Epic Tales # 1

Once upon a time, in a land where transexuals read Rimbaud, I met a one eyed prick. His name was Si Klops and for obvious reasons. With a fist full of dried shit and a mouthful of prose, he lured in his prey with slip of the tongue. Girl after girl, boy after boy, Si plowed his way through innocence like a degenerate cropper. He would proudly boast on any chosen night that he fucked like a panzer attack and he sent his lovers home crippled. He was a real son of a bitch.

One evening, just past supper, Si got the surprise of his life. He wound up in cockroach motel with another sleezeball everyone knew as Ceramic Dick Bearded. Mr. Bearded's cock was made out of 100 percent, American made ceramic and was monsterous. They sat around, smoked a couple good pipes and decided to get down to business. Our cycloptic hero had his face pressed against the wall while his ass got a lesson in romance. There wasn't much mercy in the room that night. Si woke up in the hospital, minus a wallet and an ability to walk. The story goes that he never fucked again after that day. He simply rolled his piece of shit bones from tavern to tavern, telling his fables like non fiction.

Ceramic Dick let everyone know there was a new bastard in town. Anyone with a bag of dope and a sweet spot got a fine piece of phallic pottery planted inside them. Story traveled far and wide of this freak show Casanova; Even as far as a carnival of paraplegic tight rope walkers known as The Clothes Pins. He was becoming a myth in his own time and soon enough was in all the papers.

"READ ALL ABOUT IT! THE MAN WITH THE BAKED CLAY COCK PENETRATES OUR HEARTS AND ORIFICES!"

But with this fame tagged along depression. He was tired of being that street hustler with the phony penis. His mother and father had caught wind of his talents and shunned him for being a deviant. He was tired. In an alley next to some dive, Ceramic Dick loaded a pistol and blasted his cock into a thousand pieces. It was the only way. His dirt caked hands dropped the gun and he stumbled through the bar doors like a priest in an alter boy. There, at the bar, sat Si Klops. He was old and decrepit and was shitting and pissing his pants. After a few drinks, they drove off to Reno and got married by a cheap Elvis. One eye and Dickless Dick lived happily ever after in a space ship 50 miles west of the desert. They never had kids.

Just Thinking

With Christmas right around the corner, a writer's mind goes wild. We are poor, we are starving, we are hopeless. A "real job" only interfers with our writing and we are deemed lazy. In reality, all we want to do is put food on the table by doing what we love. Christmas is an especially hard time for us. We can't afford to give those we love something beautiful and grand. Perhaps we can spill our guts onto paper and hastely disgust it as a present but material times make it impossible to serve material minds. With each night that tears roll, we search and scramble for ways to earn even the smallest bit of cash. We think of our families and our girls. All we want is for everyone to be happy and sometimes we just can't make that happen. The thought of our mother's opening a brand new dress, our father's opening his brand new tool, our women cracking open the box that contains a shinning and magnificant diamond ring. These things scar us and with each year, give us the feeling we need to find new means of income. This being said, if you know a writer or have one in your family, have mercy this year; They really do love you.

A Loser's December

In a cold room,
a lonely room
I sit and think.
I sit and think
as I sit upon the cold
empty
wallet
that hibernates in my
back pocket.
No gold this year
my dear.
No ribbons or bows.
If only I wasn't lazy.
If only I was a man.
Maybe then I could afford
some cards
some candy
something.
Maybe next year
if she isn't gone by then.

Bow

When asked for a screw
she lit up like a Christmas tree
Her lip stick stuck to her cigarette
as she took a long hard drag
Her hands roamed and eyes gazed
as she ventured onto my body
subliminally begging for discipline
like an iron fist
She went in for blood and got short changed
robbed at the gates and denied
I slid a bill like a leopards tongue
into her pants back pocket
as we said our good byes
as she left into the night.
As of right now, her whereabouts are unknown
if I had to guess I'd say she was dead
strung out barbie doll gutter ball
that haunted the alley i frequented most.
And every year around just around this time,
I leave a package by the spray painted wall
full of old pills and disregarded words
Merry Christmas darling
where ever you are.

