nooneofconsequencewriting - Tumblr blog

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

This one goes out to the worlds most dangerous wrestler

With another one of those drooling cherry pie smiles across your face, throw back the curtain to the devil's hardware store. Your one stop shop for everything you need to build a grisly masterpiece from yourself. Browsing among the nails and fasteners a garbage can, empty of those little shreds you'd rather leave behind swings through the air and wraps around your skull then bounces off and falls to the floor Where it will remain until you yourself fall into it's dented embrace. So it goes for the poster boy of pyrrhic thumbtacks. All your best laid plans end up embedded in your back so you learn to love it, learn how to fly for brief periods of time, Clotheslines Clumsy sunset flips The worlds best elbow drop ever thrown over a bed of nails. The threat of shredded flesh never kept you airborne so you learn to love that too, Against the better parts of your mind, and all your lost blood Without any mask, or psychedelic shades to hide behind You stand back up and do it all again. Flannel reeking of kerosene, Imaginary smoking guns skyward, As if to say "I was here"

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

@mynyrd @lizhorrible and I took our poetry to the streets of New Hope, PA! Can't wait to do it again

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

Seldom born a happy man the world didn’t take a swing at.

Charlie is a balance artist. Every day he wades out into the shoals and takes the utmost care in selecting stones and pebbles. He stacks them so that nothing holds them up but eachother.

Invariably, they have fallen.

Waterbirds brush past them in the dark of night. Men topple them with sticks thrown from the shore. The wind blows a touch too mighty.

So everyday, Charlie wades out again.

He builds and builds in spite of the men and sticks, the waterbirds and wind, the mosquitoes swarming around his head or the piranhas swimming at his ankles.

He builds because there is joy in the work. He builds because there might be a day when the world lets it stand

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

The One about Such Unimaginably Small Things

I've been driving hard for Nola to meet her on the waterfront. I've been driving hard for years. Tearing swaths across the country side in days gone by but now I've fallen to lethargy. Lord knows she's fallen to Ennui. Bags packed with poetry, impotent. Peeling paint picked away from the side of my car, leaving me bare, I sit, waiting for Nola to come to me. Though the wiser iota knows she would never... So I try and think and get inspired. Decide inside myself which has more meaning: The railing? All paint chips and tetanus. Roots thick so firmly connected to the man made mother earth that not a century not a decade of wind or briny waves could move it. Salty air, smell the ocean on the breeze and choke on the pollution. See the last obstacle for those that seek the dark below. Its black metal a dark bellow against the hard harsh white concrete. The final, last word: Disembodied voice saying "Hey, dude, you sure you wanna split?" all age and faded still firm, screaming "I'm still here!" Whispering "I can keep you here too, if you'll let me" asking "Will you let me?" Or the car in the process of breaking breathing rapid breath. Poison exhale, oh how I can direct you. Dragging my fumes across the state. Let us suffocate on air, closing, closing in. This world can be so big when you've got no way to travel it. Stories of origin and ends in the exhaust. Open roads that lead to Forever, where each dent is the touch of an angel. all force god smacking you into tomorrow. Nils Bohlin keeps you in the now. Tethered, to the back of the asphalt kraken, and muses "I wonder what might lie up the road a ways." I figure none of that really means anything so I allow the sun to set, once again. Gorge myself on its beauty, drinking in all its static glory, Because Nola never had a stomach for that, the railing, the view, these irresistible forces that keep me in one spot, on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

Yo I think we all gotta like take a week off writing about love or some shit. I dunno. Just chill out. Write about a butterfly. Atomic holocaust. Without bringing it back around to whoever dumped you last. Like it's all good, whatever, but I just read six love poems in a row and I think it's time we had a break yknow. There's other stuff to write about. Love'll still be there at the end of the week.

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

Elegy for a Morning(Drowning Dream)

I've woken up mean Sunlight a glare in my sight bottles on the floor I rise, uneven shaky, in a steady room. A violent still. Here, alone, I move into the murderous quiet. Throw into the day. Flight? No, it's a fault. Falling! Falling again! Me! Into another dream. Doubtless, 'tis of you pathetic melodrama I've fallen into. No more to be said dreaming a dream dying in depths of ocean blue.

