Archive for the ‘writer’s block’ Category

Left on Burned

Posted: February 21, 2016 in lyrics, madness, poetry, rap lyrics, writer's block


Unless I can become like chameleon
ready to feel again, steady enough to in my own head
deal again
with the spinning wheel that keeps stealing
every deal I was ever in
Like a clever pin
always flies away from it’s own donkey tail
cause what taught me failed to teach me
to stop haunting what I preach
with lies over-reached
Every whale on every beach sinking
back into the ocean and thinking it’s close
to where it’s supposed to be
meaning as a mammal of metaphor
an animal edit store
of energy, memory and angst
an inch from death pinched
doom breath of old turtle toon talking
spoon walking red herring overload
exploding into a prolapsed sun
expanding into the new universe
of unheard, wish and well-lookers held
fed all the ego juice so it breathes
grows fruit mold Pegasus wings
and flies between the fridge door
give birth to a new monster
haunt the kids for crying
staying up
watching R rated films
pocketing nightmares
like models of a horror kiln
over turned on burned the house down
turned on burned the house down
burned on build the house found
burned on learned the house down
left on burned the house down

A fighter
muscles left to pound themselves out
stress obsessed with a shiny grimy magazine
vision of science fiction
tugging at the gravel scabs of being airplane spun
out the driveway window
out of the highway symbols
when the absent glow of traffic cone robots
gives a last lift home to the last bit of hope
of decency of an asshole drunk cyclone
on hypnosis self-help clone training videos
to train your clones to hide in ninja clothes
so you can try to whip their asses
when they jump out at you
but when they jump out at you they are too trained
and your brain is being paved
as the triple pane of glass on the driveway window
on the highway high-speed chase
CGI fight scene of you
fighting a loose tooth and a screws loose
and a cyborg goose laying gold plate
hiphop beats that hide as rawhide transformers
enhanced torture on every fantasy
of every leper colony dirt bag beggars cup
left open to suck up all the writers block
and all nighters chalk
outlining your body like god was a hobby
you forgot to read the instructions about
and now you try to build a cloud
out of IKEA Lego towns
but the tools are for an alien species
and your hand cannot handle these
wood panel cheese volvo
station wagon memories
left burned on
set upon words
messed tongs turned
bar-b-que bird
and I am not a cute cartoon stuffed friend human
to hold close like aspirin
I am not your last ditch effort dad asking
if your sister washed your hair again
not the garbage being walked out
to get burned
I get burned by being left on burned



Who called it writers block anyways?
more like usually writes but not today
jam tomorrow jam yesterday
but never clever enough to stuff the pin cushions
roll up the bills feelin’ unstitchings
saves time nine sink kitchens
wishing the elephant was an automat
check the status of that closet hatched
still full of dustmites
that crust sights flicked with a finger licking
sting lights at the mingler picking
one nurse hurt for the doctors heart
start calling out numbers art
post-it notes cover a wall unspoken
broken wheels on a spell potion
maze anagrams with the goblin King
spring summer monk temple fling
moon shines handmaiden sings
acid sunday’s girl from the prairies
isn’t really from the prairies
barely windy enough to make a crush
rush the pill to pillows untrust
thrust into a forest subtropic
the topic is drugs and hot chicks
and flame sticks dancing like back home
marty mcfly in the delorean
scoring plutonium on moms door again
biff’s got the book all bets are off
being john malkovich charlie coughed
caught the bus to bee-alzebub
rub a dub give Aladdin the tubs
catch the carpet for the snub replay
too sane for my say
blue face-paint from the free shelf
we don’t serve that kind of elf
wait outside while the sabers dance
prolapsed chance to save the universe
for what it’s worth
still bleeding ink blue perverse
this side of a sideways hangover
one rung short of a come over
exercise on the year of the monkey bars
all-star almanac and flying cars
and weird futures like impossible
one year ain’t that long just improbable
yet unstoppable I kiss the girl at the airport
summer of love, summer too short
now I’m in a forest and its god’s court
gold watches are so last year
tennis players commercial for beer
and I fear the desert is un-insurable
purple t-shirt worthable
worthers originals with Grandpa
replaced Wilford Brimley switched with David Bowie
and all the crazy just knows me
flows and grows and breeds
like bees kept secret from the Vatican
I’m my own clown fetish in a vat again
of mixed up chemicals
carrying fixed up decibels
to jungle mountain festivals
and back again
sunday distorted
on track again
from the mist imported
luck dragons and garbage bin bullies
didn’t know me since I spun soul leaves
in an avatar avalanche shirt bender
word turf mender
on all the quilts of yesterdays
who called it writers block anyways?

