Obscenity Cavern

Obscenity cavern,
plastered with fucks,
gives rise to the new age
raised to bow low
keep your head down,
duck, tuck and roll.
Whispered in stories,
like the day it last rained,
awash is the removal
of freedom from failure,
honesty and blame.
Turncoats and bastards
(that’s what they cry)
mirrors twisted and cracking
impossibly contorting
as futility sighs.
At long last there is sense,
(though it echoes too loud)
in the canyons of absence
where each of the dead
is everlastingly proud.

Pen with Wit

This prose of mine,

Uses wit to share,

A world all in rhyme.

 

From common to fantastic,

A one man show,

Cheerily quite tragic.

 

My thoughts Will Shake,

Romantic exaltation,

Bard your thirst I can slake.

 

Hear this soul vision,

Verses as a paintbrush,

Abstract mind without television.

 

I abdicate the final word,

Nod my head to a Lord,

Whose pen was mightier than a sword.

Speed It Up – Spoken Word

VERY quick spoken word – pushing for speed to grab the urgency of mania or #bipolar.

gentlemen prefer bones – Sam Lucero

Wordgasms on wordgasms – found @ Sudden Denouement

…i will drip in the vaccinated womb, an embryo worm in the vapor soil…

 

Source: gentlemen prefer bones – Sam Lucero

mothers soaking touch
drowns the meadows
sinking in blue pastures
where the lamb is missed
& the wolf roams low

above there’s laid out
a garland of stars
for the marriage of the
moon & the husk

stillness mourns
the wind, that like a
drifting treasure had
heretofore stayed buried,
braided up in that locket
of rust & wire
bursting out into the wild
with the lantern of
the sun resting in the
grip of a paper-doll

inside these leaking vaults
velvet shadow & coffin
are to the liking of the quiet,
as the hurricane counts down
on ferny fingers
the moments until
the end of my best holiday

i will not soon shroud
my lullaby with the isolated
murmur of old, nether-bed gods,
the arctic toil
of a choleric world,
& the river I drank from
to forget

i will drip in the vaccinated womb
an embryo worm in the vapor soil
waiting for the homecoming
of water, of nectar
sleeping until
the dream wakes

[Sam Lucero is creator of sixredseeds. Please take a moment to read her wonderful bio and look at her other work. Sixredseeds.wordpress.com]

Politics and Felons

political-skull

Snow blind hegemony awash in crystalline flakes,

Glittering razors culling our commoners and drunks with the shakes.

Loyalties cleaned and washed through censoring filters,

Amidst shapeshifters shifting to mask hands covered in blisters.

From the cold of their souls and the heat of their rage,

Seared meat not so young as to be tender with age.

The gallows of yore leave fractions aghast,

That here and now they have gone and the past is all past.

Passe the romance and notions of change,

Politics is riddled with absence,

Most notably shame.

 

P.S. This was written while watching the debates and final results during the Hilary vs Trump 2016 election. Was sitting in jail with a host of felons who were equally disgusted.

Dog Paws on a Keyboard

winking-typing-dog

 

I write because I want to be fed Milk Bones.

Sometimes I crave recognition and commentary as a reassurance that I might be better than average, even excel at something. Everyone wants to know that they have a gift, some form of prowess, a “something exceptional” that deserves an attaboy pat on the head.

I write because I need to catch a bouncing tennis ball.

At other points, the words pour with alacrity, urgent, demanding, and a quench to the heated thoughts being forged in reaction to an onslaught of emotional intensity. Good, bad, high flying optimism, crumbling shades of depression, maniacal exuberance, blaspheming anger blinding out reason, blue oceans of regret and shame – any and all as long as the fire burns hot enough to crack the walls.

I write because I like eating my chew toy.

Rare is the moment of universal quiet when thought retains an unadulterated purity unstained by dramatic flare, event or heart or mind driven twinge. When understanding is met or sought, clarity is both absent and present, and where the exercise itself serves the purpose.

I write because I’m a dog, and a keyboard feels like a warm blanket and pillow on a snow day.

Crystal Meth

Pumped up on that chalky sunshine,

The moon is fading to another vicious morning.

Spent my hours beneath the starlight in the wind,

Lovingly hitting repeat on every action I’d begin.

Glassed eyes and withered muscles ache,

Blood thundering past a thirst impossible to slake.

The ride was hot and heavy to the top,

Until we picked up speed enough to never stop.

