Category Archives: Writing

This is for my writing

the wood of man

0
Posted by Rob on September 25, 2009 – 7:44 am
Filed under Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

Hello again.. from far away

somewhere in the dark,

those lucid, lavish moments between sleep and dream,

between feeding and eating, between flesh and bone,

all those tiny moments, varicose like veins

running up a leg, or crumbling

a brick wall like ivy, over grown a thousand years.

White like ivory, or the whites of eyes

of soldiers, boys, men, felled

running towards a goal one hopes to never need,

but in order to survive

(and yes, there’s the rub)

they must.

Falling asleep in dreams is the worst thing that can happen,

for to awake two times, simply twice,

is disconcerting like a loved one slamming doors,

or cupboards slamming alone in the grip of night,

or wondering where you are on a long road,

or breathing your last breath, slipping under..

Do you dare, or do you dare?

To think that one day we shall be grand, if we survive,

and if the stars align — some intangible, superstitious force, a magnet? –

well, I won’t leave my fate up to something as stupid as that.

You’ll see, because I always bite off more than I can chew,

and sure, it seems gluttonous at first but then you realize,

the rhyme and reason for everything is there,

all you need to do is get through the bark, and with the flesh exposed –

feel free to feed on the forest for as long as you’re fit, god knows we won’t stop you..

Belch your smoke and cinders and smog and ash, feed my family to the fire alive or dead!

Those turgid fires inside the belly of the beast will eat forever, and they will eat you and me.

nothing

0
Posted by Rob on September 1, 2009 – 9:41 pm
Filed under Poetry, Writing

All I got is my family, my clique and my forefathers

and I only love blood, as it’s thicker than water

well, I’m the soul that god’s carried in for knowing that I got wondering depths,

because without zero no other numbers exist.

I’m coming from the abyss the deepest part of the flow,

go ahead and fuck around the reaper got what he sow

and profits will grow, someone speakin out for the dough

the real will  hit you in the head like a sock filled with soap,

and  there won’t be no rockin’ that ho, it’s time I’m refusin’ to waste

have you runnin’ for your life and still blue in the face

and until you’re losin’ the race, the do or die way

my Bredran, move one thousand miles on the highway to heaven,

if my day is endin’ I’m leavin’ my mark, of man who live life to believe in his heart.

I’m flesh, blood and spirit, I am a man;

though I know where I’m goin’

but don’t know where I am.

I gotta hold it down the world is mine

every second on the clock makes me swirl in time,

sometimes I’m bringin’ light to the dumb, the deaf and the blind

yet many hundreds will shine, but I be one of a kind.

Still, people are heated and show love some of the time,

tho I keep it more real than running around:

everyday is a test so I pray for the best, it’s an ongoing struggle till the day I rest,

got some weight on my chest that I just have to relieve

and if it gets any heavier, why bother to breathe?

All that I need to be is the wisest one

so I can live thru the night and see the rising sun,

I’ll be suprising some people as I’m sworn to try to live life

to the fullest except I’m born to die,

and then there’s more than “what?”,

and “when?”, “why?” and “how?” so I keep my head up

and stare at the clouds.

Distractions

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Posted by Rob on July 29, 2009 – 9:37 pm
Filed under Writing

Besides my good looks and charm, my dependence upon worldly possessions, my desires of the flesh and the horror that one day I’ll die, lies a cranny carved in some ediface of rock, undisturbed for what seems like a blink in the eye of an otherwise indifferent universe. The nook is not particularly interesting, but it is what is seeping from this which draws my attention: I can see in my minds-eye that there is almost no light that far down, yet there is a glow pouring out of the distance.

Through the murk and the mire, you have been swimming for far too long now, and your lungs are aching for air the way all those miners felt. But now you’re there.

When you wake up on a beach, soaking wet, you wonder how you got there. You are completely naked, except for a long gold necklace around you neck; the necklace is roughly interwoven, thick strands of solid wire, reminiscient of your mother’s hair.

Smoke drifts off in the distance as you drift off to sleep, only to wake up to a blizzard outside of your window. A blizzard of water, not snow, pouring in your open window. All that water? From the sky, not the ocean. That gasping for breath? The realization that you’re not really where you thought you were. That dream that faded so quickly into reality? We see reality the way we see blood seep through a bandage, or the way we see a cloud drift across the sky. Forget what you think about me, and you, and our ancestors, we are the important ones, the world is subject to our whims, because we dream a god, god does not dream man.

“The old soul lives in the dark night”

8
Posted by Rob on July 26, 2009 – 11:30 pm
Filed under Poetry, Writing
Tagged as

Hearts battered and hearts bend
and where’s my soul? Is it in my head?

That whole-life illusion, the sun
like so many chests, and deep breaths
observed by loved ones as you sleep
late at night –
raising and falling,
and that moon, and the stars,
nature, god, women and wine,
that illusion –
that dream precipitates,
forms a thick layer on your mind,
in your broken, battered heart.

Your soul never suffers! Never
is the question for suffering
in your soul to be brought up;
wrought up or dredged from some
black
miasmal
hole
you thought was long gone, long
covered up.

And you wake, with that flavour
in your mouth, that grit
in your teeth, the punch
of smoke, Cigarettes, countless Cigarettes,
flirting with you
and with Nausea, while
Desperation goes to the bar for a drink.

I failed already, and so did you,
I gave in; I didn’t go the whole way, I stepped back,
but you,
you stepped in.

Toes wet.

Wanna make a bet
that I am
the first person
to last for
ever?

My mind has as much to spin as my heart
has hot burning coals, smoking
and smoldering
and boiling everything
it sees. Why can’t I be
cool like all those gatos you see sleeping
in dark alleys? Drinking warm milk out of saucers,
stepping between the pillars of legs underneath
a glass ceiling, in a maw of shopping malls,
wrapped in highways and asphalt,
with a smog cough;
some grotesque Godmas present we are too scared to open.

Well, we sit and breathe smoke to the lake,
sing to the moon,
lift the bottle and try to sleep it away.