The next three blogs by me...

are from my own personal blog but I thought I'd share with everyone, so enjoy!!

Oh, Christ.........mas tree

We.
R.

Greedy.
Money.Lust.

Spoiled.Angry.Begging

IWant.IWant.IWant.IWant.

Nothing.Is.Ever.Ever.Ever.Enough.
More.More.More.More.More.More.More.

People.Forget.What.Christmas.Is.Really.About. Family.Friends.Family.Friends.Family.Friends.Family.
Being.Happy.
Love.

Going Home (an old crappy poem)

I turn into the center
of town. The Cambodian
children aren’t playing in the street
by the pawn shop; autumn has arrived.
I approach Anne’s and flick my cigarette.
Exhaust masked in dollar
store air freshener rushes in.
Jon is already waiting for me.
We exchange pleasantries
and walk into the restaurant.
We get a booth and discuss the past.
We both order the pastrami.
A pang hits my stomach
like when I find myself
in a Dunkin’ Donuts at 7 AM,
half insane and killing time before work.
We are served and devour our food.
My nose is slick from the stench of grease
and begging to be dried.
The waitress brings us our check.
I wipe the sweat from my temples
and place my money on the table.
Jon takes his share, passing me a bag
with a sleight of hand.
We rise and leave.

A responce to Mr. Noel's Question...

There have been a few nights in my life where I have layed in bed and wondered if I would see the next day. It's a scary thought. I suppose my biggest fear is being forgotten. Did I do anything fantastic in my life? No, not really. I can't say I would have too much to be remembered for. If I could go back, I'm sure there would be a few things I would change. But would I really regret my life? Not at all. I had alot of great experiences and met alot of people that have shaped who I am in one way or another. If tomorrow never came for me, I wouldn't mind so much. I lived, I loved, I experienced life the way I wanted to experience it. I'd like to think I made a difference in a few peoples lives and what more can you ask for? I didn't need money or fame to be happy; just a few good friends, a good woman and lots of great times.

A Question

If you knew you were going to die, tomorrow, would you regret your life, or the way you lived it?

Untitled (revised)

one.
this room is gray.
the wood floors are splintered.
it is freezing.
there is no wood to feed the stove.
the pipes are frozen.
the heat is shut off.
no money.
no food.
just you.
our breaths,
in the air,
collide.
the only place warm is,
knowing there's something more.
we make love to stay warm.
two.
i will not burn these books.
i will not burn these books.
the fire they will feed,
will not be for heat.
passionately,
we stay warm,
again.


(im still not certain i like how it is now, of before. i realize it's slightly choppy, but i wanted it to be more free verse. comments? criticisms? likes? dislikes?)

Fellow Readers and Authors!

The site is going exellent, don't you agree? There have been numerous poems posted every day and we are attracting new authors and readers. I still highly encourage everyone to comment on each others writings and let them know what you think. Good or bad, it will let them know that you are reading their stuff and will hopefully help them out in one way or another.

For those of you on myspace, I've been thinking about making some sort of banner to link to this site so we can put them on our pages, but sadly I am myspace illiterate and have no idea how to link a picture to a website. So with that being said, if someone would like to help us out and make one of those, it would be greatly apperciated!

Also, while on the topic of myspace, please help us spread the word and get more and more people to join us. This would be a great opportunity to meet new writers and maybe bring some shy authors out of their shells.

That's all I got for today. If anyone has any questions or ideas, please feel free to leave them in a comment on this post and I'll get back to you A.S.A.P.

Happy Writing!
Toad

Consquently

i have always been a firm believer,
that red wine betters a poet.
red wine clears the head,
and it stains the teeth.
but it makes a better man.

Fire Hazzard

A cigarette is best
directly after sex.
When your closest to god
with one arm around sin.
That quiet calm
an orgasm brings.
And you watch all the spiders
mending their webs
while you're lying so peaceful
and naked in bed.
And the bottles, all empty
are lined up like soliders.
She shivers and trembles
and struggles with the covers.
A kiss on the hair
let's her know that you care.
and her legs around yours
assure's that your there.
You pray with each drag
that one more day comes
as you fall asleep dreaming
burning out
like the
sun.

