I promise you a story
about faded glories....
Neon crosses
Dirty water from cheap faucets
stained and wrinkled sheets
broken from underused heat
People once liked to visit and stay
before my decline chased them away
this is what I've become
a mess, but not quite undone
Used to be somebody
drawing laughter and smiles
had the effect of honey
now I'm just drawing flies
There were those who looked up to me
they're now looking down at me
I put poison in the attics
Now I know what the rats see
I put poison in the addicts
Now I know what the rat sees
I promised you a story....
You know I'm good for it.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Printers Ink, Waiting Room Blues
Why do I feel like my clothes are all wet? My hair is pulling me down. Back to the chair, back to the waiting room with the never ending clock and the never mending staff.
sitting in my shrink's office, in his waiting room, I find that it is a place of information.
I've found out that our baseball team sucks, and that Burt Bacharach, Billy Squier, and Ving Rhames share the same birthday.
I've found that newsprint comes off on your fucking hands.
I've found that in a shrinks office, others waiting cry softly.
I tighten up, shudder. I know my issues, what could theirs be....?
Will there be less answers for me than for them...If God decides between one of us...which?
Hell, if she's crying, it should be her
but then again, I'm the one destroying things with an aluminum bat.
Praying to a god that I don't believe exists. In the shower. Alleluias from within the steam.
Ever been on your hands and knees in the shower? For a reason other than pleasure?
Jon and Kate are no longer together I learn in here. The television has a great recipe for ziti....fuck pasta, I'm losing my mind....this room is making it worse....Receptionists with their plastic smiles.....their scrubs though they never see a patient.....
Perhaps Bacharach, Squier, and Rhames can form a 3-piece combo, do an album and have the proceeds benefit the poorhouse Milwaukee Brewers....
Ink coming off on my fingers, goddamn black newsprint....dry hands simply rubbing it in, smearing it....Looks like Hitchcock's blood from "Psycho"
"the only way to get there is to go straight down".... I hear in my head...last song heard. Last word read was the finale of a paragraph from Cosmo on how a woman can use 27 ways to get a man to come without touching him......I'm getting pizza when I leave here.....gonna come back to the parking lot here, eat it, and plan to burn the motherfucker down....
the print from the cosmo/come article, the pizza box, running between my fingers.
Christ it's all melting away soaking into my skin, the news, the advice, the weather forecast lies, local cuisine....I rub my hands together, but it won't fucking come off
my name's called...it's all gone....
"Wait til tomorrow"
last song heard.
"Have him arch his back"
last article read
Billy Squier
It's his birthday.
I'm going to get a prescription. and hopefully an answer.
sitting in my shrink's office, in his waiting room, I find that it is a place of information.
I've found out that our baseball team sucks, and that Burt Bacharach, Billy Squier, and Ving Rhames share the same birthday.
I've found that newsprint comes off on your fucking hands.
I've found that in a shrinks office, others waiting cry softly.
I tighten up, shudder. I know my issues, what could theirs be....?
Will there be less answers for me than for them...If God decides between one of us...which?
Hell, if she's crying, it should be her
but then again, I'm the one destroying things with an aluminum bat.
Praying to a god that I don't believe exists. In the shower. Alleluias from within the steam.
Ever been on your hands and knees in the shower? For a reason other than pleasure?
Jon and Kate are no longer together I learn in here. The television has a great recipe for ziti....fuck pasta, I'm losing my mind....this room is making it worse....Receptionists with their plastic smiles.....their scrubs though they never see a patient.....
Perhaps Bacharach, Squier, and Rhames can form a 3-piece combo, do an album and have the proceeds benefit the poorhouse Milwaukee Brewers....
Ink coming off on my fingers, goddamn black newsprint....dry hands simply rubbing it in, smearing it....Looks like Hitchcock's blood from "Psycho"
"the only way to get there is to go straight down".... I hear in my head...last song heard. Last word read was the finale of a paragraph from Cosmo on how a woman can use 27 ways to get a man to come without touching him......I'm getting pizza when I leave here.....gonna come back to the parking lot here, eat it, and plan to burn the motherfucker down....
the print from the cosmo/come article, the pizza box, running between my fingers.
Christ it's all melting away soaking into my skin, the news, the advice, the weather forecast lies, local cuisine....I rub my hands together, but it won't fucking come off
my name's called...it's all gone....
