by alcoholicpoet.com

a dark poem for the vagabond within us all. 


the horizon stumbles over gravity.

more perspective than condition.

fragile sticks in the fists of change.

its eternal equation still solving for what we are to become.

lost is not a place. nor is found.

we assemble our destinations from what remains of ourselves after we arrive.

falling is a map that boils under our skin. full of all the little lies that infect us.


we are nomads. wandering inside ourselves.

searching for an exit.



Filed under: November 2024 Sad Poems

 the numbers were soft. crevices in the shy oblivion that tabulates our losses. 

we spent the math on barren hallways stained with doors that never opened.

a din of scattered choices. biting on the wind. 

the end always remembers us. bereft of the seldom edges. intimacy evolves. a throbbing catalyst. 

no words. just the skeleton of touch. as it slouches toward the remains of our skin. 

the windows say our names. though they're not ours to keep. 

the distance chokes on our ambivalence. and all the shallow holes we've dug.

the thief steals what he can. the assassin prepares his weapon. 

we tumble down hills much too steep. our empty buckets heavier than they've ever been. 

we sit. our backs to the world. in a pool of blood. 

still picking at every scab. 

count the walls. shame the corners. gather the ugly. as loud as earnest skin. 

there is a number. that knows how much. but it's not ours to measure. 

these are the walls. this is the door. come inside. or forever be locked out. 

we make our bargains. to the whisper of expectation.

we accrue our debts against the treason of touch. 

chase the words. as if they have a destination. 

destroy the map. let time make its cuts. 

collect the pieces. 

assemble the remains.  

the apple is bitten. its meat is exposed. a sloping confession. somewhere between chaos and utopia.  

our eyes scratch the glass. time's blunt soldiers keep their march. 

small pieces. swaying bridges that dare us to cross. 

the folds make their creases. in the economy of broken skin. we leverage our exchanges. against the void that chases us. 

straw houses give way to bricks. but their contents stay the same. 

the flesh is pierced. the fruit is soured. 

yet we swallow it still. 

because we are always hungry.

we never knew. never wanted to know. how deep the hole was.

the world carried on just the same. in spite of us. orphans in soiled smocks. fumbling with the leashes on our wolves. 

the hole was patient. letting us wonder. how far we could fall. 

we coaxed the math. selling rides on our time machines. liars with truth in our pockets. gambling on nothing in particular. 

we put our bandages on the conceits. and waited for the void to dare us. predators in crowded cages. chewing on the keys  

the hole laughed out loud. as we stood on its edge and speculated on how deep it went. strangers with familiar faces.

we closed our eyes and gravity gave us a kiss. 

We counted the hours as our time machine chewed on our surrender. 

the textures of grief too brittle to hold. 

we carved our maps in despair's cement. arrogantly trespassing in each other's skins.

lost in a borrowed paradise. 

the years drew their pictures in our flesh. 

I was wrong. 

scolded by all the sour epiphanies passion overlooks. 

I pulled the blade from my neck and waited.

for the predators to smell the blood. 

 we sold the last of our expectations to the corners in the distance. barely alive as the world tumbled through our skin. the arrogant authors of our own tragedy. 

i couldn't taste the edge until it reeked of your blood. 

i never knew i was wounded until you wrapped me in your bandages. 

time chews on the flesh we leave unattended. 

we fiddle with our needles. as if a cure exists.

we cradle gently, all the lies that make us want. 

but the truth remains relentless. 

life happens in the absence of tomorrows. slivers of when in idling time machines. 

bloody needles pulling knotted thread through fading scabs. 

touch places its bets. gambling on our weakest desires. 

the body is an artifact. a parable of flesh. written by liars and thieves. 

i waited for the sky to fall. i tried to catch it, but i wasn't strong enough. 

we drew in the empty spaces. a frenzy of colors. 

we shouted at the intersection. as we turned sharply into the loss.

the window was open. though the wind did not come inside. the apogee of bone to blood. a deceptive orbit.

voices collapsing. like folding paper. icicles melting on the edge of zero.

we tried it on, but the suicide was too small.

steps to when. the pace of fractions. louder than it used to be.

the stones at our feet. in the simmer of darkness.
betrayed by our bodies. the stern biology of reason. weakened by a  rupture of choices.

