your phone stops ringing and the rain starts in,
you smile at the dead phone now
the dead phone line.
the rain starts in,
and then the people start in
and everything seems like it starts to start in
to try and kill you.
You know the problem with writing?
it seems almost impassible to write about something
other than yourself
and how you feel
or perceive all this shit
it's selfish
writing it is
to be I I I and I about all this.
But in doing that
someone feels that
and they feel more at home
knowing that they're not fighting this
ah
aha
on their own.
sometimes i read other writers
and want to yell out
to throw the book into my toilet
and spew morning shit on it
but then i realize
some people like this
and maybe i don't.
just like some people can sit here
and read this
and some will eventually shit
on these virtual pages.
hey man,
that's cool.
i can dig that kind of dissatisfaction.
writings a bitch
and i mean like true
honest
reality writing.
heartfelt writing.
i haven't had anything good lately
it's all been pretty safe
they're drawing me back from the edge
and comfort
overtakes madness.
i didn't have that much madness to begin with
but at least there was a bit
to enjoy.
how am i suppose to indulge now?
other than indulge myself?
i guess there's the rub.
trying to come up with something beyond
my own bullshit.
but aren't we all?
neh.
i don't think so.
guilty
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Sunday, January 2, 2011
D squared
When the drinks are done, the dames are one, and you're still a perverted little deviant bastard.
Slowly it crept up on me, like a spider stalking a fly, i am not aware of the precise moment when it ran up my spine and into the rear head nucleus but nonetheless it did. It was a slow ride, not an instant change, but a change over many days and countless hours, it came upon me like a bad drug cocktail, the wickedness was extreme. I came to a point, as i starred off of the dinner table and into the china cabinet behind so and so's head that i found what it was. What happens when you run out of bad women to write about? Or when your sexual misadventures are no longer adventures but journeys into ones dedicated vaginal canal? Whoa is me, or is it? What does an ugly write about when he's run out of ugly? It doesn't strike me like the kind of person to write about puppy dogs and unicorns. Or how the sun is a beautiful being and the gods are here to protect us. When you spend a chunk of your life written about your dissatisfaction with humanity and humans alike, you block yourself into those brackets. And what hell-bound brackets those are. At this time, life seems to be on an up swing, and i know damn well it'll reach a downswing, and that won't happen gradually as this upswing happened, but it'll be more like a snowball rolling down the snowy hill on that snowy day at 100mph. Fucking speed demon. As for this upswing, like i said, it came on like a bad drug cocktail and in a seemingly wicked way at the time.
Maybe this is all apart of growing up? Realizing that the world is a fucked place, no matter which way you turn it, but there's something here to get out of it. Optimism is for brainless drones, and being pessimistic is simply put being a sissy. We dismiss what we don't like out of some stupid selfish desire to not step outside of our bubble. You won't catch me dead in a Hollywood bar or at a Jason Mraz concert, because those things don't appeal to me. Comfort and beauty lay together in a small bar with a couple of seemingly human beings who have something to contribute to a conversation other than Jersey Shore updates and an onslaught of useless causes and nonprofits as they drink their $12 red bull and vodka while simultaneousnessly twittering and facebooking their awareness to the preservation of unicorns in Saudi Arabia and checking in on foursquare. Does this really sound like something i want to be apart of? Yeah, didn't think so, but if i had to be there, well, there's got to be a way to make this work, and i can't hate those people for doing what they do, they're doing what they think is right, and maybe it is wrong? Who the fuck am i to tell them how to be? Can't change the world and can't change the people in it, but you can manage yourself, and isn't that what really matters anyway?
It sucks to not be angry anymore, i always felt that letting go of that anger would deprive me of ideas in use for writing. I was scared. I feared happiness would be the downfall to passion. These weeks have been a lull, but i'll tell you what, damn i'm feeling good on the inside, better than i've felt in the last 3 years of my life. Clarity is no longer a rarity at this point. Now it's no longer about searching, but maintaining. I feel old and settled.
Self indulgent writing (such as this) isn't done on my part for an applause or comment. I know i'm not the only person here who has too also felt this way. I write for me, and i write for that poor schmuck out there holed up in a shitty hotel room eating crackers and watching the lead based paint peel off the walls. If he can read this and feel better about himself than i've done something with my life. I actually hope he reads this and says, "this guy sucks, i can write better than him."
and i hope he does. Let me know where you're at man and i'll send you some 8 1/2 x 11, a stack of envelopes, some pencils and a razor blade to cut your coke and sharpen the lead with.