“Just write.”
Two words with which to battle writers block. L’empéchement d’imaginer. Where did it go? The energy, the will, the drive, the incessant need to write.

Obviously not incessant.
“Just write anything.”
I’ve become too wordy. Over-educated, over-read, where my goal was to be well-read. The spirit drowned in semantics. Used to flow easily, avec aisement, now confused doubly by two tongues, the translation versus les lacunes… and useless ellipses…

(Reading my old work, graphic representations of my thoughts, poems, lyrics, stories, cartoon strips, abstract chickens scratches, the blood of bic pens, the black marrow of papermate pencils… and the carbonite fading… so sad…)

What would it all look like scanned up online? Printed out and laid out on the carpet, page next to page, on top of page, under page, grey scribble twister board, the development of my developmental years.

Or what if I lost it all? Would I replace it? Am I replacing myself now? I am, am I? I’m, I’m I, I am I. How does the future look from the past look from the present… triple paned windows with dead flies and live flies buzzing for freedom, to be le mouche libre, ignoring the carcasses of their comrades, buzzing on, le bruit d’existence… and the air dries up, runs out, gaspillage.

Heavy memories churn me this slow October night. Christmas lights in a love room. What else can Christmas lights indoors convey? The cat sniffed my litter-box of spiral-bound accumulants. And what did the cat think?

“This is not food, water or worth pissing on.”
But the feline face still held the respect… that makes no sense, sorry. (Oh god, the condition is getting worse, caring less, it’s caring more that breeds true artistic indifference).

“Write something everyday.”
I’m lucky to have a constructive thought everyday. And as for critical thinking (or self-critical voices) that’s the garbage buzz, the foul milk of human greatness. Brain electrons, waves, cresting on the refuse shores, the garbage tankers, the strip mines. Pregnant thoughts birthing still calfs, wipe the placenta clear and call it art, hide the scars of the bic scalpel Cesarian… ink pumped emergencies…

(To think I used to worry about characters [characters?] and now it’s words, even single letters that haunt me. What is the french double ‘u’? the english ‘q’? and ‘v’ always freaks me out.)

And setting. I settle for dark rooms, nothing, detail pits for the deaf, the image deaf, soudre comme un pot. Blindly led of course, I lead my blind future self, l’avenir d’aveugle.

I see the flakes of stupidity, dead thoughts, on my pillow in the morning, brush them off, pick at dried semantics and wonder where all the energy went. Too many plugs and just wait for the fire. I’ll lose it all, swallow ashes and drink blackened liquid adrenaline. Doctors find the vacancy, my kidney stolen from me by my own students, scalpels and goggles and gas masks, avoiding my disease.

Strange shape the spiral. Holds it all together yet so easily distracts me, draws me aside. D’étruire. Luire qui d’étruire. French accents like different knives (lack modifier sharpens a sentence to new levels of dull) l’accent a grave, l’accent degue, l’accent circonflexe, the circonflexing accent. Oxymoron, style not consistent and to always split infinitives, and to wallow in deconstruction.

La dérive. The non-shore. No destination and you just keep going, filler, for future boredom. Dull days. Five years from now, alone, bad weather, sick of computer and television screens dry-burning your retinas and trying in myopia to decipher fade graphite.

The graphic graveyard.
Scribbled lines of embarrassed vestiges of time. Waiting for sleep and the next day in vain. The next game, the next point, the next breath. Till waiting is the constant buzz of everything. Le bruit d’existance.

And a sore back from half-hearted positions and getting up too fast and slowly sinking in blatant comfort.

“Write nothing.”


I want to write better poetry.

I want to fill the void left by pop music,

Gangsters fighting a fixed war,

Teen angst,

And every empty promise made by new lovers.

I want the world to be a better place.

These two dreams are not quite mutually exclusive.

But we will never be moved.

Time stopped when the wall fell down.

Santa Claus lives in China and his elves make everything.

I could write better poetry.

I could recycle more, and waste less water.

I could write a letter to my representative

member of parliament.

I could try to engage people

in more meaningful conversation.

Clever artistic critique and political discourse.

Or I can just let the screaming teenagers fight,

yell, dance and vote each other into my brain.