A Boy Named Wolf

EDIT 12/12/16: Was asked to remove the picture of my son as part of my ongoing dispute with the ex-wife. Image has been replaced with “Fort Taber” which is the location this interaction originally took place in the short story by the same name as this excerpt. Thank you for reading.

A Boy Named Wolf

Drugs/Alcohol: “I am not an individual, yet each singular person has the capacity to carry my spirit into the world. I am multiplied with each additional user, yet the core of what I am remains the same. I am not contained within powders or bottles or needles. Merely vehicles by which I extend myself physically into the world. On the plane of thoughts, I am a gateway to dreams, goals, opportunity, capacity, capabilities and opportunity. Emotionally, I am happiness, relief, dependable joy, relaxation, inspiration, and intensity unleashed. For your spirit, I provide for comfortable faith in a tactile form which offers succor to all who kneel and bring me inside their life.

I am a God who responds. Who ensures your prayers will be answered immediately. I am gratification instantly without the annoyance of patience. Why would you not want me? I an the perfect answer to your questions not even asked.”


Wolf:  “I’ve seen your work in my life, in the sickness of a father, the loss of my home, tears from mother, and a sister who doesn’t know “DADDY” as anything other than a voice on the phone. There are no dreams with any substance you truly provide. No lasting materialization of each temporary respite from reality. Each fades to an increasingly nightmarish awareness as you strip health, dignity, and passion from those penitent before your strength of persuasion.

Smiles only mask tears as, boldfaced, your flock sells such sweet lies to the innocent children begging for the love of time lost.

                “Physically, regardless of form, you corrode the natural state of each being. You disregard the value of life, diminishing the ability to explore the world we inhabit. Your demands for attention outweigh the critical needs of food, water, and shelter. You let your acolytes freeze, burn, and starve for your favor. Their dependence on you grows until your absence inflicts pain while your presence soothes the body and places the agony on their mind and soul. You are rust on a cog in the machine that is our body. Our one indispensable and limited currency to share and create precious moments with – time. You cut our lives short, and we can never regain that. Each moment so brief that we are hardly aware of its passing until it has gone. Even having escaped you, the damning repercussions of your presence will haunt the body with ailments and injury well past when you have departed.

You are the plea for death, to cut life short in mercy, for in desperation you trick our bodies to betray us.

                “In mind, you cause your lovers thinking to be so distorted as it must be to fit existence into conforming with your view of the world. It must warp to escape the horror that has become life. Defenses of the mind are erected, devolving willpower in lieu of rationalization, justification and denial. Barriers to the truth that they are not intellectually inferior, but infected by a sickness of the mind that cripples the capacity to confront, honestly, personal shortcoming in order to improve upon them. You delude, misguide, frustrate, reshape, and manipulate the mind until your followers rely on you to lead and direct every choice and belief.

You weaken the gift of thought, voiding the opportunity to mentally defeat you. No answer do you offer, only the question, why?

                “Emotionally, you shatter confidence, replace hope with fear, pride with arrogance, love with hate. You contaminate innocence with misery, motivation with desperation, joy with despair, excitement with impulse. Regret begets guilt, guilt begets shame, and shame erodes the experience of the present and the internal support of conviction and commitment to construct a fulfilling future – much less belief in an ability to do so. Satisfaction and acceptance with hollowness and insecurity. You are the complete removal of optimism and hope.

You are the ultimate resentment in self. You are obsession, self-loathing, and self-destruction.”

                “You are bankruptcy of the soul, there is no spirituality to be sound in you. Where faith should increase as blessings are counted, gratitude succumbs to grandiose beliefs about our place in the spectrum of control. The dilution of the spirit by artificial inflation of ego. Eyes are cast down instead of up when your supplicants seek nurturing. All values are destroyed to make way for your replaced design of integrity.

Your capital is misery, spreading like a plague to crush out the glow we each are born with – the blessing from beyond. You become the reason for prayers unanswered.


Drugs/Alcohol: “Child, you have not tasted the wealth of my love yet. There is fire here to prime you to any task filled at your slightest whim. Oceans of milky light cast from the fullest of moons to soothe you into peaceful waking slumber to dream and adventure as only the imagination can let you.

Courage at the waiting lips of a bottle wanting to embrace yours as only a lover could….”


Wolf“No. Lies. Stories. Manipulations and deceit. No. Not now. Not ever. You have stripped away the love that once beat loudly in the heart of the man I knew as father. I’ve seen his broken eyes, and watched the crippling frustration of a young man dying as an old one.

