Blkwidow77• Show poetry

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Phoenix



The flames are higher, this time.
All the times you've laid
dead quiet in the broken limbs
of every attempt to build
yourself out of that god-damn hole.
Pain creates spontaneous explosions
from within the secret chambers
of that faint beat, recorded and sent
in packages for him to listen to.
No acknowledgment made for the effort
in timing the thumps to speak
‘I love you’s in so many different languages.
And I watch as you curl, dead baby bird
praying this time the fire
shall only create a charred statue
and not the rebirth into the hurt.




Written for me by Annalise 12/28/06


(thank you for that Meli, I needed it)



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"It shouldn't make any difference, but Friday and Saturday nights are the worst. They're the worst because the loneliness is magnified. The best you can do is hope that there is someone else like you out there, but if there is, you will never meet this person because she doesn't get out either.



So you're left with your thoughts, and your thoughts are living people in your brain who call and hang up and lounge around like armed security guards who happen to be beautiful. In between these thoughts, you think about what's going on out there. The girl of your dreams is being ravaged by a man who doesn't have a care in the world. Just to hear her voice would make you happy for a week, but he gets to spend the day and night with her and thinks nothing of it.



Somewhere across town there is laughter and fun and something that resembles kindness and love. There are people having a good time, not watching the clock, not wanting to sleep. Sleep is all that feels good. Sleep feels like a little death. Those tiny hours in the morning when everyone is asleep are the only ones that don't feel lonely. But for now, there are boyfriends and girlfriends, people in love, wide awake. They hang out. They hang out. They hang out. They do nothing worthwhile except each other. Friends, friends, friends. Fiends. Inside jokes. There are so many stupid conversations going on right now. You could be having a meaningful conversation with a taxi driver. You could talk to him about how Travis Bickle's taxi was a metaphor for loneliness. You are not missed. If you aren't being thought of by a single mind on Earth, do you really exist? Chad will always exist. They make plans so easily. They don't debate over dialing numbers. Bleak house.



You have a gray tint on your contact lenses. But you have your work. They don't have that. They are cowards. Everyone seems so afraid to be alone. It takes strength to lie there alone and take it. They just want to copulate, and that's their biggest concern of the night. You want a tragedy. An assassination. A massacre. An earthquake. A city falling to the ground. Something to get the people on TV to be on the same page as you."







"I'm a sensitive guy who can feel when he's being videotaped and sympathize with urinal cakes. At least I've got grace in this homemade pair of contact lenses composed of pure love. With the aritificial vision they provide, I can see all the girls wearing Freudian slips underneath their dresses, wrapping their bra straps around moonlit skyscrapers.



I can also see what they look at instead of me. It is a handsome boy who has never had a worry in his life. He fingers his belt buckle with one hand and arm wrestles with the other, grunting and struggling to reduce his opponent to barbecued pulp. Neither he nor she honors me with the time of day, yet I allow them to pace hand in hand around the inside of my head. And me, I stand off to the side with my back to the wall, thinking to hold her would be apocalypse in my arms.



I'm left with words, for better or worse, to stuff into bullets or wad in my purse, but I can't help but feel like an air traffic controller with delusions of grandeur, safely landing suicide missions on paper runways, turning my future hair prematurely gray, thinking wordy thoughts, accomplishing so much but not getting out nearly enough."







-Two excerpts from pages 129-130 & 83, of the book 'Torture the Artist' by Joey Goebel.









chaos lives in the sinking tide

and rests with the ghost crabs

between the un-rest of grey

under the dying moon~~









written for me,



by MuddyKing









    remember me –

     not by the filth
        in which I scrawl,
        but by the sky
        ;  of which I write…



        ;      (jennifer)



by: Macey Muse










It wasn’t the pain
actually,




But that I had decided that blood was too messy. You find those kind of decisions ethically pleasing when you start realizing things like,

ice didn’t always remove it and there doesn’t need to be
reminders. When I leave somewhere,


I find it best to vanish


Let me be the morning mist
that touched your face,


before I lifted away,


I’ve been gone for a long time anyhow,
Let me say goodbye then-



Ever practical,

I’ll donate my things to charities first. Play the hero, like I didn’t know.

And take the receipt for my taxes. Because yeah, they tell me

that’s all I have to do in life,


pay taxes and die.


I’m working on the latter, I really am.
Keep thinking, if I do it right, in the right order,

at the right time…


But I couldn’t,

because there is no right-


And I think, that it was
SnagglePuss that was always saying


“Exit! Stage left!”


Geared up, and that bastard was gone. He didn’t give a shit about the stage, or the price on his diamond collar. It was all about knowing when the clock ran out. But I hate anything that’s admittedly to the left-


The way out?


But no,
I have never wanted to

go that way.


How about instead,

I meet that time on a Wednesday. The high crag and the ocean wide, on that island that I like,


The one that they charge six dollars to cross the bridge of now. But I can afford to pay it, being that it will be
just one way,


that day.


The sun will set, streaking red like he always was. Let my hair loose,

to hide my face. A cat walk of intentions, I think.

All I’ll see, is the red then,

and his face,


If I can just reach far enough
across the edge




and I’ll never even feel the fall…



















media.putfile.com/Stage-Left













In prose, poet, as you say that's all I'm good at.