Archive for the ‘Musing’ Category


6 feet from sobriety

perhaps, bitches

when the sun

has risen

6 feet

from our

sobriety &the

bottle

of

whiskey

has been emptied

into

the “essential“

of norm …

 

like i said,

perhaps

until then,

where the fuck

is my mask?

 


a man and his pizza

 

you visit again

6 feet apart

from my balcony

to yours

bitching again

about the pandemic

about how you need

genuine and emotional

physical contact,

bars

to pick up women in,

friends

to take road trips

and head trips with,

places

to lounge, drink coffee

and plug`in to

and how

you`re liable

to cut off your own arm

just to hear

yourself scream;

your cell pings

dominos pizza is sitting

outside your door

you light up

with giddiness

‘cause even you realized

that things

weren’t really that bad

so long as

no one fucks

with pizza


Choosing Nicknames

 

My name’s Nicholas Romanov. I give myself the nickname, “tsar.” I print it on cards for my piano school. Nicholas “Tsar” Romanov, Instructor.

 

     Pupils question me. Who gave you that right? Nicknames are earned, they proclaim with righteousness. Nicknames are predicated on allergies. Tics. Quirks.

 

     I tell them people ought to assign their own nicknames. It’s demeaning to have others label on an arbitrary basis. They used to nickname me freak and nerd because I preferred Tchaikovsky over pogs.

 

     I print up more cards, TSAR emblazoned in largest letters.

 

     I lose business, stand firm. I dispense more cards.

 

     I’m a tsar.


regret&sometimes loathing

 

he wasn`t much

for my emotions, `cause

he`d spew insults like

`your poetry

is a prison

with your verses

on death row`

 

and

 

`your insecurities

are like

temporary flowers    

wilting  

in white padded rooms

with black curtains

and no windows`

 

personally, i think

he just missed

partying with strippers

named barbie

and quoting bukowski

to his cat   

 

 


11 a.m.

 

he said

he awoke

with phlegm

in his throat

and

a dirty brunette

fucking with

the sid vicious`ness

of his mind

 

so, he said

he kicked her

off his bed

and she rolled under

and disappeared

like those non`nancy`s

his liver picks up

outside the hollywood liquor

at 11 a.m.

the same liver

that suffers daily

from binge psychosis

and

bullshit poetry


misses Saturday night

 

she closed the        gap

on their

relationship

 

at the bottom of a bourbon glass     

with a 6 pack of

blue ribbon Pabst

and

a toothbrush

once belonging

to johnny cash


Lipstick

 

this is

a

down

on

my luck

poem

 

it doesn`t want

your sympathy

or pity

 

it just wants you

to believe

that it`s

fucking

happy

 

that its

got

its shit

together

 

that it

still

can afford

to pay

for lipstick