Before the Lake Freezes

A flock of geese bathe in the lake,
dwarf the mallard drakes
that drift past.
Without breeze, their calls
echo through the trees
and can be perceived
as far as stone cast.
As a gander rears,
breast thrown high,
and swings his wings
with a visceral force,
scattering the cool waters
of early winter,
springs a maelstrom.
The wind of his span
drives the ducks back
and gives him path
to the bread a little girl
has tossed from the overpass,
as she begs her daddy,
“Can I take one home?’

untitled

one.
this room is gray, the wood floors are splintered.
it is freezing.
there is no wood to feed the stove.
the pipes are frozen; heat shut off.
no money, no food.
just you.
our breath in the air collide.
the only place warm is...
we make love to stay warm
two.
i will not burn these books.
i will not burn these books.
the fire they will feed will not be for heat.


(still in progress. how about some feed back?)

Like a Shogun

Like a shogun,
I sit in the snow.

High.

Waiting to execute.
My mission: Exterminate all rational thought.

Words of the great William S. Burroughs.

Dead now but still flowering in the human gutter.

A gutter that is clogged in infantile politics.

My mouth pressed against the hippie pipe.

Inhale.

Where the fuck was I?

Christina Aguilera would never date me

I thought I was
ugly
stupid
worthless
invisible to all.
Normal
Average
Nothing special.
And then I saw her husband.

Ink

(Noel, your poem reminded me of a pantoum I wrote a few years ago about blow. There's really nothing better than blow and poetry. That's food for the soul.)

The bird trapped in my ribcage,
fluttering as I jump off the white starting line,
invokes the jaw of a Titan. I
grind bone to powder with trembling hands.

Fluttering as I jump off the white starting line—
Closer to horizontal bars of black and flesh— I
grind bone to powder with trembling hands
and bring the world to an extreme sobriety.

“Closer to horizontal bars of black and flesh,” I
criticize (deflating day dreams)
and bring the world to an extreme sobriety
through his hollow voice that comes to possess one. He

criticized, deflating day dreams
that, although far fetched, are important.
Through his hollow voice that comes to possess one, he
taught me of the crafts that go into making a light bulb

that, although far fetched, are important.
But often I think back to how he
taught me of the crafts that go into making a light bulb
with fondness, for it created a man.

But often I think back to how he
bore the fell beast and not
with fondness, for it created a man:
the true savagery that darkens the jungle.

Bore the fell beast and not
the bird trapped in my ribcage.
The true savagery that darkens the jungle
invokes the jaw of a Titan: I.

Porcelain

porcelain angel,
i'm sorry if i sometimes let you down,
you've got to go way up to come down sometimes,
you know i never mean to try.
if everyone were like you,
i'd fall in love over and over every night,
and i know you see behind my eyes.
thankfully, they're always there fore me.
the last time you came looking,
i hid.
she takes some; i take a lot.
"good morning afterglow."
in the blow, i've seemed to have lost myself,
again.
i wake up and the morning's so cold.
everything's okay.
you said "i don't even recognize you anymore."
"i'm fucked up like it's the death of me."
and the words between the lines,
they only tell lies.
it's been almost two years since,
i think.
i don't think i miss a thing, fuck-
i miss it every day.
cocaine.

In Flew Enza

Hacking
hacking
hacking up.
Bubbling lungs
expand and contract.
Freezing cold,
wrapped up in a sheep
and the cow will jump over the moon.
Take one,
take two,
take enough
just to sleep.
Take a hot shower
and scream.
Mild water
burns contaminated flesh.
Get out.
Light another cigarette.
Drip
dripp
dripping
cold.
I will not get better.
I will not get better
until the cow jumps over the moon.

