Archive for death

Clash

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on July 13, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

Two thin and crusty autumn leaves
Fell to the ground; two lifeless sheets
From there, fell broken, withered, dry,
Where globes, eternal, roam the sky
A tale so spun, so God conceives,
So heaven gives, so Earth receives
A soft prophetic lullaby
A day to live, a day to die
And down where Earthly things are bound,
A shoot naively breaks the ground
A worm in silence makes its way
As magpies sing to pass their day

A rant about time

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on May 17, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

Twenty-five days ago, twenty-five days to the hour, I wrapped my hands around her wrists, and looked intently in her eyes, and spoke to her the only words that came to mind

“You are stupid for thinking The Shawshank Redemption is overrated”

And she looked slyly in my eyes and said with that voice that always gave me butterflies that she thinks my taste in movies was as stupid as my taste in clothes

And I moved closer to her face and told her that it was better than my taste in women

And she moved closer to my face and before she could speak I gave her a kiss

 

But twenty-five days move by so fast

One more quickly than the last

And today for the first time in twenty-five days

I had a problem remembering her face

 

Now all the memories of the past

In a single picture congregate

All stories told, all questions asked

Meet in the aspect of her face

 

And I if I could not remember her face

What does that say about the memories we had?

 

It’s like a manifestation of a universal complication, a temporal cosmic malfunction, a hellish creation of a hellish function, dictated that all the forces of Earth and Hell act in combination in one magnificent gesture to break our pride

And it did break our pride

 

Because the realization dawned upon us that we are just heaping sacks of flesh a group of atoms governed by cellular equations, helpless, shriveled and in an instant broken like brittle limbs and maimed like words scribbled on old pieces of parchment.

 

And the old parchment couldn’t keep us intact as the pencil marks faded into obscurity

And eulogies replaced the love poems

And tear stains replaced the stains of lipstick

And the picture of her face was replaced with a scribbly haze.

 

She is dead, because time unravels all of our embroidery, and it does not care if it was elegant or not, because time has no taste for artistic flair.

And trust me, I’ve appealed to the moderators of time, sent them requests by snail mail and prayers, and they have left me on hold listening to some stupid automated voice telling me to be patient my child, help will be right with you, and some cheesy music with cheesy lyrics about being saved, when all I wanted to do was to be dead.

Because it’s not my fault that time is an ill-run bureaucracy, and I’m pretty sure that it’s not her fault either. And a wise man once told me that life’s unfair, but I think that it’s pretty damn fair.

Because life does not care about your skin color, or the color of your hair, or who you sleep with, or who your father knows:

Life is an asshole to everyone

 

I remember she had a small blemish on her hand, and I could feel it with my finger every time I held her hand

And late at night when the lights were off and I couldn’t see, I could always be sure that it was her next to me, because every time I took hold of her hand the blemish was always there

 

But at the funeral the blemish was still there and sadly, very sadly, I did not care

 

And I do not care, if time is on a mission to take me down or if that’s just the way it is; I do not care, if other people have died before, or if this is a part of life; and I DO NOT CARE about the American Psychological Association or how it chooses to qualify disorders,

 

because if order was so freaking good, then why does the universe tend towards disorder

and if love was so damn good, then why do people die?

 

Way before I fell in love with her, I saw her crying in the soccer field, and I gave her a hug and wiped her tearful cheek, and later that night she gave me a phone call and we talked for three and a half hours,

 

and I made fun of her, because she spent her summer junior year taking pictures of birds, and I thought that this was super nerdy, but I secretly wanted to have been there with her, because she made birds sound so interesting, but I would never tell her that

 

and she made fun of me for thinking Batman is better than Superman, but I know she secretly agreed with me because he’s fucking Batman and the girl I loved was crazy, not stupid

 

But if time, that old tyrant, sees us not as his children, but as the guests in his bed and breakfast, then why did he make us think he loved us in the first place?

