Monthly Archives: August 2011

Your Enigmatic Psycho Stalker

It’s a bit creepy but
you know I’d like to surround myself
with snapshots of your every angle
like a suicide-bombing fanatic
kneeling in front of a perturbingly arranged, collage
altar with dried birds and shrunken heads
to honor you




It’s just you, my darling, you
and I know that sounds like a song but
I can’t really help it ’cause it’s automatic
and symptomatic of an addiction for your
crazy antics
those goddamn
nighttime acrobatics.

And baby you know I love to play with these rhymes
like a poor man with his pocket’s dimes
dreaming of dames, kinda lame–
to tell you the truth–
if such dames
don’t give a damn
about him
and, more especially, aren’t really you




Last night I drew your face and body,
an enigmatic psycho stalker
obsessed with a pretty somebody
he just met on the train home.
But girl I still held that mechanical quill
and scratched on that plastic slab all



so that I may ogle your face and body
and immerse myself once more in that
nasty fantasy of my own creation–
a particularly perverse ambition–
like a god masturbating
on his own people
’cause, well,
how can you blame the man–I mean the god?
He loves them so much,
probably sorta like
how much I




You, darling, baby, honey,
my Madonna, Mona Lisa, that

yeah, this poor man
with his pocket of dimes
has his fingers dashing across the keyboard
tonight like an employee
with a deadline
and a dead man
talking to a hangman
and a Hungarian humming a–

hang on.

I don’t really know
and, as you can see, I practically
never gave a damn about what’s going on

with all the pretty dames and their mushy games
in my life. And even if you throw me
a movie star who came from the stars
with a thousand suicide-bombing fanatics
making her the creepiest collage altars,
stalking her in her train home,
baby, you know I would–

there’s just no doubt

I would–

kick that bitch in the face

and I

would send her flying–
flying across the stars where she came from
and in her trail would be a beam so bright
that the darkest, loneliest
during which my fingers dashed
across the keyboard and thoughts of your
face and body
(so ordinary and routinary
of me)–

will explode into a million hues
never seen before
and blind men will see and cry the color red
for the first time;
and auroras will pale before
the splendor;
and the furor will fragment
every fit of fantasy I sketched
on plastic slabs and
heartache throbs;
and that trail of light

will be visible to everyone,
to every creature,
every gremlin
in every fucking airplane

that’s left this fucking country behind

like me.

And darling, baby, honey,
you’ll see it

this creepy, crazy, kinda crappy message

that I





in the weirdest, most spine-tingling way

(silently writing coded poems with bad taste
at midnight)


an enigmatic psycho stalker.

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Filed under Love, Poems

The Real Problem is Gravity

The real problem is gravity. This primordial force of nature that oftentimes subtly, but sometimes violently and mercilessly, pulls our feet down to the ground where we belong. It would throw us savagely against the face of the earth, splattering our brains and guts all over the map. It would crush us the second we get ahead of ourselves and think we can really fly.

How stupid of us. How ridiculous! Just look at how we fill our heads with the most complicated of thoughts and our notebooks with the most elaborate of plans just to see real life break them into two simple shards: to live or to die. And of course, we always choose the first option, making things even more laughable. For the moment we choose to live, we die bit by bit. Who really lives? Is this life? Working from morning ’til night, typing thousands of insignificant letters on a screen, so someone can make millions off them while we waste hours, years, decades, eternities cheating ourselves? Listening to nifty bits of music in the train to dull the senses and hide our consciousness from the zombie of a world banging on our door, screaming, “Let me inside your head, so I can eat your brains, you yellow-bellied fucktard!”

Yeah, that’s about it. That’s about life. And then there’s the amusing fact that when one chooses to die, he miraculously finds the secret passage to real, radiant, thriving life. Ask the people who are ready to die anytime. Ask the rebels in the mountains who have something to live for. The scavenging souls in the streets who still find a genuine reason to smile. The terminally ill who can find spiritual meaning in a matchstick or a dead cockroach. What are their mornings like? I sincerely think they have something I don’t.

See I’ve tried to rise above it like every John and Mary in the room. Hoodwinked myself into believing I’m worth something priceless and intangible. Perhaps an element of immortal love, rushing above people’s heads in a gust of wind. Or an embodiment of hope–a furnace of phoenix fire eternally renewing itself. A lighthouse signaling ships where to go in the darkest, most directionless nights. I’ve tried to imagine myself as such to no avail.

When the time has come for the twinkling fairy dust to collect on the floor like regular dirt to be swept away, all I see is a man, sitting in a dreary desk in a square building, facing his computer screen for the upteenth time. An existence deprived of the time to love. Or to take his lunch. A bag of sickness and porn waiting to explode into something fleeting, filthy and futile.

It’s all because of gravity.

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Filed under Random Thoughts