Some people come into your life, and some fall out. Those who fall out don't fall out forever, they'll be back around, sooner or later they've got to come pick up the shit they left at your house. Those who come in are harder to manage, because at first you want to push them away and out of your box. They don't deserve to be in your box, you built this fucking box, it's your box, box for you, need i say it again? Yes. it's your goddamn box that you built. But hey man, maybe that box you're in is starting to crinkle and split at the seams, maybe it smells like urine and puke? If they're willing to come in, than maybe you should. If they take a look around and leave, well, no harm no foul. But if they come in and sit down, don't comment on the stench and condition, and pull a loaf of bread out of their coat, then you can't turn away that kind of goodness. It's easy to think all people are shit (because most of them are) but in grouping the wicked, there will be some strays. Those strays are where it's at, they got fucking soul man, the right kind of vibe. Surround yourself with real, honest, good people who have their own opinions and that's the kind of party you want in your box. Then tomorrow, you can visit their box, and share that moldy piece of cheese you've been hording, you fucking rat.
Slowly it crept up on me, like a spider stalking a fly, i am not aware of the precise moment when it ran up my spine and into the rear head nucleus but nonetheless it did. It was a slow ride, not an instant change, but a change over many days and countless hours, it came upon me like a bad drug cocktail, the wickedness was extreme. I came to a point, as i starred off of the dinner table and into the china cabinet behind so and so's head that i found what it was. What happens when you run out of bad women to write about? Or when your sexual misadventures are no longer adventures but journeys into ones dedicated vaginal canal? Whoa is me, or is it? What does an ugly write about when he's run out of ugly? It doesn't strike me like the kind of person to write about puppy dogs and unicorns. Or how the sun is a beautiful being and the gods are here to protect us. When you spend a chunk of your life written about your dissatisfaction with humanity and humans alike, you block yourself into those brackets. And what hell-bound brackets those are. At this time, life seems to be on an up swing, and i know damn well it'll reach a downswing, and that won't happen gradually as this upswing happened, but it'll be more like a snowball rolling down the snowy hill on that snowy day at 100mph. Fucking speed demon. As for this upswing, like i said, it came on like a bad drug cocktail and in a seemingly wicked way at the time.
Maybe this is all apart of growing up? Realizing that the world is a fucked place, no matter which way you turn it, but there's something here to get out of it. Optimism is for brainless drones, and being pessimistic is simply put being a sissy. We dismiss what we don't like out of some stupid selfish desire to not step outside of our bubble. You won't catch me dead in a Hollywood bar or at a Jason Mraz concert, because those things don't appeal to me. Comfort and beauty lay together in a small bar with a couple of seemingly human beings who have something to contribute to a conversation other than Jersey Shore updates and an onslaught of useless causes and nonprofits as they drink their $12 red bull and vodka while simultaneousnessly twittering and facebooking their awareness to the preservation of unicorns in Saudi Arabia and checking in on foursquare. Does this really sound like something i want to be apart of? Yeah, didn't think so, but if i had to be there, well, there's got to be a way to make this work, and i can't hate those people for doing what they do, they're doing what they think is right, and maybe it is wrong? Who the fuck am i to tell them how to be? Can't change the world and can't change the people in it, but you can manage yourself, and isn't that what really matters anyway?
It sucks to not be angry anymore, i always felt that letting go of that anger would deprive me of ideas in use for writing. I was scared. I feared happiness would be the downfall to passion. These weeks have been a lull, but i'll tell you what, damn i'm feeling good on the inside, better than i've felt in the last 3 years of my life. Clarity is no longer a rarity at this point. Now it's no longer about searching, but maintaining. I feel old and settled.
Self indulgent writing (such as this) isn't done on my part for an applause or comment. I know i'm not the only person here who has too also felt this way. I write for me, and i write for that poor schmuck out there holed up in a shitty hotel room eating crackers and watching the lead based paint peel off the walls. If he can read this and feel better about himself than i've done something with my life. I actually hope he reads this and says, "this guy sucks, i can write better than him."
and i hope he does. Let me know where you're at man and i'll send you some 8 1/2 x 11, a stack of envelopes, some pencils and a razor blade to cut your coke and sharpen the lead with.