Why give us that complimentary bottle of champagne and an upgrade to the honeymoon suite if he in fact meant to later give us separate rooms and evict one of us before the other

And why would time teach us how to paint if it meant to burn all of our paintings later on I do not understand

 

Today, I do not know the face that twenty-five days ago I held between both hands and pressed on tightly from both directions saying “You’re the most beautiful piece of silly putty I’ve ever seen,” as my friends rolled their eyes in disgust and called me a creep

 

And yesterday I knew that face, but yesterday I cried my eyes out again for the twenty fourth day in a row and today I am yet to shed a tear

 

I’m starting to wonder if forgetting is time’s way of sending me complimentary beer

 

 

Death and Other Stuff

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 7, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

Faded socks, charcoal, sulfurous talks

Of old men dying far too young, and chalk

Sentences on withered spines and old tree barks,

Bark out a tale of loss and tears on city blocks.

The mockingbird, so called because it mocks

My ecstasy in broken English, homeward flocks;

And me, the lonely virgin dancing dances, walking walks

Cannot perceive in loneliness my own shadow on ocean rocks.

 

.

And ships and planes that carried me alone on Sunday mornings,

Carried rust and strangled necks and spangled flags and stained gold flags.

And talks of sorrow bring tomorrow faster now, today.

Mourning in the morning the innocent, and in the night the light of day.

And when all is said, and in your head, there’s nothing more to say

Greet in spangled flags and stained gold boxes, the decay.

 

.

How quickly I have seen your tears travel down your cheeks,

And your tongue in ornate dances, grow secluded, and grow meek

Your eyes have lost their sparkle, lost their fluster, so to speak,

So to speak of old dumb boys, and old dumb girls, and to grow weak,

Grovel on the gravel like a dog who on this day became a father

Or a bitch who birthed last week

And the lord on who’s lap you’ll cry shall give you what you seek.

Warm Sweaters

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 11, 2013 by themanwiththecowboyboots

happy holidays everyone

.

.

I regret

I have not done much but I regret

For I was born at a golden seat:

Cities, golden cities, at my feet

To be beholden; I was born in

Silver spoons and tapestries

And christmas trees and city streets,

Golden city streets, to be beholden

At my feet

.

All I’ve seen of heaven 

Is that heaven, and not hell’s outside my door

All I’ve known of life, is department stores
and parquet floors

I have never met a starving whore

I have never seen a boy, not yet eleven

Shooting cocaine inside his veins

And a rifle at the rival gang who lives next door

.

I regret that I’ve not seen

A starving child

And I’ve not heard

A crying widow

And I’ve only rubbed

Alcohol on my wounds

Not cloth on the floor of lords

.

All I’ve seen of war 

Are pictures of swords

And Roman legions in their gracious might

Not battle wounds and orphaned sons

Not airplanes that kill you before
you hear them

And shattered homes and misery

And crying helpless mothers

I have not truly seen hunger or thirst 

All the world’s rivers lead to my sink

And my puppy dog has seen

more showers than some human beings

.

I have cried for girls who did not want to go to junior prom

And baseball teams who settled for second place

That cursed second place!

I have cried for broken toys
and bullied boys on TV shows

Not darkness and despair
as I was being dragged by my hair
and sold, to feed my siblings’ burning hunger

Oh that burning hunger

I regret that I am free

It is my guilt that I am free

I am enslaved by this freedom

Curse that freedom; I don’t want to listen
I don’t want to see

Another F-ing Poem

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 11, 2013 by themanwiththecowboyboots

I want to be dark and depressing. I want those who read this to perhaps lose a tiny glitter of hope that once shined among others in their heart. If this kills even one atom of optimism inside you, then it has served it’s purpose.
I really am an asshole.

A certain primal fear

As disaster nears

It is fairly known to some

That laughter follows tears

If only it was said

On some, or other day

That beauty is forsaken

Then beauty will appear

Until we lose all hope we won’t

Succeed we won’t

Come near

Happiness; we won’t

Be seen with a smile

It’s not that

Life is dear

It’s just that death brings about

This fear

Your life, all before you

Seems empty

And somehow your recollections

Have no meaning

And you know

That on some dark day you’ll die and just

Like everyone else you’ll be

Forgotten

Life, which was once so dear

Becomes

Void of meaning and it seems

That there is no way for retribution

That you shall forever be destined

To die

And on that cursed deathbed

You find

True peace is not in fighting but

In giving up

In order to see the beauty

Of life we must adhere

To one

Principle

All that we see

Is fleeting and

Once we live it

It’s dead

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