Twat the Bard


"More Me"

I’ve got a problem. I hold onto my memories so tightly
that they slip through my synapses and float away.
Happiness is fleeting, pain is fleeting
everything is fleeting, I am fleeting.

I can feel the coffee stains on my teeth
and the acne on my face more and more vividly,
I feel like I’m a teenager again but I’m less angry this time around.

Self conscious conundrums are creeping through my mind
like infantry crawling in trenches or lovers climaxing in bed.
I ignore my triumphs and obsess over my shortcomings.

I’ve dug deep enough into myself to reach the other side
but there is no other side, it’s just more me.

Hi, my name is Alex and I am a memory junkie.

"Floor Time With Buddy"

Sometimes I lay on the ground
and pet my dog for a while,
and everything seems
a bit too perfect.

"Always Great"

It tastes like too late, not enough is not enough.
Nodding off to dreams doesn’t make you speak again.
I feel like a selfish wrecking ball who squanders
opportunities and takes everyone for granted.

Whenever I saw your smile I was in the presence of greatness.
You were a mythic beast, a bright beam of light like granite.
Rocking back and forth between greatness and a great mess,
always great.

Whenever I saw your art I was in the presence of greatness.
I’ve never dug deep enough into the two dimensions
but despite my indignant intentions you made me stop,
and think, and smile, and grate my teeth at the gray lines
interspersed amongst bright splashes you’d made,
always great.

Whenever I watched you play I was in the presence of greatness.
A wall of beautiful caterwauls emanated from a very weird man
made of meat and bones. A bright light bellowed from deep within
and we basked in that light and called ourselves friends,
always great.

Sometimes I don’t feel very great
and these past few days have been hard,
but when I remember your smile, and art, and songs
I see that we’ve all always been great all along.

"Hello Fall"

The bones in my back are drunkenly dancing
and it feels like I’m a house that’s settling.
It’s gray outside and it’s gray in here too.

My mouth is dry and face is an oily mess.
The skin that I’ve been wearing is dying and cracking.
I need to shave but I probably won’t.

Shivers climb in to my bed every now and then.
My knees creak like old doors whenever I make a move,
and I keep waking up with goosebumps and an erection.

Hello fall.

"I Can’t Stand You"

The love is distal and nearly dead.
You will always be part of me then
but you will never be part of me now.

I can still see a younger me hiding in your ample shadow.
We never had much but we always had each other,
I was handcuffed to your ego and couldn’t stand up
for my own beliefs unless you believed in them too.
I was cried into a corner and wrapped up in shame.
I was barely alive and hidden in plain sight.

I was a prop and a punching bag,
a brother typecast as a running gag,
and you would drag your knuckles across my pride
every time I tried to swim against your rip tide.
You started killing me before I knew who I was
and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able
to forgive you for that.

Sep 7

"Half Burnt Love"

I don’t believe in karma,
I believe in actions and reactions.
I have never gutted a living creature
but I’ve had my heart ground into the sidewalk
while people that I helped raise outlined my body
with chalk, and broken glass, and half burnt love.

My eyes look glassy and dead from time to time.
My Nana told me it’s because I think too much,
my Aunt told me it’s because I drink too much,
and my enemies told me that it’s just because.

I have been smoked down to the filter
more times than I care to count
and I can only account for my own misgivings.

I can count what I did and count on what I didn’t,
if only in an attempt to understand why I still breath deeply.
Moves that I didn’t make are boxing me in
and my mistakes make my tongue feel heavy and bitter.

I’ve never been a quitter but some things quit you.
Some people just whip you until there’s nothing left to grip.
I don’t know if I will rest in peace or pieces
but I know that all things happen for a reason
and that this isn’t karma.

Sep 7

"Bright Night Lifelike"

Last night I faced a vapid monsoon
of cheers and jeers as I peddled
up the city blocks, past the pompous cops,
and towards the unlocked doors
that hide my piles of dirty laundry.

The gangs of tawdry goons
authenticated their xeroxed pride
while officers picked off the ones
who were foolish enough to drive.

The air was so gaudy that I nearly gagged.
Someone should thank their moms and dads
for giving us such an excellent example
of obstinate mediocrity.

"You Kill You"

I am nine lives deep
in a game that nobody
should ever play.

Erase away, but you can’t fade
the creeping feeling that is fate.
Paint by number, block by block,
razor to the wrist like cuffs with locks.
Racked, not bought. Write to write
like getting up is getting high.
If I live long enough to grow up
I’ll probably still stalk the streets at night.

Pipe bombs aren’t night lights
and insomnia fueled crime isn’t a night life.
The red and white lights accompanied by sirens
have become a theme song for the white knights
who ride in like they’ve won the fight,
but you can’t really win a fight against
a night stalker who writes to write.

I am addicted to egotism and damage,
all wrapped up in an ugly package
that makes me feel fleetingly beautiful.

I never want to sleep.
I never want to stop.

Wouldn’t you want to kill someone
who has been killing you?
What if you’re the one killing you?

Which you do you kill?

"Eroticised Robotic Eyes"

My eyes feel robotic.

It’s like God has eroticised the pixels in the screen
and now they’re staring back at me
like painted toenails on pale feet
or panties pulled to the side
so I can slide in.

My wrists are throwing tantrums.

My bank account is negative and I’m debt.
I forget how to smile from time to time,
and my fingertips dance like pins
on magnetic tabletops.

I am not a machine,
everyday feels like a dream,
and I am sick of going on
like this addiction isn’t wrong.

"Nervously Purposeful"

It feels like time stopped
and my second hand is holding my first one
nervously. I don’t like to hide from the fine print
so I just run from it instead, as if fleeing isn’t as
cowardly as cowering in the corner of your mouth
like a tongue or a gun. I tower over my intentions
because they don’t exist, I just make moves
and shit just happens. It’s a lot like life,
but it’s slower and more methodical.

Sometimes it tastes like sweat but it usually
slides off of my tongue like gasoline and gold.
I don’t have the strength of will to hold still
while they fill my mouth with this bland swill
and insist that this is how magic is made.
It’s not. Kodak moments are growing obsolete
it the wake of a muted movement that feigns
improvement but honestly belongs in a colostomy bag.

It’s not that you are bad, it’s just that you aren’t good enough.

Every one of your self fulfilling prophecies
taste a lot like the stifled hopes and dreams
of a child who never learned to see beyond
the reverse psychology that their parents fed
them on a bronze spoon that had been painted silver.

The ostentatious onlookers have always held the guns,
and sometimes they kill a few of us for fun. There’s no
recourse in a land gone mad and it’s all as real as it could be.
I might not like it, but they say that I have to. They’ve tattooed
eyes on their eyelids, so it looks like they’re always watching,
and phones have become computer screens in people’s pockets
that they stare at to keep themselves from talking, or plotting,
or doing anything at all.

It feels like time stopped
and my second hand
is holding my first one
but purposefully.

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