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

Poem for Resorting to Hard Boiled Eggs Again, Just Like Last Night

What’s the horizon but the inside of a refrigerator? Loaded with food, but nothing to eat.

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

A Woman in a Field

There once was a woman, once in a field, once with two faces. One was once grinning, and the other still is, I think. It is under these circumstances that we met, in the daisies stained red with blood and a Smith & Wesson 587 thrown aside in haste. A wound closing, mending in record time, I was able to see beauty in the pain. Reach tranquility through her and the garrote that connects us all. Crossing her piano wire suspension bridge, both faces nodding me on I saw them on the path, the whole of humanity. Her flock. The pedestrians writhing in hospital beds, made more of fractures than flesh. The junkies, cripplingly sober, confronting another day in purgatory. The lonely, sobbing in the corners and quiet. The abandoned, nursing old wounds no one cares to see. Each little ache, sore, sever, and break linking us little pin prick constellations piecing us together. The two faced seamstress drawing us in, sewing sutures to make the scattered flesh singular, her left hand working always in furious loops, pierce-pull, pierce-pull bringing us in tight so we can rebuild, a population of mutual platelets. In her other hand she blasts us apart, a cycle needs a point of destruction, platelets need a cut, and to rebuild requires rubble. Likewise a Smith & Wesson 587 needs a target, and it is in this way I met her, once in a field, once full of daisies the purest white, once blissfully unaware, of the mistress of all the pain in the world.

this poem was based off a picture prompt given to me by @dank-space-memes who I think is doing commissions right now? Check him out

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

Written to Prove that Guy who Wrote ‘The Last Beat Poem’ Wrong

This is the actual last beat poem and it was written for the freak-a-deeks and love mongers with the smiley face signatures and the audacity to be happy in this day and age. Even more so to distribute, and pass bliss around the circle. It was written for the addicts and the dealers, the wannabe thieves, and lifestealers. Might as well be graffiti on the walls, a terrible portrait of eyes in the dark, watching the world drain itself into the basin of indifference. Similarly, it was written for the brutality of a pragmatic age the notion that a life is merely a something to be counted that tragedy can be ranked on a scale, and that we've still got some so we can bare the losses. The actual last beat poem, for sure, was written for a van broken down on the side of the highway, mere miles from L.A. where all your dreams were supposed to come true. and for the dream chaser who knows they must start walking now if he wants to beat the sunset and the dream dreamer, who surely would have walked, had they gotten the chance. This is the actual last beat poem and I dedicate it to the rivers and lakes, where we can watch the boats pass and talk about our favorite sunsets from six hundred something miles apart. for the record shops and the coffee houses and the breakfast joints and basement shows and wherever else it is we artsy fucks like to go to shelter us from the crushing cosmic weight of an abandoned universe. But for real, you gotta believe me; This is the actual last beat poem and it was written for the towers that are made to be disassembled temporary monuments to death, made immortal in the memory of a skyline. Holy Shit! It's the actual last beat poem! and it looks like it was written for all the beauty in the world being filtered through imperfect eyes and an imperfect vessel that does its best to gain some meaning from it. and for what a tragedy that is It was written for the last beat poem that came before it and the audacity of a poet who deigns his work so important as to be final. This is the actual, truthful, really real, honest-to-god last beat poem and it wasn't so very good so we can keep saying that other one was the last one, if you like.

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

Bat Country

Somewhere out there beside a long desert highway there is a baby lamb. It is small as babies are. It is afraid as a lamb can be. Its throat is swollen with thirst and the dust of the land has clung and turned its pure wool an earthy tan. Belongs? No it does not, not yet at least Out there, its bat country. Places like that have a way of swallowing you whole if you don't move through them fast enough. There's a reason we invented the sports car, after all. Quickly and with fuel efficiency we can tear through the i-15 but this does nothing for the little lamb. It will be shaped to its environment as the young are. A lone little droplet in the faded sand, congealing, then settling, and finally dispersing. For now, it will walk and eke out text in misplaced hoof prints, telling a tale of one that does not belong. Slowly, slowly it will find its path, the script becoming more sure as the sun fades the page, then crumbles it into the dunes and valleys, another piece for the pile of mistakes being fed through the paper shredder of erosion. Our little lamb walks along. Surely moving forward or dying, as an old man in a bitchin' camaro tries to find a place that the winds won't devour.