Some people come into your life, and some fall out. Those who fall out don't fall out forever, they'll be back around, sooner or later they've got to come pick up the shit they left at your house. Those who come in are harder to manage, because at first you want to push them away and out of your box. They don't deserve to be in your box, you built this fucking box, it's your box, box for you, need i say it again? Yes. it's your goddamn box that you built. But hey man, maybe that box you're in is starting to crinkle and split at the seams, maybe it smells like urine and puke? If they're willing to come in, than maybe you should. If they take a look around and leave, well, no harm no foul. But if they come in and sit down, don't comment on the stench and condition, and pull a loaf of bread out of their coat, then you can't turn away that kind of goodness. It's easy to think all people are shit (because most of them are) but in grouping the wicked, there will be some strays. Those strays are where it's at, they got fucking soul man, the right kind of vibe. Surround yourself with real, honest, good people who have their own opinions and that's the kind of party you want in your box. Then tomorrow, you can visit their box, and share that moldy piece of cheese you've been hording, you fucking rat.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Damned if you Do and Damned if you Don't
I never wanted this thing to be open to "invited readers only". that's bullshit that people do to make you feel like you're part of some kind of exclusive club. Oh, i don't want so and so reading what i wrote, i don't want them in my head, it'll give them too much of an edge against me. But sometimes i can understand how that can be your only way out, keeping things private, because this is the internet, and people stumble across this thing every so often and read. If you don't know me personally it's much easier to just take it for what it is, but if you are around me, than i can see how these words can affect our relationship as friends, confidants, and even lovers. I took this site down several times, changed the name, moved to a different address and such, but i always felt an emptiness after that, as if by doing so i was cheating myself. Finally i said, "fuck it." and figured that if someone can read these words and find some solace in them, or read these words and say, "hey, i feel like that sometimes too." than maybe i was doing something right. This is what i know, and this is how i sift through the madness of life. Some people paint, some people write, other people drink heavily. I cannot drink heavily (coming from an alcoholic family.) so i've got to find an outlet that will make me not want to destroy the world. We all have the liberty to click that little "x" in the corner of our windows to close out this box and clean our minds from this. But for some reason, it always seems like whoever it is at the time, refuses to do so, and they continue on, into the layers of this bullshit to try and find some meaning in it.
I'm trying to be the best guy that i can be, and always trying to be a better person than what i am. I want to find at least some kind of tangible truth in my life, and writing it all down seems to me like the positive way to draw a more peaceful existence. But words do hurt. But is that not the price we pay in order to move forward? Am i selfish by indulging myself in sex, violence, women, fine drink and madness? Yes i very well may be fucked up int he head, or i may like these things the same way some people like sports or backgammon. We're all different.
My point is that i've hurt several people with the things i've written here. But alas, if i get rid of these words, then i may have no where else to rid myself of all of this, and it may come out in other aspects of my life. I was an angry man, a mean person, a loner for so long, and just when i think i may be doing something right, i turn around and become brave, too brave perhaps for my own well being. Now i have a choice, do i take the site down to satisfy those in my life who feel hurt by me? Or do i keep it up and let them keep reading, keep judging me for who i really am under the black shirt and jeans i wear everyday?
In the end, you have to live with yourself for as long as you got until your time card gets punched. And by doing so, do i live for others or do i live for me? It's easy to say, "Oh, Live for YOURSELF." But in reality, does it really sound that great? Do you know how many people i've pushed away with simple words? Do you know how much flak i've got for a story that wasn't even true, but i made sound like it was my own? Do i even care that you care? I do care. I'm not a heartless bastard for god's sake! I'm a human. and you're a human.
anytime someone is mean to me, hurtful, or just downright vindictive i look at my own behavior and say, "What did i do to make them react this way? Why are they so mad at me? How did i hurt them?"
I think that when reading what i wrote, you shouldn't be pointing your finger at me, and telling me that i'm a bad person, or that i judge people, or that i'm just a drunk stupid asshole. Maybe, if you think i'm talking about you somewhere (which is self indulgent on your part) maybe you should ask yourself what you did to piss me off in the first place? I have never heard a heartfelt apology from anybody in my life. Maybe instead of judging me for what i wrote, you should be asking what it is that made me want to write these things? A book is a book and words are words, none of it matters unless you make it matter. What's that saying? For the one finger you point at me there's three pointed right back and one pointed to god (if you believe in that fucker).
maybe the world's just fucked up and i'm trying to figure it out one word at a time? That's more than you can say for yourself. Or is it?
pull the safety off and cock and Que your thumb for action.
pull the safety off and cock and Que your thumb for action.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Now What am I going to Do for a Friend?
Give me a few minutes of your time.
Just as a heads up, this will take at least 20mins of your time, so if you can't spare that much, then don't even try.
I started thinking to myself about movies that made me cry. I don't remember the last time i cried in real life. It must of been at least when i was 18, or before that. I wondered what it was about these movies that really got to me, and after a few good pints, a few slugs off the bottle, i got to thinking, and it led me way further down that hole than i ever wanted to go.
Lets start with the ending to Gran Torino. Lets, for a moment, put aside all of the bullshit about bad acting and story arc and blah blah blah. Let's go straight for the heart, straight for the core of the movie. This isn't a father-son relationship. It came across more as two people from different cultures, different times, and different lives who somehow stumble upon being friends. In any case, one wonders why they are friends with someone in the first place? I believe that ground lays upon selfishness, you obviously see that the person has something to offer and inject into your life, something that you would like to be exposed to, so your curiosity wonders what it is about this person that intrigues you? They both exchange from the benefit, Walt gets someone that he can sift all of his shit onto and Thao gets a friend who can show him the ropes of the real world. Through the madness they tolerate each other's opposition but refer back to their initial tether, which keeps them both at bay together. They have this basic acceptance, not a racial acceptance, not a gender acceptance, not even a generation acceptance, but an acceptance as a human with something to offer greater than the slow drawl of life.
