a loud angry love-starved lonely bearer of fine cutlery pounds my door and inquires callously of matters of my tongue engaged I try not to respond we wait in silence until we hear her walk away we wake to find just one dead rose hanging from the door
October 1, 1996
I don't like the way you look For something with a nonstop raindrop rhythm Born as a smooth groovin' incantation over steamed milk and incidental brown euphoria You look pretty ugly Condemned to a life of late-night ramblings From the mouth of a man In a coffee-induced stupor You're no better than a day-old pastry Sweet but dry Like some contradictory wine Oh you'll never see life in print Because I don't like the way you look With your ragged justification Your typographic imperfections Unparallel Incongruous Misdirected anger masquerading as fine art It could be years before you're ready To live in the flat world Of black and white Buster, you'd better get yourself together For now, you're stuck in this coffeehouse On a throwaway napkin You should have never been written down
May 29, 1999
"My Country Tis of thee..." Sweet land of incarcery building jails and building bombs while selling guns like guns can love My country, sweet land of incarcery. Solve your crisis with crushing force dig your hole deeper, my country dig your hole to China, my country throw everyone in who doesn't obey Eat the fruits you yourself have forbidden my country, throw your problems away my country, throw your people away My country, sweet land of incarcery. Break your people's backs but don't bust the banks till it doesn't matter who you kill My country, my country, you're killing me. My country, my country, sweet land of incarcery. Building jails not homes my friends making bombs not jails my friends this is my country, my land of the free. My country, killing its least free My country, land of incarcery. Eat the land, starve the poor. Throw your people away, my country throw your problems away, my country. My home, my comfy cell, my cushy jail. My country, sweet land of incarcery.
circa 1995
and in dili you can't eat without a spy a hell in every hope and a soldier on every corner as graves are hidden for 200-thousand 10 percent can make a revolution as bishop belo prays hail mary it's a holocaust and 33 percent are gone as the british hawks supply suharto timor dies and the empire expands "it is not good here" intimates an inmate of the empire blood and justice and vicious lies indonesia breaks the backs of the oncefree my sister knows the world is blood and everybody has their first and second time soldiers and my sister know who's fucking who portuguese now javanese as my sister knows my sister knows who's fucking who this body their body they own it they broke it as machine guns take aim up at the precipice the grave is formed and left unmarked and blood and lead collide and flesh falls and bishop belo prays my sister knows as well as suharto the blood and leaden cocktails as she and bishop belo pray as she and bishop belo pray.
circa 1994
I awake silenced
breathing the air of order
stagnant and corrupt
with edges that dull my senses
order asks if air has edges
meaning to hide its flat-headed abrasions
polluting realms of randomness and possibility
with worship of hammers for hitting heads like nails
add six quarts simplicity and blend
(do not stir)
the recipe for order reads
when it smells stagnant sell it
Your nails need smashing
your nails are bent
your nails are breaking
your nails are falling
your hammer is falling
Nails with heads get smashed down
Air with spirits gets closed in closets
Hammers collapse and pollutions kill
And you remain the same or become the same.
circa 1993
Spoken Like a True Asshole:
(not a poem)
I'm not racist
I just act that way
I'm not sexist
I just talk that way
I don't hate the faggots
I just joke that way.
I'm not intolerant
so long as they aren't near me
I'm not elitist
As long as they stay invisible to me.
I'm perfectly open
Because you're perfectly free
And I risk nothing
When you stay away from me.
I'm for giving you jobs
so long as you can't get mine
I'm for letting you learn
if you've got as much money as me.
I'm perfectly open
Because you're perfectly free
And I risk nothing
When you stay away from me.
circa 1993
No fucking hello kitty
No chalky candy hearts with words written in cheese
No breathless moanings and soft sighs
If you're going to get cute get chocolate
Because only chocolate is truth and sex rolled into one
No fucking jello
No chewing gum
No thinking pink and red and white anything
Because only chocolate is truth and sex rolled into one.
No more heart shaped boxes
No more diapered gods
No more cute
No more
No
Because only chocolate is truth and sex rolled into one.
circa 1993
Eat up the pain like a chocolate Sundae
but force feed it to me
and it'll kill you
(Ray, Lesson one).
The Well-Versed Voyeur
stares not at lost teenage love;
no narcissistic regrets
nor onanistic loneliness;
not at ladies of perfection
but nudity and truth.
(Ray, Lesson two).
Sex, you see, is literate
and you should not kill her
with old come-on lines.
If you haven't finished Shakespeare
you don't know what you've plagiarized.
(Ray, Lesson three).
Politics and sex are alike
and chocolate is a taste of both.
Profane Sundays like a good Roman boy.
Wear no clothes to dinner
nor pretentions of unpretentiousness.
(Ray, Lesson four).
Sex and politics of course.
But by all means
have a conscience.
And wash your mouth out
after reading Henry Miller.
(Ray, Ending the lessons).
On the limb
I sit calm waiting.
I dream of exhalations
poets and playwrights
would have Brutus read by.
Here I dream to grow
Here I dream to conquer
Here I dream of Shakespeare's errors
Here I dream, upon a limb.
Trees and goddesses breathe
inside this limb
whilst I sit awake
dreaming.
Marc will take the world
through gentle words
and Brutus falls
when shedding blood.
Here I dream upon a limb
As heroes die and heroes grow
Here I dream of trees
As gods watch swords fall.
Here I dream and heroes die
As heroes soak in blood red streams
And heroes have no homes but hell.
Now my heroes cast away their swords.
Cheese left over from high school
A blast from my past...
vision is inner
seeing only life
experience is ephemeral
seeking only thrill now kill later
lucid panda dies enigma panic wonders why
I I I I I
answer
when all I have is
this little phony lung
and lots of friends with guns
seeking only thrill kill now later
fuzzy agent kills enigma panic wonders why
I I I I I
question
answer
question
with
promise
love nature kill nature
the human spirit is undying
killing itself killing answers
with promises
to question
after finding answers
circa 1992
Some people just don't know sex when they see it... or don't see sex if they know it... or something that Jesse Helms-esque like that.
Black.
Knife.
Bloody.
I am so alone.
(Variation on minimalist teen angst poetry). Teen Angst Poetry Game Poetry must include something dark, something sharp, some blood, and the phrase, "I am so alone.")
Roses are :)
Violets are 8)
The vax is ;)
with too much *-(:-)
I wonder if it rhymes.
© 1993-2000 by Jason Truesdell. All Rights Reserved.
