Poetry

[Axanderdeath]

Mornings of man

On the morning street,
No heat,
I see the steam,
When I breath,
On the morning street.

The smell of coffee,
beans being,
Trees a breezing,
In the morning breeze.

Bums bumming,
Cars humming,
And exsusting,
Toxic gasses –
-reached
--cough—
--sip—
my coffee in hand,
grey morning—
--bland—
grey misty morning,
the dawn and man.

*** *** ***

Work

Work is about to
Start. I watch the
East Indian people—women
In shawls—walking around
Montreal in front of park metro.

The birds are out,
Oh the lawn and shiting around—all overnever stoping.

Ripping off Americans
Out of their welfare
And disability checks.

Screw over poele
Oh the telephone, but
It is their own fault really
And it’s my job.

*** *** ***

in the begining

I started writing at
7 or 8 my first story
was about my house
burning down to the ground
everyone having to live in my tree house out
back. I worte it
before I went to bed.
It helped me sleep.
In the morning I
Asked my dad if I
Could just quit
School and study
To be a writer—
NHL hockey player.
He said if I wanted
To be a writer
I should try harder in school
And that
It was very hard to get in to the NHL
Ha!!
What did he know?

*** *** ***

Limbo

Dim lights
High thoughts
Better than while----
Asleep.
Siting on a
Crub.
Nowhere at all—
For the moment.
--limbo—
always in limbo.
Youcan’t live in the moment
Said ken kesy—
Or tom wolf?—
Your brain works
Too slow
You work on the past—
Yopur brain does
--limbo—
athe time
--limbo—

*** *** ***

Night writing

It is late
But it is okay
No work
Not today

I sit
With heavey lids
And write
I will be great.

Girlfriend is away
Sad.

[e_dog]

i like these, have a bukowskian or even a kerouackian flavor to 'em.