the beginning is constant. everything else is clay. time stumbles. barefoot. over life's broken glass.we ignore the blood.

borrowing each hour. spending each other. the savage economics of flesh.  makes us all paupers.

everything was close. in that callously exemptive way that all grief gathers. the moment not quite there. yet excrutiatingly near.

the silence spun. kinetic and untamed. her flesh the tether. her want the clasp.

everything was fading. the colors going deaf. the bridges choking on the rigor of perspective.

ache simmered. all cliffs and ropes. counting their empty hours. in soiled blankets and knots undone.

the puzzle swelled. trembling with the solution.

the rain fell lightly. the sun never shone.

the road speaks. without words. just distance. a broken voice. a spent pistol. the clarity of poison. as it clenches upon stray moments. gnarled fingers cheating a smile in the face of a callous wind.

incredulous travellers worn by their path. solved by the force of gravity.

the climb lingers. a gracious wick. infatuated with the flame that burns it.

the journey whispers. in its low voice. secrets hardly kept. spoiled ironies and the stab of forever. as it rapidly approaches. in the wake of an arrogant surrender.

the obvious words. the stumbling breath. as the descent yawns to swallow us. orphaned puzzle pieces flirting with images they'll never be.

small lies blunt the corners. as the edges begin to sharpen.

it's cold here inside my skin.

dim parables exploit the flesh. obvious crises foul the buttons.

these arrogant machines. more superstition than science. these heavy bones. like a pendulum of trust.

all this empty space. its silence echoing. bald fractions devour the math of lovers and friends. the decimal confesses. the portions deflate.

the future came and went. while we were busy with the script.

ice cubes in the glass. melting situations. paper protagnists. in the wet stories of men and women. the slope of touch. like spoiled medicines. the promise of disease as it shapes us.

all blunt needles and frayed threads. the preposterous plague of hope. as it stumbles. spreading its infection.

silence is a dull blade. wandering cuts. shallow and jagged. distribute their pain in whispers. meandering bridges chase the din. this chaos of touch that promises relief.but mostly infects.

the journey possesses. greater than velocity, less than mass. the science is strict. the interpretation more lenient. the itch is deep. too deep to scratch. still we venture further in.

the colors remember. thick with the panic of when. All long dresses and sweet, sweet songs. as we take a moment to pretend there's still more than there is less.

reasoning with the math. she finds the decimal is in the wrong place.

too close. too close is always a danger.

the threat of taste. the loyalty of skin. permanent wagers on temporary conditions.

only the needle remains. after all the holes have been mended. only that small knot. to hold all those stitches in place.

The apples still in the garden are left to rot.

a stern distance. though softer maps. the same lost. in blunt bruises and soiled confessions.
the capacity for change stalls at her.

time is a cruel auditor. part virus. part vaccine.

the ocean has its grey. the sand has its red. distance like any predator stalks, then kills.

the particles. the unseen engine. candy-coated poisons in a sea of apologies.

the various shores. the curious islands we're willing to call home. long roads around water. steep inclines against the wind. a lazy math of conditions. a flawed psychology of inference. capitulating flesh unashamed.

the mountain is small. but the slope of it is sharp. the climb is ignorant. the downhill is wise. gravity always listens. time is usually deaf.

we follow the path.  letting nowhere find us. naively dropping our breadcrumbs. imagining they will be enough. to find our way back.

the distance swallows much more than it unfolds.

her tender arrows. her sharp scars. choke the on the moments.

a dark theater. still echoing the play. long after the audience has gone home and all the actors have left the stage.

patient thieves in their torn raincoats. trace the edges. careless slopes and thoughtless angles. the fading pastels of her want. the persistent stabs of regret. through the thin paper memory presses toward the sun. these shaky lines define us. these hollow edges rage for depth.

the stubborn inertia of a touch. wags us forward. limp and derelict ghosts perform the calloused rituals of life. red candy lips. sweet and sour with dissipation. cold pillows. smooth with entropy. barking dogs. fierce with circumstance.

the end is always the beginning in these scenarios.we struggle against the linear. Caught fish. Gills to the sun as the water mercilessly recedes. intimacy is always a fool. distance always a tyrant.