What makes me cry at the end of this movie, each and every time, is the scene above. Walt is a no bullshit kind of guy, he calls it like he sees it, and although everyone tries to put that label on themselves, when it really comes down to being honest and knowing that you'll possibly hurt someones feelings, Walt pulls through and spits it straight from inside without any kind of filter. A man like me can appreciate that. "The Unforgiving Truth." As the lawyer reads his will, with straight honesty from a deceased Walt, his grand daughter has a look of hope in her eyes. This makes me happy, because as the crushing blow of reality comes down on her, and the following words are said: my friend... Thao Vang Lor. On the condition that you don't chop-top the roof like one of those beaners, don't paint any idiotic flames on it like some white trash hillbilly, and don't put a big, gay spoiler on the rear end like you see on all the other zipperheads' cars. It just looks like hell. If you can refrain from doing any of that... it's yours.
.... Disappointment washes over her dead eyes. I often wonder how women react to this part of the movie. This is where i begin to tear up. They as friends, have gone through so much, and now, something that was merely an object has this unobtainable value that no one except Thao can understand. That my dear friends, is like giving a stranger a rock, and they toss it onto the curb. But giving someone who you helped dig that rock out with the same item, holds value in it, because you both have this understanding that is only between you and them. A friend. It's a gift that you can never say "thank you" or give back to. A final blow to the heart of love.
Now lets move onto Slc Punk. Steve-O and Heroine Bob are friends since early years. Bob strikes me as that kind of good hearted friend who is slightly naive but also critical and logical, although when drunk, can become way to critical of himself and wonder about his existence. I clicked with this movie, because I can share Bobs look in the mirror, wondering just what the fuck was going on, and how it got this far? And also riding home and spilling my heart about marriage, parents, and all the other horseshit babble we had to grow up with. (i understand that i am not special. We all had these problems growing up and dealt with them in one way or another.) But what really kills me about this last part is watching Steve-O realize that his only friend he ever had, his only friend that shared any kind of connection with, is laying there dead. It is true, that no one is ever ready for that, and it is also true, that only posers die you fucking idiot. But on the first plane, the thing that grabs me, is that no matter how much they battle through, (bobs dad trying to shoot them. Bob falling in love with Trish and leaving Steve-o out in the cold, bob moving on with his life, steve-o trying to move on with his, but feeling beaten by everyones happiness) they still revert back to that tether they had, that friendship, that simple thing that can never properly be described with justice, but only hold static in the air forever.
Both movies hold the same traits for me. Acceptance, understanding, a comradery that runs so deep it could never be fully understood except by the parties involved. I have this now with my roommate who i call my brother. Theres this thing between us, that no matter how far we push each other, we know when to come back and how exactly to come back in the right way. There's inside jokes, small bits of humor that anyone outside of this apartment will never understand. Walt and Thao, Steve-o and Bob. I wondered why these movies made me cry, and i figured it was the loss of someone who only you truly know. My next step was wondering how i could transfer those same feelings that are shared with a best friend onto a relationship between myself and a woman. That's a tough one.
Women were always a mystery to me, a mystery and a prize. I don't see how a woman can ever really be attracted to a man. We're fat, we smell, we're sweaty and somewhat dense, in short, we have nothing attractive about us. But a woman on the other hand, well shit... come on now... you're soft and sensual, even if you're rough and hard, you still have those frilly edges whether you like them or not. Your skin is soft, eyes like diamonds, hair like a Persian rug and the style of a cat. If men are dogs, then i'm glad women are cats. Sexy fucking cats.
Friendships involve a certain amount of respect and honesty. Everyone in a relationship demands honesty to a point, but is it really honestly honesty that you can handle? Yeah i said it twice. It makes sense. Go back and read it again. Okay, i feel that i may be dwindling off to a track on the wrong line. So give me a goddamn break to grab some more rum.
Alright, so first things fucking last, we've come this far, and all of this heavy drinking has seemed to clear my mind a bit as oppose to fogging it up. What is this mysterious air that keeps us from loving our wife like we love our brother? I believe it involves power. There's a power struggle in relationships between men and women. It's there, you can always feel it. In my life, i always had low self esteem. i fucking hate myself, and that's cool, i learned to live with it, i can't really see why a woman would like me or even be attracted to me in any sense, but i do know that i've got some value, something to offer, something solid and noteworthy, but i also know that i'm not any different than the other millions and billions of people here, so i don't really sweat that part of the equation. I'm good to you if you're good to me, and that's what it comes down to. Respect. Respect over power. But the tidy line is that you cannot demand respect or power from me, but must earn it. You've got to show me that under all that beauty lies something worth taking the time to figure out, understand, and ultimately fondle under my flannel blankets in our cold apartment. When I'm sick you come to me, and when you're sick I come to you. Soup for you, soup for me. Whats that? You just got in a car accident? Well shit, let me call work to cancel the day and come right over. But i won't do these things for you unless i know you're willing to go to bat for me, and the only way to know these things is to tackle them as they come.