Cause every pen that runs out on me is a rain check

and every dollar-store notepad contains

the blueprints of our nihilistic destruction.


Posted: July 20, 2011 in poetry, writer's block

the blank page-

is that where i belong?

or the filled page?

is magic alive in the empty yearning heart…

or the content warmth of a lover’s eyes?

we search for ideas like random rare animals on a safari

then EUREKA we strike gold lightning in the recesses of our brains

electrocute our art with the lies that kill truth’s humour

the fire that beats love’s rock,

soul’s scissors, and dick’s rivers-

do i dream when i’m happy

or do i just rest, like a satisfied monster

drunk on meals of sex and drugs

in happiness do hope and desperation both dry up?

and i’m left with the shitty pigeon soup recipe

in my great unknown ancestor’s will?

like the ghost above my bed said,

who claimed to be my great-great-trans-aunt-uncle

“the start of the fairy tale in the kingdom in status quo

the prince seeking heroism

the heroine seeking peace

the princess seeking love

and the peasants seeking the head of the king”

how does the story end

i ask the ghost as his shimmers above my bed,

“they all find where they belong”

and i wonder why there are no fairy tales about the writer

the lowly pious scribe who footnotes the king James

version of the bible…

or the fable, where is it-

about the writer whose muse gives him shit

because he treats her like a whore

but she moonlights acting in sheisser porn

so it’s okay

leave shit crumbs wrapped in blank poetry

through your forest traipse

the witch’s hut made of euphemisms

is actually where i belong

thesaurus eater

Posted: May 31, 2011 in poetry, writer's block

make poem happen now
awaken inspiration
hunt content
manage metaphors
snatch similes
from the wicked empty air
i know they are there
i can capitulate complex connections
through aliteration annexation

letters better afixed through lamentation
with no arbitrary admission
of the flimsy additions
this rinkydink concoction
is actually saying

yet words next to words
in this poetic house of cards
so easily crumble under scrutiny
audit analysis
a close-up eagle eye inquiry

what is your poem about sir
can you vouch for any meaning
allusion bearing or bottom-line
where is the connotation
denotation explanation implication
drift gist hint effect
point pith mark or sense
what is the meat of the thing
the flavor aroma the zest
you demand a poem and get instead
a dead infection of nihilistic nonsense
a bombast bubble bug of balderdash
a communicable claptrap of poppycock
an imprudent impurtiy
of rot rubbish and stupidity
so in your hasteness
mister make a poem now you waste this
ink on paper and the time it takes
make this prompt decay
this hurly-burly hustle
and misuse of the language
you squanderer charlatan
ravager mountebank phony
slam poet sham rogue jockey
boaster bragging gossiper
wait for real inspiration
instead of wasting the audiences time
with the coniving crookery
of an imposter

don’t add to the roster
of words lost and tossed
like so much gossamer
these stages shine
with the gleam of meaningless
the superficial and tacky papery
we need new and improved verbal wizardry
cutting edge not cut rate
advanced au courant contemporary
stop eating thesauruses
and shitting out shabby
urban dictionaries
you corpse-camper
noob ganking cut and paste mockery
you’ve got nothing worth
paying to see
and the sooner you admit this
the sooner we can stop this
lip service homage to real poetry
there were countless topics
to explore with mastery
with apt fidelity toward the craft
instead of a slap in the face
while yours wears a mask
and laughs an insipid laugh
the bush-league ejaculation
of artifice contrivance and duplicity

end poem now
abolish abort delete desist
and destroy this expenditure
ultimate the utterance
expire the exclamation
pull the plug
put the lid on and stop


doubt plagued the poet

it out-slept him and out-ate him

out-thought him

doubt ran to the end of every work

of the poet

before the poet even started

shouting along the way all the cliches

and overused motifs he found

doubt got all the poets words drunk on uselessness

whored them all off to nonsense in an unlocked bedroom

when the words come back to the poet

they come back stumbling and puking up

backwards and ill-placed punctuation

they passed out on grammar

laying not in the form of paragraphs

but in the wicked picture shapes of haunting heiroglyphs

doubt convinced all the poets pages to jump from the pen

“for that pen will stab you till you bleed out bad truths”

so all the pages the poet met

dodged his useless pen and remained unscathed

poet yell his contempt at doubt

“you were not always here!”

“no” responded doubt

“but that was back when you hung out with perseverance”

“you ignored me”

“but now we can talk long hours into the night”

“and you will never write another word…”