Sixteen

(criticism please. it needs some work)

Young, high as shit,
gaping at Iggy in an extinct club.
Some Weird Sin or some other song
slips through my ears,
suffocates my brain.
It slinks over me—
the undulating waves of
an ocean of sweat and cigarette butts.
High tide reaches my waist
and reveals the jetty
of Neptune’s arm.
It stretches back to a bland landscape:
gray sweatshirt tucked into
gray sweatpants to match his
gray comb over, adorned by a
gray moustache, as if he
tried to pull a bowtie over his head.
I stammer back onto dry land
and soak in the over the hill
man making a move for my crotch.
He looks as stunned as me before sliding
back into the crowd
with the other drops of water.

Madison

i can't change the way i am-
i can't-
but ask me to try-
i will-
i'll put down my drink-
i'll quit smoking again-
i'll do what i have to-
but still-
now i can't change the things i did-
it's just not who i am-
now i know you hate the things i did-
but it's not what i am-
dear God it makes me weak-
i just have to dust myself off and turn the other cheek-

don't give up on me-
no one can tell me how i got this fucked up-
maybe it's holding everything in-
ever since i was a kid-
baggage is baggage-
mine's just worn out-
but don't give up on me just yet-

because you know i said i loved the mountains-
i always said i loved the mountains-
one of these days we'll climb up there and never come back down-
but it's these city lights...

Victimology

For so long it’s been staring me in the face-and I was oblivious to its presence. Insidious and disabling. This concept that we are all somehow-VICTIMS. Of life. Of society. Of our minds .Of ourselves. What of responsibility and choice? Of making our own way in the world? Self reliant and using our ingenuity to survive instead of blaming and whining and only seeking proof of the worst we’ve become. Sure things are fucked up in the world-Life isn’t fair or easy-but who said it was going to be? What use would that be? What would we learn? How would we grow? How would we differentiate between subtle emotions, or come to appreciate the beauty in pain? The ecstasy of betrayal. Of Living with no questions or restraint. No regrets. Getting hurt-but not blaming. Only loving the chance to experience all that life has to offer. The good, the bad, the painful and the rarely understood. To ask questions that no one wastes time thinking of. To see things in your own way. To make yourself and your life. Sure the victim stance allows us to dissolve any responsibility and affords us options like-being dependant on others for our survival or self destructive behavior with no artistic merit-Returning to an infantile state while our brains atrophy because we don’t use them-and then in 60 years if we are lucky we can develop dementia and be cast away to some old folks home to be forgotten and decay. All the while blaming our demise on everyone else. Never taking responsibility for or really owning our life and our choices. Throwing our hands up and saying “It’s not my fault, I have no control.”I'd rather live each day knowing that what I do and what happens to me -I alone am responsible for. How I react and feel and interact and deal-are all the stuff of life. Living. Making choices. Being free. We live in a society that encourages dependencies and the victim mentality. But that’s no reason to so easily give up our responsibility. It’s not a burden -but a gift. Without a sense of being responsible for what happens in our life how can we ever truly be free? To choose, to create, to live and let live. When you give in to the victim mentality you’re not only giving up on yourself, but on what you can offer the world. Nothing in life is perfect and overcoming obstacles is a process of growth which people should never be encouraged to blame others for. So your parents weren’t perfect, or you were poor, make do with what you have. Stop blaming life and use your mind to change your world.

Insomnia

The day's seem like minutes, The hours like seconds. Late night TV, Infomercial after Infomercial. Trying to sell us the same recycled products over and over again, This is all too much for my Un-restful head. The low hum of the refrigerator sounds more like a live machine gun, while the clock gives me it's evil grin, i know now that i may never sleep again...

Mondo Cane

The world today is scary.
S
C
A
R
Y?
Because.
Writing is judged by degrees,
not soul.
Marriage is judged by gender,
not love.
Music is judged by fashion,
not ability.
A woman's body is controlled
by everyone
except her.
A man's words are analized
and put
on
trial.
Comic strips
can easily start
a small religious
war.
Mohammed
the bear
is sending people
to die.
And my father wonders
why
I hide
alone in my room.