the thunder waits. for the storm to catch up. as we simmer in our discontent.

we wither in the desert. blood shadows. bone darkness. drowning in it. parched, yet unwilling to drink. 

the theory of  the machine. the peculiar pendulum of the heart. as it sways us. in every direction. and takes us nowhere.

barking silence. relative scabs. tender bridges stumble toward the edge. trembling fists grip the math. of broken soldiers in hollow's war.

the hour stumbles over the irony of when. the sober clenches on the serendipity of how.

swept away in a waterfall of skin. drowning is a blessing.

the flow exceeds us. we are footnotes. in stories alreayd written. curious jack o lanterns. dug out, yet still aglow with the flames of our crumbling bridges.

the last plane. as it strokes the horizon. the sole division. as we consent to the deficit. a fraction of lies. a mortgage of moments.

a lifetime of debt.

her steady commitment. small hills survive by mimicking mountains. her timid resistance. snowy sidewalks wear the cold in fading footprints. we make our paths. knowing time will erase every step.

we choose to remember

we are predator. and we are hunted.

lost in a contest of flesh.

empty stretchers. surrounded by sirens. twisting paths. leading nowhere.

her jealous vices. stain the silence. broken pencils stabbing for certainty in a endless chaos of moments. each word an avalanche.

pieces just barely there. faint scratches in the glass. a distant world. familiar, yet lost. a page torn. a gap. in a story unfinished.

her weakness. her pleasure. one destination. two paths.

the subtle coax. the liberal charm. of imagination and want.

the ramp. the gentle angle to get on. the easy speed. of poetry. the innocent math. of touch. the hungry precision of the loneliness as it manipulates our velocity.

there is no map. there is no speed limit. only the peril of getting there.

spent matches still hot from the dead flame. to keep us warm.

seldom and sober. the creases in when. like melting crayons. in the echo of impatient skins. colors seeping. acqueiescent and humble. the fierce of weakness consumes. a cascade of pebbles in a funeral of boulders.

broken glass still clinging to the window's frame. cuts a trecherous path to seeing what's out there.

the blue angle works the stitches. a hungry needle that swims through

soft dials on the hard machines. torn pictures. struggle with the gravity of light. the urgency of memory as we begin to forget. wrinkled dolls. their shrivelled fist. holding so tightly to the absence of something we hardly knew we possessed.

faith falls in stones. hope is an avalanche.

we keep counting. vacuous clocks. broiling on instinct. we keep looking. the blind clinging to that last moment of sight. kisses caress the wind. like so much vomit. the measure of touch. in dull shattered windows.

the addicts draw in fists. the sober in only touches. but both are wrong. 

quiet parades invite an ugly audience. to lingering funerals.

her villains are simple. it's the heroes that can't be trusted.

soft corners name their angles. without voices. the journey bites down. the distance swallows hard. there are ways to measure. but none that matter now.

the cold comes and goes. the bluster of life. all screws to turn and nails to hit. creating nothing new. strangled by the relentless bleak of her hope. a silken noose that strangles, but doesn't kill.

the science of touch is a gorgeous treason. these bodies all combustion and thieves.

flesh like maps. leads us. everywhere and no place. empty boxes. full of life and death. broken gardens teeming with snakes. the shadows beat their drums. the darkness sings. tomorrow's metaphor solves for now.

the flame starts and finishes by the same small spark.

the end of the world is quiet. it's only the beginning that's loud.

the bridges twist and you're different all at once. no cigarette between time's lips slowing burning as it should. sometimes evolution is abrupt. that lonely safety pin that held reality together finally came undone.

just the smallest pieces. the kind we can hardly perceive. those are the shape and the form of everything. it's not a puzzle to be solved. like rain, it just falls on us.

the future came and went and i hardly knew. a long sigh of years snuck its way under our skin. and by then it was too late. those soft corners had already formed. those tender walls had spent all their shadows. the only thing left to do was surrender. to the theorems of Pythagoras. and the empty angles he'd have us measure.

time's foul merchants. bluster and breeze. awkward witnesses to the ugly epiphany of choices.

a labor of words pretends to know.the cost of gravity. the fealty of darkness. a suspicion of skin betrays them all.