1229-3007

Seems these days that I write more than one poem a day and I dont title anything anymore so everything is just gunna turn into dates - whatever. I divide each poem by a little line and a copyright thing. Thanks for reading.

---

122907am(3)
I want to pull
HAND CANONS
Out of my sweatshirt
And paint the word “LOVE”
With bullets and bullet holes
Wait… ive got it all wrong you say?
O dear,
I better take these clips
Out of my hand canons
I better erase what I know
About the word “LOVE”

::START OVER::
I want to give
HAND CANONS
To preschoolers
Chewing gum mid-play
And then have them
All
DROP IT
So that peace
Could be possible
someday
and love
could find a way.

Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

---

123007(am)
Dim the conversations
Echoing inside your head
Make them like these rooms
Only half lit by naked bulbs
Make them something
Seen and not heard
Take those words
Dropping off mind lips
And hang them up
Effervescent and lovely
Recycled from the day’s
Worth of words we hear.
The song plays background
Filler:
Do you still remember
When we were little
We would play in the park
And you asked what happens
When we die
I SAID we forget everything.
It reminds me of
A childhood in London
The circling streets
The swarms of crowds
The day trips to the park
Where I would run
And run and climb trees
Where even the dingy city
Seemed to be ablaze
With summer light
And the car rides home
Streets moving like a slideshow of
Black and white photography
Depicting city
Painting loneliness
Screaming desperation
Crying inherited sorrow.

This is where we go

**Song lyrics from Ólafur Arnald’s “Himinnin er ad hrynja”

Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

slow

122907(am)
Slow drive home to a symphonic reworking
Some call it music, I call it love.
This misty drive otherwise silent so
Incalculably pleasurable
That I dont care
I dive alone.

Past the 76's, Shells, Cheverons
Past the 711's, Vons, Ralphs
Past all the places we buy
Things we don't really need
There is a small place
They call "home"
I hope I find it soon.
Home is much more then just necessity.

Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

---

122907(am2)
Destruction is all the rage these days!
It's all i see anymore
From TV where troops
Are dropping bombs
To us watching the TV in
A country that doesnt
Much care for the war and
Spreads venereal diseases
Labeling it as "holiday cheer".

Truth is: we're all dropping bombs
Brutally murdering civilians.
Just that most of us are homelanders
And our only weapons are our bodies
Irresistible.
Fatal.

Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Cheers.

ambiguous you

I want a smile to sprawl across your face
The way the nudist lays on a summer beach
We’re talking exposition.

I want a taste of your soul thru your eyes
The way the connoisseur sips a fine wine
We’re talking intimate.

I want a silence to exist within us
The way the smoker pauses for puffs
We’re talking understanding.

Only problem is
You
Do not exist
Yet.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

happy holidays?

122507(am)
I came to a realization
Late last night with the help
Of an old friend from high school.
Our conversation weaving
The same way Mulholland Dr
Whips sharp corners through this town
It turns out; and this is a bit funny really,
That I have never actually been in love
For the simple reason
Ive never been lost in someone’s eyes.
See,
Ive got a big problem with eye contact:
I don’t make it.
If I do – it’s for a nanosecond
And then I feel nauseous.
(I may have a problem with connections)
[I may always be disconnected].

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

---

122507(am2)
Ive blown out my voice box.
I shot up into those high decibels
Ricocheting like a thousand
Brightly coloured bouncy balls
Dancing down a street into traffic
Chased by children wildly grasping
And ultimately reaching the road
And stopping – all of a sudden
Everything just stops:
Balls mid-flight, children mid-step
Within inches of their lives, cars
Skidding, smoking wheels,
The thousand screaming mothers
Mid-blood-curdle-scream, one thousand
Fathers dropping tools, running
Out of their thousand garages – everything
Abruptly halted - my thousand vocal cords
All reach capacity and snap.