"Wait til tomorrow"
last song heard.
"Have him arch his back"
last article read
Billy Squier
It's his birthday.
I'm going to get a prescription. and hopefully an answer.
Hilarious
Isn't it funny when you're younger
Oh say 18, 19....where you think you know what it is you need?
You think you've got it all figured out?
Then you spend the next 20 years accumulating what those things you think you have to have are, whether they be material, physical, emotional, or some sort of half-assed career.
The next thing you know you're careening towards 40, and you realize that not only did you pull together a bunch of shit that you're unsure about, but hey, for Fuck's sake, you're still not sure what it is you need.
Much less what it is you want.
Isn't it funny?
Looking back at 16, when the world was minty fresh, music was my life, movies were events, girls were temptresses, and jobs were disposable, it doesn't seem all that long ago. No it doesn't. It was half a lifetime ago, but seems like a couple years at the most.....
I don't feel all that different.
Sure, I look like hell compared to then, my bones creak, my back's shot, the only difference is an expanded vocabulary and 20 pounds of labor-created muscle. Unlike a lot of my contemporaries, music still is my life, and movies are still events. While women may not exactly be temptresses anymore, being a hopeless romantic, I fret that I have yet to figure them out. My horrible, awful, soul-sucking job is indispensable, and not even close to the throw-away variety.
Everyone around me has changed. I haven't. Not one lick.
Isn't that a goddamned hoot?
I still don't know what it is I exactly want, and the fates and darknesses of the recesses of my mind have told me, "Rob, chances are you can't get it anyway."
Damn. That's some cold shit.
So, every morning I look in the mirror and still don't know who that person staring back at me is. What does this bastard want?
How can I give it to him?
Does he want to write the Great American Novel? Does he want endless romance and abundant fantasy?
Or does he just want to be left alone in his indecipherable misery, and lonely self-questioning?
Hell, I'm him and I don't even know what the motherfucker is thinking.
Hilarious.
Oh say 18, 19....where you think you know what it is you need?
You think you've got it all figured out?
Then you spend the next 20 years accumulating what those things you think you have to have are, whether they be material, physical, emotional, or some sort of half-assed career.
The next thing you know you're careening towards 40, and you realize that not only did you pull together a bunch of shit that you're unsure about, but hey, for Fuck's sake, you're still not sure what it is you need.
Much less what it is you want.
Isn't it funny?
Looking back at 16, when the world was minty fresh, music was my life, movies were events, girls were temptresses, and jobs were disposable, it doesn't seem all that long ago. No it doesn't. It was half a lifetime ago, but seems like a couple years at the most.....
I don't feel all that different.
Sure, I look like hell compared to then, my bones creak, my back's shot, the only difference is an expanded vocabulary and 20 pounds of labor-created muscle. Unlike a lot of my contemporaries, music still is my life, and movies are still events. While women may not exactly be temptresses anymore, being a hopeless romantic, I fret that I have yet to figure them out. My horrible, awful, soul-sucking job is indispensable, and not even close to the throw-away variety.
Everyone around me has changed. I haven't. Not one lick.
Isn't that a goddamned hoot?
I still don't know what it is I exactly want, and the fates and darknesses of the recesses of my mind have told me, "Rob, chances are you can't get it anyway."
Damn. That's some cold shit.
So, every morning I look in the mirror and still don't know who that person staring back at me is. What does this bastard want?
How can I give it to him?
Does he want to write the Great American Novel? Does he want endless romance and abundant fantasy?
Or does he just want to be left alone in his indecipherable misery, and lonely self-questioning?
Hell, I'm him and I don't even know what the motherfucker is thinking.
Hilarious.
Going Back
All the songs written
for those that died young
all the portraits painted
for our long gone sons
It hurts so goddamn bad,
And I want to go back
but it's no longer there
rusted and rotted
what I remembered is not there anymore
paint's peeled and the carpets cracked
and weeds are growing up through the floor
It hurts so goddamn bad
and I want to go back
but he's no longer there
the house still stands
the home of a man
who's a saint
and a scent in my air.