Monday, December 3rd, 2007

Figured I'd do this before Midnight

I'd like to thank everyone that joined today for making this pretty successful. With time, hopefully more people will join and this thing will blow up! You guys have been writing some amazing stuff and I'm glad I actually decided to start this blog up cause I get to read alot of great new writing.

If you know anyone that would want to be a part of this group of degenerates, please feel free to contact me with their email and we will have them join us!

Also, if you are going to post something other then writing; like an idea for the blog, great youtube video link of a writer, etc. please make the font the color of this post so we know whats news and whats writing. I'm sorry if thats an inconvinence, it would just make things alot more organized for everyone!

Thanks again and lets hope tomorrow is an even more eventful day then today.

Toad

Sorry if I'm breaking the rules

but I found an amazing reading by Eugene Ostachevsky that I think you all might like.

Check it out

A conversation between me and Venus

My home made fried rice gazed up at me as I started to lose my appetite. I pushed it away, leaned back and lit up another cigarette. She paused momentarily, fork still in mouth, and her eyes attracted mine.

"What is it now?"

She swallowed her overly spiced bite of grain and removed the fork.

"Another cigarette? Didn't you just have one 10 minutes ago?"
"Whose counting?"

The smoked filled my lungs and I held it in. Closing my eyes, I let it all out and cracked a mild smile. She was still looking at me.

"Jesus Christ, what is it?"
"I have to talk to you."
"Alright. What's the problem?"
"I don't want you to touch drugs anymore."

I could only laugh. I hadn't touched a drug in years. My only drug now was love and I was more hooked on that then I was the real stuff.

"What drugs are you talking about? I haven't done anything in years but I can't promise I won't again."
"The other night you mentioned smoking opium. I don't want you doing that. It's bad enough your drinking every night and smoking a pack a day."
"You make it seem like I'm at the bar every night getting loaded and forgetting where I am."

I stood up and went to the trash can. Maybe a change of topic would ease this situation.

"What do you think about getting some wine?"
"What the fuck is wrong with you? I'm sitting here telling you I want you to quit drugs and slow down on the drinking and you ask me if I want wine?"
"Yeah."
"Alright, get dressed; And make it Zinfindel."

Topography

Across my desk, Claire scrolled out a map of the town.
Her breast brushed against my hand.
“If you draw lines between the pawn
shop, bodega by family planning, and
barber shop, you can fence in the Cambodians.”
Her words clogged in my eardrums
and I imagined if she was still beautiful when
she was naked. She continued, “I dragged Mike out from
my new place, the other night, just inside the North edge
of the Triangle, and waited on the porch while he emptied
out. Over his noise, I barely heard something ping off the ledge
of the porch. I looked across the street but couldn’t see
past the dark. I rolled Mike behind the car and called the cops.
I waited until five before I went to bed.” I smiled as she talked.

we should make starving and useless shirts and wear them to shows

hope you dont mind i posted again.

you havent tried to change your inside
mind rotting away, full of empty pride
youre better this, and once you realize
then the words will begin to reflect and subside

internal struggle heterogenous
with streams of success. they just wont mix
smoke another spliff, anesthisize
fail youreself with every high
tell the lies that help you get by
live the low life to survive
working poor and ill work till i die
the fortunate born into wealth around me thrive
loss of hope, continue to the hive
still alive, struggle to survive

Three Seventeen

this is something i wrote about a parade that occurs annually in my home town

hey buddy wake up, grab a liter
there's nothing better than bushmills
first thing in the morning

the snow stopped falling
and tradition is calling
today we stand on broadway
streams of green white and orange.