I think about the previous women in my life, and although they were beautiful, and wonderful, i couldn't ever really see myself being honest with them. Because my honesty is to a fault, i bleed negativity and cynicism with small trace elements of hope and wonderlust. My humor is dark and makes sense in my head, but probably comes across as some gurgling sound. I am a difficult man to understand (or so i think) but i also don't make it easy for others to become close to me, because i cannot tolerate any kind of horse or bullshit. But you have to give in to get a little back. Vis a Vis.
Then i wonder if perhaps i came to this conclusion out of trying to find a peaceful understand in my relationship with the woman. This is a two sided street. On one hand, the alcohol and cigarettes mixed with the amphetamines may perhaps be making me delusional and stray away from reality (i just caught myself drooling).
On the other hand, maybe i am trying to take the small bits of my life that are true and decently understood, and honest, and finding a way to incorporate those into something that i know inside feels real, but is clouded with my previous inhibitions about the opposite sex and their mysterious ways of doing things. I feel as though this may be a step forth in the correct direction as i'm growing up. I see myself letting go of all those things i thought were great before, but now just seem lost and childish, and embracing things that have a value, a genuine purpose, something that is no longer abstract and vague, but solid and i can really grab a hold of. I want what I damn well want and don't want what they tell me i should want. Life is not without it's time wasting ability to live until you've driven yourself mad.
Just as a heads up, this will take at least 20mins of your time, so if you can't spare that much, then don't even try.
and now watch this:
I started thinking to myself about movies that made me cry. I don't remember the last time i cried in real life. It must of been at least when i was 18, or before that. I wondered what it was about these movies that really got to me, and after a few good pints, a few slugs off the bottle, i got to thinking, and it led me way further down that hole than i ever wanted to go.
Lets start with the ending to Gran Torino. Lets, for a moment, put aside all of the bullshit about bad acting and story arc and blah blah blah. Let's go straight for the heart, straight for the core of the movie. This isn't a father-son relationship. It came across more as two people from different cultures, different times, and different lives who somehow stumble upon being friends. In any case, one wonders why they are friends with someone in the first place? I believe that ground lays upon selfishness, you obviously see that the person has something to offer and inject into your life, something that you would like to be exposed to, so your curiosity wonders what it is about this person that intrigues you? They both exchange from the benefit, Walt gets someone that he can sift all of his shit onto and Thao gets a friend who can show him the ropes of the real world. Through the madness they tolerate each other's opposition but refer back to their initial tether, which keeps them both at bay together. They have this basic acceptance, not a racial acceptance, not a gender acceptance, not even a generation acceptance, but an acceptance as a human with something to offer greater than the slow drawl of life.
What makes me cry at the end of this movie, each and every time, is the scene above. Walt is a no bullshit kind of guy, he calls it like he sees it, and although everyone tries to put that label on themselves, when it really comes down to being honest and knowing that you'll possibly hurt someones feelings, Walt pulls through and spits it straight from inside without any kind of filter. A man like me can appreciate that. "The Unforgiving Truth." As the lawyer reads his will, with straight honesty from a deceased Walt, his grand daughter has a look of hope in her eyes. This makes me happy, because as the crushing blow of reality comes down on her, and the following words are said: my friend... Thao Vang Lor. On the condition that you don't chop-top the roof like one of those beaners, don't paint any idiotic flames on it like some white trash hillbilly, and don't put a big, gay spoiler on the rear end like you see on all the other zipperheads' cars. It just looks like hell. If you can refrain from doing any of that... it's yours.
.... Disappointment washes over her dead eyes. I often wonder how women react to this part of the movie. This is where i begin to tear up. They as friends, have gone through so much, and now, something that was merely an object has this unobtainable value that no one except Thao can understand. That my dear friends, is like giving a stranger a rock, and they toss it onto the curb. But giving someone who you helped dig that rock out with the same item, holds value in it, because you both have this understanding that is only between you and them. A friend. It's a gift that you can never say "thank you" or give back to. A final blow to the heart of love.