Middle of the Road
My feet perched on iron cold concrete
feathers are missing from my wings
there's a cigarette dangling from my lips
strips of duct tape on my halo
I have dirt under my nails
and leaves cling to my hair
I don't long for forever
but neither am I scared
I can't reach divinity
far too close to the human glow
and I'm too near to sainthood
to walk with those below
I haven't heard from heaven
in so goddamn long
so I'm standing in the back of the choir
and I never join in their songs
But there are my wards
I warm them and hold them tight
I'm invisible as they cry
try to whisper what they need
that isn't quite a lie
Father, what the hell am I
That they walk away, feeling redeemed
and I'm left here standing alone
under a sky that steadily bleeds.
feathers are missing from my wings
there's a cigarette dangling from my lips
strips of duct tape on my halo
I have dirt under my nails
and leaves cling to my hair
I don't long for forever
but neither am I scared
I can't reach divinity
far too close to the human glow
and I'm too near to sainthood
to walk with those below
I haven't heard from heaven
in so goddamn long
so I'm standing in the back of the choir
and I never join in their songs
But there are my wards
I warm them and hold them tight
I'm invisible as they cry
try to whisper what they need
that isn't quite a lie
Father, what the hell am I
That they walk away, feeling redeemed
and I'm left here standing alone
under a sky that steadily bleeds.
These Four Walls
Four Days in February, 2011.....
Written at Community Memorial Hospital, Mental Health Unit, Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin.
Sleeping through visiting hour
crying myself to sleep in the shower
these four walls have educated me
on just how alone I seem to be
text messages and telephone lines
Friendship and love made somehow blind
cant see
can't feel
but I love
Pushing down on my shoulders
Weight of the world is growing older
These sore muscles have educated me
on just how small I seem to be
I have a big heart and a need to live
romance made somehow impossible to give
can't touch
can't show
but God, how I love
Written at Community Memorial Hospital, Mental Health Unit, Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin.
Sleeping through visiting hour
crying myself to sleep in the shower
these four walls have educated me
on just how alone I seem to be
text messages and telephone lines
Friendship and love made somehow blind
cant see
can't feel
but I love
Pushing down on my shoulders
Weight of the world is growing older
These sore muscles have educated me
on just how small I seem to be
I have a big heart and a need to live
romance made somehow impossible to give
can't touch
can't show
but God, how I love
Sunday, July 3, 2011
This Island Worry
Just because I don't say I'm worried
Sure as hell doesn't mean I'm not
My mind has 5 different things on it
and my stomach's tied in knots
Things that are beyond my control
have begun to steadily control me
Can't fight the things outside
more frightened of the ones within I can't see
So if I don't tell you
what I've got on my mind
that is ripping me apart
does that make it a lie?
When I shoot up stick straight
in the middle of the night
sweat flying from my head
No one there to make it alright
My hands are there for me
to bury my face deep into
for the time being
that is all I can do....
Sure as hell doesn't mean I'm not
My mind has 5 different things on it
and my stomach's tied in knots
Things that are beyond my control
have begun to steadily control me
Can't fight the things outside
more frightened of the ones within I can't see
So if I don't tell you
what I've got on my mind
that is ripping me apart
does that make it a lie?
When I shoot up stick straight
in the middle of the night
sweat flying from my head
No one there to make it alright
My hands are there for me
to bury my face deep into
for the time being
that is all I can do....
Friday, July 1, 2011
Don't go outside
Flowers in bloom fire bullets at you
birds in flight use their wings
to slash you through
when every corner has a slap in the face
every moment you have lived
makes this a digrace
Your third degree words
have left burns all over me
Your lack of touch
has made ice out of my flesh
your lack of humility
has burned down all that is left
so let me drop to my knees in the rain
you're free to watch me go down now
It's a show you started anyhow
birds in flight use their wings
to slash you through
when every corner has a slap in the face
every moment you have lived
makes this a digrace
Your third degree words
have left burns all over me
Your lack of touch
has made ice out of my flesh
your lack of humility
has burned down all that is left
so let me drop to my knees in the rain
you're free to watch me go down now
It's a show you started anyhow
Half Empty
Every glass I pull from the cupboard
has a crack
Every shoe that I put on
has a hole
I don't like a single song
I hear on the radio
But what do I know?
Every day the sun rises
it lights on things I hate
Every place I have to go
makes me more irate
I don't like a single moment
that i spend by myself
It's a different flavor of alone
has a crack
Every shoe that I put on
has a hole
I don't like a single song
I hear on the radio
But what do I know?
Every day the sun rises
it lights on things I hate
Every place I have to go
makes me more irate
I don't like a single moment
that i spend by myself
It's a different flavor of alone
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)