No. You have claimed enough from me and my family. You CANNOT and WILL NOT have any more. Leave, you are not welcome here.

I love you more than words can ever tell and am so proud of you Wolfie. You are always on my mind.

~End~

Please excuse grammatical errors (proofreading at 4am is tough). This is an excerpt from a story I’ve been working on to try and process my absence and loss of family owing to drugs and alcohol. Wolf is actually the name of my son, and I am so proud of him. He knows (I hope) that he is still my sunshine, now and always, even if I can’t be there. Format was played with a little. Please comment, email me – I am truly interested to know what the larger world thinks of this kind of writing.

Damned to Succeed (Slam/Spoken)

YouTube Video of the Spoken Word / Slam Poetry – apologies, my free plan doesn’t allow for direct posting of videos. This isn’t a gimmick to get you to click through,?” I just don’t have another means to share. Thank you for your time – I know you have a lot of quirky and unique folks and things to see online, we’re thrilled to have had your attention for more than 10 seconds and hope we can do even better the next time around, 😉 

~S


Why is always the question,
Regardless of the fucking answer.
Why did it happen?
Why is this the way it is?
Why do I not have this?
Why did I make that one choice?
Why is she gone?
Why are they not here?
Why am I stuck in this endless fucking cycle with no one to blame but myself.
Pity is the answer when there’s no one to answer back.
Regardless of the reason behind why,
Pity solves the unsolvable,
Pity for yourself feels like absolution,
Pity shames the word away,
Because pity lets the hurt ring true.
Whether it’s honest,
Or a cry for attention,
Pity is a thing that has meaning and passion,
Feeling not lessoned by the outside,
Rather enhanced by memories and dreams.
Pity cries that you regret,
But don’t want to be buried beneath all of your miserable self-hatred.
“Get off the pity pot.”
Idiotic fucking saying.
“Stop feeling bad that you destroyed your life.”
It’s grieving, one part perhaps.
Fuck you for telling me to “man up.”
I’ll get there.
But right now I’m a child embracing the need for a warm touch from someone who will tell me it’s okay.
Clearly that’s not you.
Or so many in “the rooms.”
Anger is a statement of action,
Which can burn to the point of liquid sunshine,
Or freeze the world in a halo of hatred.
Anger shows a path forward.
Anger lays out the choice to move someplace new.
To take the past in an embrace and crush it with disgust,
Use it as fuel to burn a path into the future.
Or,
It can smolder into bitterness and resentment,
Regret with rage shimmering outwards in an aura of disgust.
Either a tool for success,
Or the death sentence of purgatory by one’s own hand.
Ice yourself over with hate for what caused the pain,
What caused the frustration,
The misery,
The loss,
The devil on your back that whispers sweet nothings in your ear.
The misleading moment where you believe it.
The damning consequences of that instant.
Fucking ice,
And seething determination.
Fuel the burning demand to NEVER GO BACK.
To forge a road forward.
To lay waste to anything that stands between you and success.
Today I’ll try and remember to turn the flame towards where it truly belongs.
Crawl out from under my self-pity and depression,
Stop asking why,
Just take it all for what it is.
The past was what it was.
The future makes unknown moves to confound the game.
This moment has all the possibilities I will ever see.
 And it’s time to stand proudly in it.
Raise flag and grit teeth.
I’m sick of this shit,
Forward the march into the question of tomorrow,
And damn yesterday for the last time,
It’s about time to win for a bit.

 

 

Insomniac in the Morning

 img_1543-1 

Another night is gone,

The goddamn birds are chirping,

And while I think I was productive,

I’m sure it wasn’t worth it.

My eyeballs ache from skullbound flashes,

Each tendon in my body is moaning,

The sun and sky are so bright with light,

That “back inside” seems to be an order instead of what’s right,

I hang back at the door, or sheet, or flap,

Screwing up my mind and face to think about,

Why despite the price,

I race the setting rays into the West,

A challenge that bears no chance to win and promises self inflicted malice.

Yet….

It feels so nice to taste the liquor of the stars,

While moonlight drips down as whimsy scented honey,

Transforming us all into the Cosmos serving bar.

Thick blue hued amber smoked into an untouchable glow,

Spirit boosting tinsel to top our nightly gifted box.

Conjures whims and true lunacy,

Sets the true Faithful afloat,

In a boat atop the inbound light.

So freeing,

So, so, slow.