Wednesday, August 23, 2006
when I think of love I think of Atomic Bombs bursting.
What will become of it?
Well, I am hoping to keep my post's on this bastard slightly seperate from what I puke up onto my myspace (www.myspace.com/captpirateface). The only thing I will ever double post is most likely my poetry. So people can have a reason to read both of my pointless shite post's. I am working on a way to showcase my writing a bit more by creating a zine-like pamphlet with my writing and thoughts and giving away a few hundred for free. I need some original art for it... esecially for the title.. "Pornography on the Radio"...(ahem..Ben and Tony). So we shall see what becomes of this Frankenstein's creation later on. I am aiming for a release date of the beginning of October ("First Friday" to be exact.) So that is all for now kids.
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The claws that remain buried in my skin
Let's do something crazy.
I want to see us do something terrible.
Check me out, dead on the highway...
Learning what makes roadkill.
And say something nice at my funeral.
Something that makes me look good.
And something that makes them laugh.
And at the worst possible moment.
Fall in love with me.
When you know it’s too late.
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You must be cold, please step inside.
I bet you were an adorable child.
One with that devil face that
pleaded for trouble to find you.
And it probably did.
You must have been a wicked teen.
Breaking hearts and avoiding disease like stray bullets lost in a crowd.
With holes in your jeans and a black "Clash" T-shirt.
You vicious adult woman.
I know this one thing about you.
Your breaking hearts and keeping the dead remains hung on a necklace,
Wrapped around your pale throat.
Like a murderer of men... of boys.
My heart is still fresh and beating on that horrible trophy necklace of yours...
and I want it back.
Please.
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You are at your most graceful (when you appear dead while asleep)
So beautiful it hurts to look at you.
Sound asleep where you can’t:
Hurt me.
Degrade me.
Hate me.
And I love you more and more.
Like the beaten dogs we have become.
You and I.
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Hero Worship
It must be amazing…
To be the "good guy".
I know that being the "bad guy" has it's charms.
But to be the Hero?
Must feel God Damn special.
Nobody saves my clippings of horrible deeds.
Nobody wears my logo t-shirt.
Nobody wants to be me when they grow up.
And that’s why us "villains" find peace in asylums and
hospitals wheezing out our last breaths while smacking the nurse on the ass.
That’s why we take that forced final kiss from the captured hero's companion.
and that is why...
she kind of liked it.
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Yellow traffic lane lines on a disappearing stretch
The roads set before us are all empty highways.
All traveled at night.
With broke down motels with small green pools.
The roads we travel are filled with roadkill and hitchhikers wearing dark hooded sweatshirts out In the rain.
Our road tapes are full of sad songs and Johnny Cash.
Our roads are lonely and full of pictures of you, taped to the interior of our half broken sad little cars.
And we stop in diners where nobody looks up from their plates and the jukebox is always busted.
And we accept this.
It’s the only place we can truly belong too.
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Do the "Fall Apart"
I have seen many nights where we have sat in the car holding hands
refusing to let go.
When the last kiss goodnight was never enough.
Where the phone would ring the second you walked into your room.
Where have you put that moment of us?
Has it been erased and been replaced with disdain?
Has it been shot dead and left out for night creatures to tear it to shreds?
I am falling apart with those memories.
They hang on to my flesh and drag me down with every step.
Closer to the grave and closer to falling down and never getting up.
The weight of those memories break my heart.
More so then ever because you have forgotten them.
Such is love they say.
Goodnight Rat Bastards and Sweetest Friends
See ya,
Captain PirateFace
GABES!!!
ReplyDeleteNice "Stache", Brutha'... It reminds me of when I used to use my Moms mascara to draw a goatee on myself as a wee one... Aahh, the Good Ol' Days...
Tony
Great work John.
ReplyDeleteI like "You must be cold, please step inside." the best.
It makes me think of a carnival at night and the taste of stale popcorn.
Your poems are very visual to me.