Another can of Laker please.

He rambled as he always does
His voice is nasal and
Without enunciation.
He has a bushy moustache
Like a grey tickler Tom Sellick might wear.

I don’t know what he’s says
When he speaks to me at length
And I’ll be honest, I never have.
He knows my name and I’ve
Shaken hands with the man
Hello, my name is Andrew
Herrr my nmmmrr is jjjjurrrrsaan-
That being the extent
That I comprehended,
But I smiled and said I was pleased
Happy to meet him of course.
People don’t like being told to repeat
Themselves
Especially I find
During introductions.

He’s a short man
My height, perhaps an inch or three taller
Though to be fair,
That isn’t quite so hard.
He wears a frayed
Beaten and filthy
Red baseball cap that is
About two sizes too small
For his rather small head.

All of his clothes seem to be
Covered in dust.
Where I work, I discovered
The common clientele
Those who drink the most
Are often covered in dust.
On his back he has a
Beaten denim backpack
That I think he carries his life in.

But he smiles a lot
Counts for something right?

I recall one of the only things
He ever said
That I actually understood,
(Maybe his pronunciation improved
Either before or after his drinking,)
Was that there was a church
Handing out food somewhere,
A ways down the road from where
I work and sling cases and
Kill strangers slowly
He was rather pleased
With his full stomach
And was recounting stories
Speaking of macaroni and cheese
And the six
No seven
Fuck fuck
Fuck
Lots and lots and
Lots
Of different kinds
I think he said sorts
Of cheese
And how it strings off of everything.
It was a fine story
He was happy
When he got his single tall can of cheap beer
He was even happier.

I hadn’t seen him for quite awhile after that
Then again,
I hadn’t been in.
But I saw him the other night
A big smile across his face
Rambling away and slurring so badly
He wasn’t saying anything I understood
But in just a moment his smile dropped
And he pulled a picture from his
Filthy backpack
He and a woman
His grey Sellick moustache brown
And the smile that wrapped across him
Didn’t seem to be strained
By too many hung mornings.

He and the woman were dressed
In clothes befitting the eighties
The picture was aged
With a slight film of brown dirt
But they looked happy

He pushed the picture
And the frame it was in
Across the steel counter towards me
Looked past me
Through me like I wasn’t there
And just left it standing there
Looking through me for a moment or two.

Then his can of beer came up,
He traded the photo’s place
For a dollar and change.
Putting the memory
Whatever it was,
Back in his filthy bag
And he left with the beer
To slam it down
The very second he couldn’t see us.

Sweet Wine.

Too much drink
Makes the world spin.

I wish
That I could grasp you
In my hands,
And see your eyes
Locked in mine
Like so many times before.

The whirlwinds when I close my eyes,

I want, and crave
Your scent that is
Hanging in my mind.

But I am far too nauseous
To do anything about it
At all.

The Shit I Spew at Six Eh Em.

Sleep is always
Being hunted by thoughts
Like wolves at dawn,
It pokes through my window blinds.
Thoughts,
That wail, whorl
And scream between my ears.

Like a whirlwind of teeth
Claw, and I am stuck
On a glimpse
Predominantly of perfumed
Hair,
And the occasional thought
Of wondering what
It'd feel like,
Running between my fingers.

I guess its an improvement
Sleep or no,
A pretty lady is preferable
To the thoughts that came before,
And try to resurface
Anytime I'm up to my shoulders
In shit.

I really do think,
I'd rather lay wakeful of you
Than for any of the dark things
The blistery things
Every weepy glimpse that
Used to
Accompany a bang,
And always ending in
Dripping silence.

But then
What man is unique
That is restless?

More Photography

That's not fucking art
You lack spark, point and shoot
Put the camera down

Just, fuck.

I don't remember it
And I can't really think
Its just the pain of my ankle
And a running mind.

A couple inches to the right
Left
Fuck I don't know anymore
And I'd be dead
Brain damaged
Or just all around fucked.

But I don't want to be
Melodramatic
Self indulgent
Or an all around shithead
Really,
I'm very lucky.

A helluva bruise
A limp gimped ankle
And a smashed cell phone-
It took the hit for me I tell you-

And thats it.

Should've worn a helmet
A couple inches to the right
And you'd never have read this
Fuck

That Wheel

I am the wheel that turns
An effigy of flame in paces
Writhing flesh and flicks of fire
As pieces flake off
To rise in the wind
And the wheel that turns
Is me.

I am the wheel that turns
As seasons melt
The grain fields dust up
Into the violence of storms
To ride in the wind
And the wheel that turns
Is me.

I am the wheel that turns
As my face falls to dust
A sickly smile on white
Bleach bone and dirt
To fall in the wind
And the wheel that turns
Can’t really be me
Anymore,

Can it?

Liquid Beats

Another prick scratch.

I am written in crimson
And crimson is written in me.
Another circulation
Pumped pushed
Sucked
Back out again
A fist in my chest
Closing and gripping
Releasing and leading
Till never and rot.

It’s a
Vital reminder in my ear
Not of the liquid that still gushes
Behind my eyes,
But how rarely
It is in front of them.

In the West we have no mind
For having no mind
We are isolated
And immortal.
The dead do not walk with us
Or lie,
Where we lie.

They sit
Lay
Comforted by
Green or white
Full body blankets
In houses built for their vanity.
They reek of vile liquids
Not our liquids
That keep them beautiful,
Prepped and made,
Until we put them in a box
To be tossed
Into the soil or the flame.

So I march to a beating drum
Of inconstant rhythm
Banging in my chest
Pumping my liquids
And pushing me forwards

But I just wish,
That when I become silent,
It would shut up .

So that for once,
I could finally sleep.

STOP TAUNTING ME WORD PROMPT

I’m sure every guy knows the feeling

Where you want it,
She wants it.

Where you need it,
She needs it.

It’s screaming in your bones.

You could pile your lust onto her
Rupture from your skin
And break you apart.
But it
Just
Won’t
Come.
And you’re left

Frustrated.

Every man laughs about it
Because it doesn’t happen to me.

And it doesn’t happen to me,
Really.
Oh look, here’s another stanza

But when it comes to this,
Right here
These words
There are times where my mind is willing
But my heart
I guess just isn’t strong enough.

Maybe I need to do more cardio
That might help both problems.

Sometimes,
When I want to be
Piling some passion onto paper.
My every fiber
Feels like it could break
And the words should be
Bursting from my skin

But they just don't come.

There isn't really
A lot you can do.
Poetry I think
Needs some performance,
Finesse,
Skill and stamina.

Hell,
You can't even just settle on
Using only your mouth,
A flowery verse
A fancy flick of the tongue
To please the page,
Or the pretty girl,
And only later go home,
To vent your frustrations.

Okay,
Maybe you can.

But a pencil and paper
Just isn't enough fun
To everynight, only
Pile cheap passion into paper.