Now lets move onto Slc Punk. Steve-O and Heroine Bob are friends since early years. Bob strikes me as that kind of good hearted friend who is slightly naive but also critical and logical, although when drunk, can become way to critical of himself and wonder about his existence. I clicked with this movie, because I can share Bobs look in the mirror, wondering just what the fuck was going on, and how it got this far? And also riding home and spilling my heart about marriage, parents, and all the other horseshit babble we had to grow up with. (i understand that i am not special. We all had these problems growing up and dealt with them in one way or another.) But what really kills me about this last part is watching Steve-O realize that his only friend he ever had, his only friend that shared any kind of connection with, is laying there dead. It is true, that no one is ever ready for that, and it is also true, that only posers die you fucking idiot. But on the first plane, the thing that grabs me, is that no matter how much they battle through, (bobs dad trying to shoot them. Bob falling in love with Trish and leaving Steve-o out in the cold, bob moving on with his life, steve-o trying to move on with his, but feeling beaten by everyones happiness) they still revert back to that tether they had, that friendship, that simple thing that can never properly be described with justice, but only hold static in the air forever.
Both movies hold the same traits for me. Acceptance, understanding, a comradery that runs so deep it could never be fully understood except by the parties involved. I have this now with my roommate who i call my brother. Theres this thing between us, that no matter how far we push each other, we know when to come back and how exactly to come back in the right way. There's inside jokes, small bits of humor that anyone outside of this apartment will never understand. Walt and Thao, Steve-o and Bob. I wondered why these movies made me cry, and i figured it was the loss of someone who only you truly know. My next step was wondering how i could transfer those same feelings that are shared with a best friend onto a relationship between myself and a woman. That's a tough one.
Women were always a mystery to me, a mystery and a prize. I don't see how a woman can ever really be attracted to a man. We're fat, we smell, we're sweaty and somewhat dense, in short, we have nothing attractive about us. But a woman on the other hand, well shit... come on now... you're soft and sensual, even if you're rough and hard, you still have those frilly edges whether you like them or not. Your skin is soft, eyes like diamonds, hair like a Persian rug and the style of a cat. If men are dogs, then i'm glad women are cats. Sexy fucking cats.
Friendships involve a certain amount of respect and honesty. Everyone in a relationship demands honesty to a point, but is it really honestly honesty that you can handle? Yeah i said it twice. It makes sense. Go back and read it again. Okay, i feel that i may be dwindling off to a track on the wrong line. So give me a goddamn break to grab some more rum.
Alright, so first things fucking last, we've come this far, and all of this heavy drinking has seemed to clear my mind a bit as oppose to fogging it up. What is this mysterious air that keeps us from loving our wife like we love our brother? I believe it involves power. There's a power struggle in relationships between men and women. It's there, you can always feel it. In my life, i always had low self esteem. i fucking hate myself, and that's cool, i learned to live with it, i can't really see why a woman would like me or even be attracted to me in any sense, but i do know that i've got some value, something to offer, something solid and noteworthy, but i also know that i'm not any different than the other millions and billions of people here, so i don't really sweat that part of the equation. I'm good to you if you're good to me, and that's what it comes down to. Respect. Respect over power. But the tidy line is that you cannot demand respect or power from me, but must earn it. You've got to show me that under all that beauty lies something worth taking the time to figure out, understand, and ultimately fondle under my flannel blankets in our cold apartment. When I'm sick you come to me, and when you're sick I come to you. Soup for you, soup for me. Whats that? You just got in a car accident? Well shit, let me call work to cancel the day and come right over. But i won't do these things for you unless i know you're willing to go to bat for me, and the only way to know these things is to tackle them as they come.
I think about the previous women in my life, and although they were beautiful, and wonderful, i couldn't ever really see myself being honest with them. Because my honesty is to a fault, i bleed negativity and cynicism with small trace elements of hope and wonderlust. My humor is dark and makes sense in my head, but probably comes across as some gurgling sound. I am a difficult man to understand (or so i think) but i also don't make it easy for others to become close to me, because i cannot tolerate any kind of horse or bullshit. But you have to give in to get a little back. Vis a Vis.
Then i wonder if perhaps i came to this conclusion out of trying to find a peaceful understand in my relationship with the woman. This is a two sided street. On one hand, the alcohol and cigarettes mixed with the amphetamines may perhaps be making me delusional and stray away from reality (i just caught myself drooling).
On the other hand, maybe i am trying to take the small bits of my life that are true and decently understood, and honest, and finding a way to incorporate those into something that i know inside feels real, but is clouded with my previous inhibitions about the opposite sex and their mysterious ways of doing things. I feel as though this may be a step forth in the correct direction as i'm growing up. I see myself letting go of all those things i thought were great before, but now just seem lost and childish, and embracing things that have a value, a genuine purpose, something that is no longer abstract and vague, but solid and i can really grab a hold of. I want what I damn well want and don't want what they tell me i should want. Life is not without it's time wasting ability to live until you've driven yourself mad.