3/17 more than another day to you and me
takes us back to the way it used to be
as if we needed a reminder

singing the songs of our grandfathers
pounding bottle after bottle after bottle
proudly showing our true colors

pitchers of guinness, local politicians
and if you havent been here before
yes those are cops and yes theyre drinking
fighting yuppies, welcome to southie
you dont know this struggle, im not sorry

pipe and drum brigades, tin whistles and fifes play all day
my solo cup is never empty
drunk and full of cabbage and cornedbeef

feeling united, feeling alive again, strong sense of pride here
on this day, in the town that we grew up in
twenty six cases, between seventeen of us
i wonder where the time went, woke up on the kitchen floor
sporting a wonderful hangover

wonder what today has in store
mark off the next three hundred sixty five days off my calendar

straight from the moleskin

ive trapped myself again. claustrophobic, shallow breaths
arms bound tight, for wrong, not for right.
sweaty palms, a useless grip,
tuckered out from the shock and the sin.
heres my last will and testament,
this has to be the end.

neglected advice
cowardice, but righteous in my mind.
serenity, ive often found hard to find.
the pleasure, oh! the pressure!
the turning point my vision too poor to measure
crashed through the walls of common sense again, ive ruined everything

ive ruined whats within
im a stranger in the mirror
to change i dont know where to begin

the shakes begin to subside
writhe on the floor no more, no smore sweaty eyes
begin to see a light, throw it in reverse, take a right
deliverence from this world accursed
of greed and selfishness
a place where rationality is worthless
humanity will serve no purpose, anymore

In any case,

i didn't mention it earlier, but franky reminded me, critical feedback is always welcome.

I'm just being Ernest (Hemingway)

She sits on my bed
doing homework.
Just seventeen.
Watching T.V.
Complaining about the smoke,
complaining about my weight.
"We should have sex."
"We should drink wine."
"Why is everything about drinking?"
"Why is everything about sex?"
We stare blankly.
Frankly,
this conversation isn't going anywhere.
Off go the pants.
Up goes the shirt.
Tight grip the hand.
Soft touch the fingers.
Five minutes pass.
I haven't proven a thing.
We lay on our backs,
as we laugh and we laugh.
"We should have sex."
"We should drink wine."

Hurtful Words

(This is a new poem that I'm not sure is done, or any good at all. I would really appreciate some critical feedback on this one.)

Hyperbole should be spelled, “Hyper Bowl”
And it should be more like Thunderdome:
Two words enter;
One word leaves.
Sentences bracketed
By oversized shoulder pads
With blood-encrusted spikes,
Duke it out over poignancy.
Gerundive phrases latching onto them
With, like, Wolverine claws.
Tina Turner
Controls all alliteration.
A gang of prepositions
Chases Mel Gibson in the desert
On dune buggies armed with machine guns.
Master Blaster
Dominates all other rhymes.
It turns out that adverbs
Are actually filled with sand.
The entire stanza
Runs on pig shit.
The pen would decimate the sword.

My New Job

It was a long day of matters;
I wouldn’t have lasted the drive home.
Lucky enough, Elsie lived in the city and she was
Nice enough to let me sleep on her sofa.
The couch was glorious and I slept whole heartedly.
I woke up well into the morning
To find my pants around my ankles.
Genitals all still there. And why rape the willing?
But I soon realized that, while I slept,
She had braided my pubic hairs.
When she walked into the living room, I said,
I suppose it’s my fault for letting them grow so long.
She plopped onto the seat next to me,
Like a dog on hind legs, awaiting due
Reward for playing dead, and said,
Yes, I’m sorry, but you are to blame.
You see, your pubes aren’t dissimilar from economics.
Consider big business, corporations:
The kind NPR loves to shit on.
If they grow too big, stretch too far,
They become prominent, and, inevitably, evil.
They become a topic of discussion, criticism
And, ultimately, a target of attack—
Whether through speeches, boycotts, legislation,
Or plain old tomfuckery.
Remember that scene in Fight Club,
With the commercial coffee shop?
Tomfuckery of that sort.
Now, it seems a bit much to blow up your crotch
Or roll a cement boulder through it,
But I feel that the message of the piece still rings clear.
Of course, she was right.
So, being in the city, I found a reputable gallery.
I walked to the front desk, dropped my pants
And requested a plaque summarizing Elsie’s argument.
The man behind the desk called in the curator,
Who, naturally, loved it.
I’ve been on display since.
Six hours a day, five days a week.
Health and dental.
Good work if you can get it.

