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the crazy intro
favourites4 stuff
page no-4; the coming of age
the angels are my brothers
favourites6 MandS
my father was a cake baker
favourites 5 quirky shapes
the mystery of the blue camel
FAVOURITES
favourites3 lyrics
poem beginnings
favourites2 holiday pangs
business as usual
home stretch
family poems
thus prooving conclusively
friends and foes
wheeled automobiles named kev
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| get the power of platinum |
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| lets all get brainwashed |
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| copywright 2000, all rights reserved this page isnt radically different, but i think its a little stronger and bitterer. maybe more passionate. this is the start of the rage that slowly is taking over my body, and twisting it into the shattered, evil man you think of when you hear my name. UNTITLED 2 you've seen my heart. my true vulnerability; the anguish, the joy, suffering. the grief, the desperation, the doubt the sadness, the cry for help. i let you in, showed you around. my life, the up's , the down's, the memories, the hopes, the tears, the dreams, the needs, the fears. and did you care? did you ever stop staring? at the freak, the play-thing, the joke, the lover, the embarassement, the boy, the abused, the fucking toy. did you have to leave your mark? was it pride that made you smash my heart? the anger, the betrayal, the pain the nightmare, the torture, the death. you killed me. NON-CONFORMING he likes to look a bitter man, he amuses the notion of not giving a damn, to be able to drink, to sleep to insult, to be cheap, to be needy. have you ever argued with a cripple? have you ever wanted to? this was written after i had an argument with my dad. the idea of a cripple i think comes from me excusing myself for doing too little, since you never fight wioth a cripple. it also comes from a film where a man says that cripples just want to be treated normally, not as special cases. QUICK RELIEF look at the ceiling. its time for my medication. its time for some medication. some quick inhalation, to wake up, to forget the pain. the bitch is on the game, the dirty slut just wanted to be fucked. i need someone to hit. but im not sad. i just want to sit and kill the pain. these are two different poems. the first one i think is about drugs, the second one is where i had a massive fight with a friend, and initially i was really angry and bitter, but inthe end i was just resigned and apathetic. STAGNANT CONVERSATIONS ARE A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH "so you're from scotland." i was off my head, brain-dead, and just wanted someone tin bed. "yeah..." the man's expected to make a move and break the ice. its the price of a sexist society. "oh." silence is not a curtesy, it's an embarrassement. "where in Scotland?" "have you been to scotland?" the conversation starts trying to find some common ground. "no." the silence now though reminds one of a mercy, a respite, the state of execution. "oh." repetition is never a good sign. a lines been crossed. "oh." follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick road. It's not that easy! and im far from home. ill soon be dead. "oh." why are i thinking of the wizard of oz. because, because, because, because, because, because of the wonderous things he does. You werent there so how do you know! how can you judge? anyway its just sleight of hand. i feel betrayed now. well not for long. "do you want a drink?" "no." the conversation seems pointless now. all that work. so empty, so obvious, so artificial. "oh." Dorothy wasd too sheltered. she always had friends, enemies, dogs, and shiny shoes. THATS NOT REAL! "so where about in scotland did you say?" she never realized that stagnant converstions are a force to be reckoned with. my delusions have just been killed publicly. i need a new hero. i can definitely trace this. it was written in Mallorca a year ago, when some scottish girl we were talking too wasnt interested in me and my friend, gabriel. ah well. more fish in the sea. i have no idea where alice in wonderland came from. PROTESTS OF A BITTER MAN do you think god cares? do you think he cares about our pain? do you think he cries when he avoids a tramp bleeding in a gutter? do you think he feels shame when he spys a millionaire pervert himself? is their any guilt, any sign of conscience? do you think our lord cant sleep at night with the images; the dead, the dying, diseased the crippled, the incarserated? does the almighty despair when a brother kills another? do you think something in him dies? when he sleeps, does he toss and turn? does he wake up in the middle of the night sweating in his pjamas, and realizing something, shout to the world "it was me, it was me. im so sorry please forgive me, i was naive, i was..." and break down? do you think he cares about your pain? do you think he wouldnt do it again? do you think he has nightmare? this, as you might have guessed, is based on my disbelief in god, and dislike of religion and indoctrination which i believe follows. this poem though is more about finding someone to blame, especially when like the title says your in a bitter bitter mood. there is an optional ending, but im not sure it fits the poem. (wake up, smell the fame the stupid bastard sold his name. destinations, corporations, logo's, war's, religions, copywright, they're all the same.) MILLENIUM CELEBRATION get laid, get married, 24 children. live to the next millenium. (maybe you wont) turn down the new year lights. too bright. stop the noise. mind destroyed. coffee, water. stop the headache. shes pregnant, you bastard. this is me bitter again, and here im blaming the millenium. ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOTH im bored. brought up in an age of apathy where everything i do is crappy. fuck education, buy a gun. wahey, some fun, and some deprivation. ill smash some windows, commit a drive-by. ill burn down the school, then fuck all. and when the cops come in charge and they're there to take charge to put me away... for life, ill plea insane. and when they cant be bought and are taken to court, my parents lawyers in black and gelled hair will deannounce me for once and for all. they'll blame their mtv and marilyn manson, they'll blame their hollywood and its violence. they'll blame the voices in my head. they'll blame jesus and the devil. they'll show my goodside to the camera crews. ill be in the papers. ill be in the news. my fifteen minutes of fame. and we can tell them "i always did what they said." this is my alibi. and ill repeat it 'till im dead. like the last few, this is again about handing out blame and never accepting it. THE SUICIDE DANCE no-one cares about the reason why, it not necessart to lie. grief, fear, and pressure are all the same, no-ones concerned as long as you're game. so now to start the dance all you do is pick your stance. to commence to play suicide, first of all you must decide. if youve chosen to cut your wrists, well ill assume youve got the gist. two tips would be to check the blades sharp, the other to do it in the bath. if you desire to use a knife, to end your miserable life. well cutting your neck isnt as symbolic and its sure not advised for alcoholics. another good choice is to jump from up high, its a great feeling, falling through the sky. if you're looking for no pain, pick this but it's quite inane. there are other choice if youve doubts among them is putting a gun in your mouth. if you are committed you can drown, even an overdose is sound. another option is chucking back pills, but carbon monoxide easily kills. it has a certail 'je ne sais quoi,' and all you need is garage and car. this is what i'd do, its not the best, but i prefer it to all the rest. when your comfortable with the beat, then you're ready to swing your feet. now if youre convinced you want to doze firstly ensure the garage is closed. get in the car 1-2-3 when you're ready turn the key. 2-3-4 lock the door now4-3-5 not long alive. and 4-5-6 take your last fix. and 5-6-7 so close to heaven. 6-7-8 keep hold of your hate. if you think youll be missed, you must be really pissed. you are better of dead. you'll at least get some cred. 7-8-9, nearly time. you shouldnt feel a thing at leat not the poisoning. you're probably out of breath, that happens as you near death. you did the dance well, in fact you did swell. you've made me real proud, so take you're deserved bow. and 8-9-10 this is the end. doing the glorious suicide dance, doing the glorious suicide dance. this may seem sick or stupid, but i think thats its clever using a nursery rhyme effect for a disturbed poet. it sound good when said alound, and when you keep to the beat. |
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