Horror in the Morning Seen

Horror living, it looks back with dread

and I look at it not knowing what it is

Disgusted, I throw in instinct

and it throws back in same instance

the disgust thrown at it

It is a fear, it is a pain

It is a most offensive character

Vile in all its years breathing

This horror living looks back

Crowned Ignoble

through filth, spots of corrupted shine shine

pricking mine eyes with a

devious, delirious, pretentious prick

of a labyrinthine gold, jewel-encrusted smile

I cringe aching upon view of

the horror of this morning, this horror

looked upon with city block-wide unease

What is this terrifying, skyscraping monstrosity?

This morning

I look in the mirror

All I see

is me

Adore: A Detachable Commitment

The songs I sing. The words I write. I sing & write with the sweetest of intent. The creative gush goes out on dishes of glimmering silver as candied delights ready to be consumed by whom it may concern. The girl written doesn't know - naturally - but others do, yayo. They know her to be a most wonderful being.

Despite my haughty stance as stated in Depart from Admire, the seed has been buried and it checks me, kicks me, teases me to put forth more thoughts of cherish. Another lyric. Another verse. It has to go somewhere, aye? To lock a seed from growing is far more straining then to let it grow withered.

And I boom full what you see and hear for she truly is a person of spectacular worth, don't cha know?

However.

I plug into this admire, guarded. Through quadruple-shielded cable is sent that sweet, sweet intent. Out to that platinum-plated super transference 1/4" jack is a sound heard out Whoa. 'Cause she is the Whoa, aye? And if and when Modern Lovely discovers this output from seeing the sight that is tender she and she runs far, far away OR returns with apathy personified . . .

then I'll simply plug out.

I wrote what I wrote. I sang what I sang. It'll just be there. That sweet intent. Meant for someone Whoa.

But no. Heh. =P

It's garbage, aye?

It's a detachable commitment.

(I refuse to set up for heartbreak, dummy. Hah.)

Pas Blanc

Here, here these dirt strands

are just what is merely seen

Though not the blonde perfection

that you so dearly seek

They fall just the same, top my mind

See it wave hello

But noticed not, overtaken

by those deemed oh so fairer

I'm just me

I'm not my hair

Yeah

Here I stand, surface sun eaten

is just what is merely seen

Though not the paler purity

that you so dearly seek

It covers heart just the same

See it wave hello

But it is not noticed, looks go

to that deemed oh so fairer

I'm just me

I'm not my skin

Yeah

I know I'm not a fair boy

But with this black hair

and this brown skin

I

can

make you smile, just the same

Oh Jazelle

I'm just me

I'm not what you might see

Yeah

Sympathy for the Drunk?

Wednesday, July 29, 2011

Evening

"You're making me angry, Clown!"

Through the white wooden slab marking the closed doorknobbed entry to the yellow room, I sit hearing the verbal ruckus of The Brother Younger directed toward someone less-than-sober. Heavy steps match doors swung with just as much weight, the air pushed violently acting as palpable wind away from the emotional turbulence.

"I have a long drive, Clown! I don't need this right now!!"

Stomp, stomp, stomp. The door dunks shut with a gah-duh!!

I look out the window and visibly see the frustration on the TJ's shoulders. With a sweater half-put on I make my way down the stairs and out to the driveway. The summer evening is bright. The sun far from horizon east. Under world light TJ's jagged exit vrooms. "Dude?" I ask concerned. "He keeps repeating himself. I set it up already and he keeps asking. 'I set it up.' He asks again. 'I set it up.' He asks again! I'm tired of this, I gotta go!'" TJ makes the drive out, heading to SoCal to sell product at the ComicCon with his fellow drift buddy Bravo. "Be safe, have fun. Just pay no mind to the idiot" being my reply to his departure.

In the kitchen sits the Drunken Clown. He sits as king at court as the ruler of a kingdom of empty aluminum cans that scatter the house. The computer room. The backyard. The garage. The playroom. Empty cans take a residence in each. DC sees my entry, immediately getting into a tirade about how all he did in perfect form was ask to do a favor and how in return he got gruff from TJ.

I return "Yeah but 20 times. Multiple times?"

"Twenteee NoooWhat?!" rolls out in stupid-water tainted breath.

"You might as well have."

"Ehhh shiettt Ican do it mighhself if I wanted to learn to." With gusto these words are said. I've heard them before and question him there, "Why don't you just do it then?" "Ehhhh shiettt," he replies with a dismissive wave of the hand, "whydoessss hehaf to get maadd? O?"

"Because you told him multiple times. It probably makes him feel stupid."

"Whaaaatnoooo?? Thass boolshettt. Iaskheem to doIT and juss DOit!! Y-gettang gree?!? O?"

"Because you keep repeating yourself. Because you're drunk." Boom goes the truth.

"Ooahhheere we go again! It's alwaaysme!! I'mmtha prahblehm againn!"

"Look I don't want to hear your "I'm the bad guy" bullshit again. You've been saying that shit for years and you know why you're the bad guy? Because you drink you fucking idiot." Now choked with the same frustration that TJ drove off with I step up to the kitchen beside his royal drunkenness and say "'Cause it tastes good huh? You like that huh? That's your medicine?!" I grab the Keystone Light and force his gamot to his lips, his yellow eyes bulge, slithering red veins pop out ready to strike. He stumble stands up (somehow slyly setting his precious can on the table) as if ready for a fight. In defense I rage with a shout "WHAT?? WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO?!! WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO?!!?" At this point I'm up ready to knock the fucker out, kick his half-cripple arthritic legs from under him and make a trampled mess on the kitchen tile in tints of a smashed alcoholic. Drunken Clown knows this. The threat is there. He backs off. "Ayewee don't haftoDo this, hah?" Again, I shout with continued rage "But that's what you like RIGHT?! It fucking tastes good right?!" I grab the beer can off the table. I drink the filth, looking at the Clown. With the the stupid water in mouth I mumble out the words "it tastes good" then . . .

spit his awful tasting beer right in his FACE.

"Sarap no? Sarap? It tastes good, huh? You like that?!" There was no way I was swallowing the bitter ick so out it went, right back to its devoted purchaser, follower, ever-faithful. "Sarap diba?" I ask again mockingly as he dejectedly walks away, drenched in what is so dear to such a Clown.

I go back to the yellow room.

Drunken Clown gets more beers from the garage refrigerator and drunk dials anybody who'll listen to him about being spat-on humiliated by someone sober. Relatives. Enablers. "Nahh, you're not an alcoholic" they pat his back through the Skype that TJ set up 20 times. I'm called down hours later that night and in an even more drunken state (level 12) he tries a stinger by saying "Heyyydothat toMee when I'mdeadhah?"

"I'm not even gonna be at your funeral" I reply in an instant, "I've got better things to do."

Fucker.

Sometime before midnight. A body crashes to the floor. Dahdoomp!! A 20-second groan. A little bit more.

Fucker.

Leave that Drunken Clown where he lies. Arthritis and an already (while sober) unstable walk isn't cured by your gamot, idiot. And when the fucker dies I'll be similarly apathetic. Go on and drink to that.

Loner Bastard

Photograph taken by J Buddha. Shopped by Lacking.