pen

the words don't come easy
on this nauseous hungover day
every train of thoughts trails off
into mad nonsense.
maybe if i buy a new pen, i think
perhaps then
these words i write won't look so lost
so naked.
maybe a carbon steel ballpoint pen
with high-grade stainless steel trimmings.
i could engrave my name on it.
with a pen like that, i think
i could write cryptic poetry
that would bewilder the masses.
then i speculate the possibilities
of stabbing myself to death with a pen like that
with my name engraved on it.
possibly if i hit a main artery
in my neck, i think
that could work.
but i can't afford a pen like that.

at least it smells good

my russian neighbor is beating his wife again
he screams like a little bitch
but she keeps it calm

the Hollywood night is once again flowing
with wonderful minacious sounds
helicopters, sirens and car-alarms
a lonely cry of lost love

whores do their nightly runway walk
their stiletto heels clicking and clacking
down the filthy sidewalk, outside my window

all the party-people
porn-stars, models and studio-executives
now intoxicated, they harvest the anger
sowed by traffic-jams and deals gone south
in the heat of the day

the russian is yelling again, hitting
she is calm
"shut the fuck up!", shouts my room-mate
it gets quiet for a while
long enough for me to fall asleep
to the sweet smell of jasmine

at least Hollywood smells good

do do do

i'm always planning a trip out to the desert
"one day i'm gonna move out there", i say
"what are you gonna do out there?", they ask
i'm gonna sit in a camping-chair
drink Bud Lights
and shoot my guns
"but what are you gonna DO?", they ask
just sit there
get drunk
let my mind go, and
maybe do some writing
"but you got to DO something", they insist

i hardly ever go out in the desert
i have so much shit to DO!

there's that

there's birth
there's life
there's death
i messed up the second one

a page

been cursing at this page for hours
yet, no words
i blame the hundred sheets, wide rule composition book.
it's you, and the lines
that leave no room to breathe
there are plenty to worry about
but we choose not knowing
we smile animosity, laugh hatred
kiss tears, in this orgy of mistrust
i scream at this piece of paper
cause i can't scream at you
my blue knuckles can't break every bone in your face
and leave you in a pool of broken promises
my fingernails cut into this sentence
like you cut into me
tearing flesh
chew my pencil, spit your bones
love you more than you'll ever know, i write.
i draw the moon, and pretend
that we look upon it
two stick-figures holding hands
we're happy, like we should be.