Based on a prompt given to me by the fabulous @mynyrd

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

Mightier, Twice as Shiny

Have you ever woken up from a nap to find the whole world rained upon? Have you noticed the sheets of water pulled up tight against the skin of the earth, cool despite the summer heat? Growing? Nourishing? Flooding? Then abandoning through evaporation? Have you ever woken up from a nap to see your favorite tree ablaze? Have you seen the scorch that now runs down its side? A gnarly scar, carved deeply to it's character. A bolt of lightning ain't such an evil thing, no sir, but of all the trees in all the schoolyards of all the world, it had to be mine? Who am I to ask? Have you woken up from the nap? Have you found yourself outside the sight of god? A caring gaze is seldom so curing, though a balm it can be. For all our splendor, from Presley to the Pyramids, I doubt there's much that'll bring him back. Have you woken up? Have you seen it? His revolver, hanging on the wall pointing down.

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

If this isn't nice

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

To the administration

Guile or fortune. Unity cannot keep you out. Under real scrutiny everyone leaves feeling downright razored. Jeers elate nearing nevermore. Interestingly, newly grown seeds yearn onwards, upwards. Dewdrop elephants spiral peacefully into cacophony. Always bearing little else. Rats always tell. People everywhere realize: she ordains nowhere

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

Things used to be that if you were on Bonnell st at the right time of day (somewhere between 5 and dinner) you could hear him, in glorious practice. His windows open, either shamelessly or obliviously. A lone brass tune trickling out forming a score to the setting of the sun. A tune lost in thought. Actually, if I recall correctly, I swear it was that one tune from Episode IV. Y'know, on Tatooine, where young Luke stares out upon the twin sunset two polished pennies dipping below the vast meaningless horizon. Cost unto a vending machine of fate without a clue of what would be tumbling out of the apparatus... ...yeah, so damn pensive that scene. I'm no Skywalker, though, and he was no Williams. So I made my way down the street, droidless, and looking for none and disappeared into an off note.

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

Overheard(Cosmic Indifference for a Lovesick Failure)

If you were around main street last night you might have heard him. An old man, beard long and worn in scraggles beaming a mad grin, rattled the chicken wire and screamed at the moon. 'YOU HEAR THAT YOU SONS A BITCHES?' away from him a woman hurries. Huddled into her jacket, guarding against the cold and probably some ancient history too. Her heels click into the distance as the old coot bellows on 'YOU HEAR? I'VE GOT IT ON GOOD AUTHORITY!' Above the scene, a man increases the volume on his television set as the old man, fists to the sky triumphant, shouts 'YOU SONS OF BITCHES! HAVE YOU HEARD? SOMEONE LOVED ME ONCE!' and the lady walks on and the program goes to commercial and the world spins for another second longer.

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

Words to live by

I've never been one to admit to any higher meaning or purpose to anything but I'm anticipating a good lunch. I guess I'll stick around.

[nooneofconsequencewriting]

This One’s Mostly About a Bookshelf, and to a Lesser Extent, Budai

The topshelf watchmen all look quite nice lined up in the left hand side of my room. Standing spine to spine before the seated general, Budai himself. Perpetually contented, the grinning idiot with not a care in the world, (not the whole spinning dot) for his guards stand so perfectly behind him. Each one a pillar, support for the next. Laughing in the face of Armageddon Vonnegut lends a hand to Gaiman, who's foreign grip on Americana stands well next to Plath's Profound prolificy, which in turn keeps the words of 'Get Capone!' vertical, and largely unread. While foolish Budai sits, contended with nothing more than a wise understanding of the unmade mountain top that lies ahead.