Once, Only Once
I use to know a heroin addict.
one time she tried to 'tie off' around her neck
after I told her there are veins you can 'hit' in there.
Operative phrases:
'I USE to know'
'one time'
poem by Brevet Wilson
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Tragedy Loves An Audience
The moment I met her I thought
'You know, she would play the 'tortured widow' really well'.
After all, if all the world is a stage,
then the cast should at least be adequate
and given my seeming 'need' for self destruction
it would be nice to have someone who is predisposed to melodrama around.
It's all about timing.
Timing and inevitability.
poem by Brevet Wilson
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Sheltered life:
It's cold and raining
4: 04 AM at the shelter.
From my office I can see fires lit in garbage cans,
and everyone is wearing silver 'emergency' ponchos
we have been handing out to those who won't come in,
out of the rain.
From my office window it looks like the future
and it looks like it is on fire.
____________________________________ 30_________________________
poem by Brevet Wilson
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Broken
There is a room where everything is broken,
a room where gravity even slips gears.
Scrawled and aborted love poems
have been burned into the carpets
with bleach.
If it wasn't for the empty, cold drafts the air would stagnate
coagulate,
and fall to the ground in thick, oozing clumps.
Flies swarm the red wine that is splattered on nicotine stained walls.
Time doesn't fly here,
it limps.
All the mementos,
the keepsakes of previous occupants,
have been drenched in diesel fuel and torched by vandals.
(The last 'real' life that has bothered to visit) .
Cold, autumnal sunlight enters through shattered windows,
and falls,
fractured, sliced, and lifeless on Crystal Nacht floors.
A room frozen,
in the final throes,
[...] Read more
poem by Brevet Wilson
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Plagiarized Flesh
I have plagiarized your flesh a hundred times or more.
With words
with paint,
even with bone and paper mache sculptures.
I plagiarized your eyes once
with a tattoo gun
on to another woman's back.
I have stolen and misused your face so many times
with hypodermic needles scraping away at black ink from white scratchboard.
I have used your breasts and torso
in many drawings scratched with ball point pen
drawn while I was bored on many, many, napkins.
I have 'lifted' you so many times,
I was shocked when someone called my name at the grocery store
and I turned around to see you.
Somehow I figured you were someplace...
[...] Read more
poem by Brevet Wilson
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Succubus sans the happy ending.
She hovers on my headboard.
Hair wild and shoe polish black.
At night she hovers there...
screaming her deranged and distorted thoughts
into my subconscious,
Her wrecked and ravaged squalls are silent;
yet they worm their way in to my dreams.
The twisted wreckage,
people I never murdered,
people in my past who still cause damage
she knows them all.
Her banshee wails
silently worming their ways into my dreams.
dream maggots...
that drip from her drooling misshapen mouth,
into my ears,
into my brain,
where they are brought to life as dreams.
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poem by Brevet Wilson
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3: 25 Am
It's pouring rain,
and Miles is on the ol Logitech speakers.
It's 3: 25 AM
Graveyard shift at the shelter...
And it's pouring rain
A girl dances outside,
the dance is one of someone who has lost everything.
It is the dance of someone who has lost themselves,
The dance of complete and total abandon.
Her long wet hair whipping from side to side,
while she grinds against a lamp post.
And it is raining so badly,
that it hurts when it hits your skin.
Still she dances,
Debbie Reynolds,
on PCP.
Her clothing clings to her skeletal frame.
She dances as only the damned who have embraced their damnation can dance.
(there is freedom in that, you know?)
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poem by Brevet Wilson
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OH! I can't SAY that....(a revision)
I'm sick of f\%king Facebook,
sick of emails,
sick of people talking,
sick of my work radio beeping,
I'm sick of words.
I am being cluttered to death by words....
I am sick of listening to crazies on the bus,
sick of television spewing out banality.
Sick of voices, sick of billboards, sick of typing.
I am word sick.
I am sick of people
The more they let me know them the less I care.
I don't care what your baby did.
don't give a f$ck about what you ate for dinner.
I don't even f*ckin care if your grandpa died.
Sick, sick, sick, I am making myself sick
[...] Read more
poem by Brevet Wilson
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Big mouths & glass jaws
So many people
with big mouths,
and glass jaws.
When they talk they don't make words
Their mouths just clank and clatter.
Like some useless machine that is half broken.
People whom life has barely touched.
These untouched, new car smelling, un-scarred f#ckers,
THEY are ALWAYS the ones offering the advice
to those who have been bitten once or twice
by bad decisions or just bad luck...
They offer their pop psych advice
(most likely some sh^t they picked up from some professor, somewhere.)
Through their perfect, glass, teeth.
People who don't even know what it is like
to take a fist to the face.
THEY are the ones that incessantly
'Clank, click, clack' out their 'advice'.
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poem by Brevet Wilson
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Sick of home
Sometime I get homesick for places I have never been.
I get wanderlust so badly it makes me grind my teeth till they shatter..
During the grave shift, at the shelter,
some nights, will I do nothing but look up bus and (even better) train schedules.
(Everyone knows trains are the only romantic way to travel)
I use maps and red markers to plot escape routes.
I always have a fire escape and enough bills to leave town.
8 hours spent with maps and bus schedules spread out on the floor of a locked office... plotting the great escape.
I have been homesick for Russia: (Thanks to Dostoyevsky and Akhmatovaa)
Henry Miller made me homesick for the Paris of the 40's.
I blame two things on literature:
two fatal cracks and fissures in my personality,
cracks and fissures that often manifest in 'strange' and 'inappropriate' places.
[...] Read more
poem by Brevet Wilson
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