I Actually Enjoy This Kinda Response
On Mon, Aug 30, 2010 at 8:58 PM, Alex Rocha <alex_rocha83@hotmail.com> wrote:
> Editor,
> My name is Alexander Rocha, i'm from Los Angeles, and here is a nice
> poem dribbled from the mind of a 25 year old pervert. You guys have been
> real good to me before, i dig your style, so i figure i'd send along the
> good ones that i write out every once in a while.
> please enjoy
> -thanks
> alexander rocha
Response:
Mad Greetings, Alex Rocha!
Well, we gotta say, although we appreciate the grit and honesty in
"Separation of State", we feel it's a bit raw for the Swirl.
We like your previous submissions and ask you to continue submitting
your poetry. You've got a unique voice and point of view we think is
great for the Swirl. We just feel that this one will likely peave
more folks than it pleases. OK, it's our opinion - we editors are a
subjective lot.
Let's see more . . .
Really!
Peace,
MH@Mad
The Poem
> Editor,
> My name is Alexander Rocha, i'm from Los Angeles, and here is a nice
> poem dribbled from the mind of a 25 year old pervert. You guys have been
> real good to me before, i dig your style, so i figure i'd send along the
> good ones that i write out every once in a while.
> please enjoy
> -thanks
> alexander rocha
Response:
Mad Greetings, Alex Rocha!
Well, we gotta say, although we appreciate the grit and honesty in
"Separation of State", we feel it's a bit raw for the Swirl.
We like your previous submissions and ask you to continue submitting
your poetry. You've got a unique voice and point of view we think is
great for the Swirl. We just feel that this one will likely peave
more folks than it pleases. OK, it's our opinion - we editors are a
subjective lot.
Let's see more . . .
Really!
Peace,
MH@Mad
The Poem
Separation of State
my cock and balls are calling for you
they long for your warm embrace
they want to be held and fondled
and smothered in your face
my cock and balls are yearning for you
burning to be in your mouth
as the saliva drips down from your lips
and lands on the stripped, stained, comforter of my bed
and all the while
you stare at me with those big doe eyes
my cock and balls want to be held
in your hands, in your warm loving smell
they want to be nuzzled between your legs
as we spoon on that forgotten cloud
until they can't take it anymore
my cock and balls,
they want to scream out loud
my cock and balls want some action
they want to be apart of your party
be apart of your sex
to bathe themselves in your juices
wiggle between those luscious thighs waiting for you to call them in
they long for your warm embrace
they want to be held and fondled
and smothered in your face
my cock and balls are yearning for you
burning to be in your mouth
as the saliva drips down from your lips
and lands on the stripped, stained, comforter of my bed
and all the while
you stare at me with those big doe eyes
my cock and balls want to be held
in your hands, in your warm loving smell
they want to be nuzzled between your legs
as we spoon on that forgotten cloud
until they can't take it anymore
my cock and balls,
they want to scream out loud
my cock and balls want some action
they want to be apart of your party
be apart of your sex
to bathe themselves in your juices
wiggle between those luscious thighs waiting for you to call them in
and crawl
my cock and balls don't care what you've done
what you've said
what you are
or what you claim to be
they merely want you to fuck them
and squeeze the juice from the tree on my trunk
onto your face, your chest, your back, and anywhere they can reach
my cock and balls don't care that you're
empty inside
as long as those juices continue to flow
my cock and balls will be there for you
but me,
my honesty
my longevity to you
it never won't
my cock and balls don't care what you've done
what you've said
what you are
or what you claim to be
they merely want you to fuck them
and squeeze the juice from the tree on my trunk
onto your face, your chest, your back, and anywhere they can reach
my cock and balls don't care that you're
empty inside
as long as those juices continue to flow
my cock and balls will be there for you
but me,
my honesty
my longevity to you
it never won't
Sunday, December 5, 2010
The Hearts of Men
I'm not tall,
I'm not handsome,
I'm not good looking at all.
I don't have a nice smile
i don't have a great attitude,
neither do I have money
a sign of upancomings,
or any kind of stature.
I'm losing my hair
at the tender age of 25,
I thought this shit wasn't suppose to happen until i'm 30 at least?
but better than i know
i'm losing it now,
than losing it at 35
or 40
and create some kind of bullshit
mid-life crisis
or 1/4 life crisis (which only fools have)
to try and feel better about themselves.
I'm tired,
I tolerate everything
my job
my girlfriend
my friends
my life,
because i have to.
I have to tolerate all this shit.
and that in itself
proves a mans worth.
We have no choice to.
If not, we'd end up like Thoreau
writing some sorry collections of words.
Stringing together some bullshit recollection of how things should be
and how we can't live with them.
So we have two choices now,
either we move away from all the bullshit
and eventually become Ted Kaczynski
or we learn to live with it.