The Big Why

I found my love of the word
was that of a lifetime
while working at a deli
with strong Christian overtones.
Having to dress like a Mormon baker,
stuck in a Borgesian labyrinth
of asking have you heard today’s specials
and the Good News?
while percolating up this glut
of passion and thought
and I can’t stop slicing ham
long enough to write this fucking sentence.

To feel like an enlightened Buddhist
in serious financial debt.
Held in a Plexiglas cell where
you can’t do more than watch Law and Order reruns and
you haven’t bathed since Sunday and
you’ve eaten pasta for a month straight and
you haven’t beat off in a week
because you’ve just lost interest.
And I take this to paper
and I roll off the couch
and I wash the itch out of my beard
and I buy real groceries
and I can finally get it up again.
So I quit my job and told myself:
poets are like lovers;
the best ones are men of leisure.

The Gin Inside The Coffee Cup

so here we are again-
got a notice on the door-
i have to pay the rent-
but my excuse's no good-
and the money's spent-
if i don't get the cash by morning we won't have a place to live-
now i work my hands 'til they're hard to hold-
i never sleep at night any more-
it seems all i've got left is up there empty on the shelf-
i pour the gin 'til i can't think-
the drink i've hidden deep inside the coffee cup-
i've given all i have to try to pick you up-
i've given all i have to try to pick you up-
i make sure there's food to eat-
yeah, and necessities-
whatever's left i pour right down again-
and when i try to leave it grabs hold of me-
the only thing keeping me alive, i know is you-
and i can tell my self-destruction is tearing you in two-
i've given all i have to try and pick you up-
oh i pray to God that it's enough

An introduction to the Ian Cat.

I'm new here. In any case, I'll give the readers a little background information.

I grew up in Rhode Island but I live and go to school in Massachusetts now. I'm a musician, filmmaker, and writer. I'm into music and film more than most people realize when they meet me. I can't tell you how deep the rabbit hole goes, but I can tell you I haven't gotten bored with it yet.

For writing, my biggest influences would have to be Jack Kerouac, Bob Dylan, and Kurt Vonnegut. I'm interested in weird literature, subversive literature, and things that make people wonder "What the fuck?" when there's really no need. I'm interested in Dadaism, Fluxus, anti-art, free jazz and free improvisation, postmodernism, and other things. While I can't say I'm well-versed in these things, I'm interested and I've been exposed to some.

You can expect anything from my writing. Expect the worst and you just might get it. It just depends on what you're looking for.

Christmas with the Crabs

Sitting on the sofa
scratching this crotch
listening to talk radio
with a firm belief
that Jesus will save him.
The kids know well
that Father is piss poor.
He is in shambles.
Working hard
to hardly work
and Christmas really won't come
this year.
Little Bobby
opens his package
and finds a gun.
"This was your Grandfather's
and he killed himself with it
and someday you will too.
I've tried too many times
and like always
I've failed.
I gave your brother the rounds
and together you can play.
Go make Father proud.
Tell your Grandfather I'm sorry."

The City That God Had Built..

he died in the dream,
and no one could tell me why;
he just did-
in that moment, he withered like an old tree-
and settled into death.
he was tired and worn out.
his life meant little to him now-
a hollow drum.
his breathing receded into the night-
and from his lungs.
he welcomed her as the last flicker of thoughts played his mind.
he awoke to find himself alone,
looking over the city God had built-
a beautiful city.
no more death, pain, waiting.
he walked toward the gate
"welcome to the city i built for you."
eternity has begun-
you are the chosen.

this is it...

Ideas come from everything around us, everything we see, breathe, touch, and feel.
Writing is a way to bring people together, and to pull people apart..

I am S. Noel.






Je suis écrivain, et être aussi grand que T.S. Elliot, Seamus Heaney, Gelée, Bukowski, et Tom Robbins est...

Welcome to Starving and Useless. Here, you can post thoughts, poetry, simple writing and basiclly anything floating around in your fucked up mind. Enjoy.

Toad