horrible way,
so no one there would even dare,
to walk up to her and say:
"You have a problem with your hair?
It must be waxing day!"

She went to the little shop,
and no one got in her way,
The man inside gave a little hop,
and then what did he say?
But "Hello Doombot, I saw you stop,
so it must be Waxing Day"

The man applied the terrible wax,
causing great pain along the way,
For all know the terrible facts,
that caused the people to say,
"Poor Doombot, it is sense she lacks,
On the awful Waxing Day!"

After that Doombot went out,
crying the entire way,
Which caused the whole UV to shout,
and all of them to say,
"We'll get that doctor, that awful lout,
before the next Waxing Day!"

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Thank you, thank you!! My services remain open to any who require them.
Doombot, if you liked it, I wrote it just for you; if you didn't, it was all Night Owl's idea.

Hair dye burning flaming like lightning in your
head you can't escape the flashing thundering
entity rages through your brain and
destroys your thoughts the best
part by far is that next week
next month you can face this
monster again and again
burn into imbecility
you can not fight
the horror that
comes whenever
your roots
show.
------------------------------

"Ode to My Dead Imagination"

When I was young
the world was fresh
and every day was bright
and new
and I went outside and
there were goblins
in the bushes
and dragons
in the flower bed.
And now I go
outside and all
I see is the
limp grass and
the brown bushes
and I sigh.

"A Late Night Ride"

I went a-riding late one night,
and rode and rode until the dawn,
We ran into the blinding light,
and ran some more, till it was gone.
We galloped on into the day,
never stopping; who needs sleep?
Mortis let out a mighty neigh,
and strove his awesome stride to keep.
He grew tired, by and by,
but galloped on, up and away,
until I finally had to cry,
"Stop! We'll ride some other day.!"
Mortis turned to look at me,
and I could almost here a voice,
"Won't you please just let me be,
it's not your place to make the choice."
So we went on, across the plain,
owner of all that we could see,
we journeyed on, though it be in vain,
for someplace better for us to be.
Then finally, so faint and dim,
I saw a wonderous, breathtaking sight.
I prodded Mortis, poked at him,
and said, "Run on! We'll win this fight!"
The pace grew harder as time went by,
but finally we reached our goal.
And then I let out a terrible cry,
dredged from the bottom of my soul.
"Oh dear lord, no!" I screamed in pain,
"What terrible, horrible joke is this?
All of our journeys were in vain!
To come so close, and then to miss!"
For the beautiful place in the distant land,
where the flat earth met the fair blue dome,
had grown clearer as we got closer and
was revealed now to be our home!
"I thought we had found our heaven on earth!
But it is not so, now that I can see!"
And Mortis thought,"The place of our birth,
seems like the best place for us to be!"

"The Alien is Here" A humorous, irreverant poem.

Sometimes I lie awake at night,
and stare up at the sky,
one night I saw a frightening sight,
that people said was a lie.

Hovering there high above me,
Shining in a frightening way,
was the very last thing I expected to see,
right here in our Milky Way.

Strangely, it was painted bright pink,
and was really rather nifty,
like an old, old car, I think
circa 1950.

Slowly the bubble top moved,
It shook, and slid aside,
and who did I see there grinning,
smiling at me from inside?

"Some people say they abducted me.
I say that that is a lie.
Those people will probably never see,
that I left on my own, and why

"I decided to leave my home,
I chose to fly off into space,
In my car with its bright pink dome,
And escape that awful rat race.

"I escaped of my own free will,
and I will probably never come back,
I'm sorry my family had to pay the bill,
and my whole band got the sack,

"But it is better this way,
believe me, I really know,
And now, though it's awful to say,
I really do have to go."

And so he flew away,
and he didn't even sing!
I am still glad, anyway,
that I got to meet The King.

Do you think that I am frightened,
Do you think that will scare,
Do you really think you can threaten me,
I can't believe you would dare.

For I am the lord of all darkness,
For I am the crusher of life,
For I am the source of all evil,
The cause of all danger and strife.

I will destroy your pathetic weapon,
I will crush it into the dust,
I will scatter your hopeless monkeys,
I'm afraid that I really must,

Ask you to beg for forgiveness,
Ask you to plead for a chance,
Ask you to pray for my mercy,
For I have slipped into the trance,

The blood-rage has come upon me,
The blood-rage demands your pain,
The blood-rage cries for destruction,
It wants me to call down the rain,

The rain that means Armaggedon,
The rain that will wipe the earth clean,
The scathing, burning, terrible rain,
Caused by my Ostrich-powered machine.