I want to love (which is a preconceived notion planted in our heads by society)
I really don't think you understand it.
We are not manwhores
we are not bad people
that's just your inner defense pushing us away
but sooner than later
we'll stop being patient with you
and just walk away
because that's what we do.
Don't be so cynical
or jaded
you're getting old and i can see it
from here
don't be such a bitch
so bad inside as a person
we're trying the best we can
the hardest we can push
and if that's not enough for you
than go fuck with somebody else's life
because at least
at the end
we can say
we did everything in our power to make you happy.
Do you know
how fucking lucky you even are?
in this time and age
to have a guy who will even listen to your babbling bullshit?
We're trying to be good
but your cynicism makes us bad
so you
EVE
made us eat the apple
that damned us forever
and it goes on
for ages and ages
until we can't go with you any further
and we hate you
you made us hate you
with your jealousy
with your lousy stupid attitude
with your questions
with your stupid fights over nothing
with you wanting us to be respectful
but still be men.
We are men
trying to be good to you
and you're so fucking blind
that you can't even see that.
and when we walk away
from a bad situation
we are damned the bad men in this
when in reality
you did nothing to help
you did nothing to understand
you only pushed
and pushed
and fucking pushed
us until we were gone
and you have no one to blame
but your fucked up self
you in the inside are rotten
while at least we make an attempt to be good.
we try
we try oh so hard
you on the other hand
just expect.
expect everything.
and that,
well,
i could be honest
but i rather be good.
that's just rotten to the core.
you've got worms
infecting your brain
and your head should be fumigated.
don't be so horrible
don't expect us to be perfect
because we're not
but at least we fucking TRY
we TRY to be the guy you could love
while we
we have to love you for all your faults
all your fucked up inhibitions
all your badness
while you only point out the badness in us.
we want to love you fully
completely
utterly until death
but you
are the one who complicates
everything
and this.
this.
this.
leaves us with no choice
but to be dicks.
I'm not handsome,
I'm not good looking at all.
I don't have a nice smile
i don't have a great attitude,
neither do I have money
a sign of upancomings,
or any kind of stature.
I'm losing my hair
at the tender age of 25,
I thought this shit wasn't suppose to happen until i'm 30 at least?
but better than i know
i'm losing it now,
than losing it at 35
or 40
and create some kind of bullshit
mid-life crisis
or 1/4 life crisis (which only fools have)
to try and feel better about themselves.
I'm tired,
I tolerate everything
my job
my girlfriend
my friends
my life,
because i have to.
I have to tolerate all this shit.
and that in itself
proves a mans worth.
We have no choice to.
If not, we'd end up like Thoreau
writing some sorry collections of words.
Stringing together some bullshit recollection of how things should be
and how we can't live with them.
So we have two choices now,
either we move away from all the bullshit
and eventually become Ted Kaczynski
or we learn to live with it.
I want to love (which is a preconceived notion planted in our heads by society)
I really don't think you understand it.
We are not manwhores
we are not bad people
that's just your inner defense pushing us away
but sooner than later
we'll stop being patient with you
and just walk away
because that's what we do.
Don't be so cynical
or jaded
you're getting old and i can see it
from here
don't be such a bitch
so bad inside as a person
we're trying the best we can
the hardest we can push
and if that's not enough for you
than go fuck with somebody else's life
because at least
at the end
we can say
we did everything in our power to make you happy.
Do you know
how fucking lucky you even are?
in this time and age
to have a guy who will even listen to your babbling bullshit?
We're trying to be good
but your cynicism makes us bad
so you
EVE
made us eat the apple
that damned us forever
and it goes on
for ages and ages
until we can't go with you any further
and we hate you
you made us hate you
with your jealousy
with your lousy stupid attitude
with your questions
with your stupid fights over nothing
with you wanting us to be respectful
but still be men.
We are men
trying to be good to you
and you're so fucking blind
that you can't even see that.
and when we walk away
from a bad situation
we are damned the bad men in this
when in reality
you did nothing to help
you did nothing to understand
you only pushed
and pushed
and fucking pushed
us until we were gone
and you have no one to blame
but your fucked up self
you in the inside are rotten
while at least we make an attempt to be good.
we try
we try oh so hard
you on the other hand
just expect.
expect everything.
and that,
well,
i could be honest
but i rather be good.
that's just rotten to the core.
you've got worms
infecting your brain
and your head should be fumigated.
don't be so horrible
don't expect us to be perfect
because we're not
but at least we fucking TRY
we TRY to be the guy you could love
while we
we have to love you for all your faults
all your fucked up inhibitions
all your badness
while you only point out the badness in us.
we want to love you fully
completely
utterly until death
but you
are the one who complicates
everything
and this.
this.
this.
leaves us with no choice
but to be dicks.
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