A moment later the world resumed
With out sound.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

---

122507(am3[about 5 min later])
Sometimes late at night
I lay in bed with my eyes open
Unable to sleep, staring blankly
Into the dark shadowscape of my room
Thinking maybe something will come out
Or Ill go in
And find the footsteps I left
Back track to the drawing board
Where I drew the picture poorly—
Erase it and start over
Adding texture here
Shadow there.
Then walk forward from that point A
Not towards point B
Point B is me in Bed eyes open
Breathing darkness.
No, if I back track
Im going to Point C
C is for Creation
After that it’s on to Point D
D is for Destiny
After that Ill stay at Point E
E is for Euphoria.
But
I haven’t found the path
Leading backward-steps
Through a tunnel unlit.
So I stay laying in bed
Eyes open until
Someone slides
The dimmers in the sky
Up. another backwards engineered daY

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

---

122607(am)
Id like you to meet Mary.
She’s the type of girl
All young boys fall for—
Stay juniors for.
She’s made of dead-end streets
And burnt out grand plans
That lead to her dismal door.
Inside her house
There’s pictures of train wrecks
Capturing every grotesque detail.
As you recline slowly on her couch
Somewhat intermingled with her now
Staring at all the train wrecks
You ask yourself: “How did I
Become mixed up with this.”
She then delicately silences you
Sliding her hand over your mouth.
Marys bad news – you think shes fun
Until she redirects the traffic of your life
Down one of her dead-end streets
Eats up your mind, wastes your time.
Im sorry
Mary
Your just not worth my time.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Not really.

No Junk Bonds

[3 separate poems all written today]

As I sit naked for a moment
After being violently woken
By sunlight breaking and entering
Into my red eye.
Every muscle agony cries large flames.
I’m sitting here naked mid-way through tomorrow
And I think, I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

---

This – is – internalized.
This battle uphill
Rages in my psyche
Its why sometimes
You can find me
Cussing out shadows
Breaking air with my hands bare
Convulsing slightly in my bed at 3:33am
(that’s when my evil comes out).
Its why sometimes
When you all want to talk
Derailed trains and speeding cars
My mouth seems stuck shut.

It’s why I walk alone
Its why companions
Are harder to come by
Than the honest in Los Angeles
(they’ve gotta be here somewhere)
It’s why I don’t invest
In junk bonds like
Plastic People INC.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

---

On these faux-gold walkways
“Please and Thank You” ’s
Will get yer teeth knocked
The fuck
Out.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

[cheers]

I am

I am
Old haggard
Slouched and spent
Unfolding his life
Folded in half.
I am
Wayward soldier
Returned to home
Discharged for
Deciding not to side.
I am
The imbalanced
Balance for the
Eternal balancing act.
I am
Unable to continue
Just carrying on
I need to carry
A little less.
I am
20 years
In the making
The masterpiece
Unfinished
I am

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Simple pleasures

Simple pleasures
(The way this landfill
Looks in setting light
Driving the speed limit
Because you have the time
Roaming the hills at sunrise
Because you never slept
Watching those couples handhold
Feeling only freedom yourself
The sun flickering through
Swaying tree branches backlit blue
Walking into an empty house
Because everyone else is busy
Sleeping away the lonely hours
Then waking up happy solitude
The way the bass vibrates
Throughout your bones
Carrying a secret
That is actually secret
A fresh haircut
That’s rejuvenating
Feeling warm eyes
Massaging you
Being in that right place
At that right time)
Makes life worth living.

© 2007 Liam Elliott. All Rights Reserved

for the War Children

Oh look, wasn’t Suzy a pretty young lady?
Shame about the stray bullet that popped her head.
And look at little James, wasn’t he handsome?
Shame about the napalm that melted his face.
Hey, there’s his friend: little Rafael – wasn’t he so big for his age?
Shame his village was disintegrated by an atomic blast.
Check out Jennie – wasn’t she so smart even for a child?
Shame a group of soldiers raped her and left her dead.
And look at all the parents weeping at the funerals
Blaming everyone but themselves.

Those who are directly affected by war
Are our [war] children who inherit
Our violence and hate.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

EX

These two pieces are related - originally part of one whole but then separated (seems fitting haha)

When I told my mother
Ive never met anyone
Who could keep up with me
She told me:
Stop running.

When I called her by her first name;
The way I always do - always will,
And told her with plain words:
Im not running—
Just walking
While everyone else lays down
She laughed.

And its raining – almost x-mas;
Emphasis on EX because
We dumped the Jesus Christ out
And replaced him with light trees and
Presents that last about as long as love
And that’s never very long these days.
Honestly, this season brews atomic bombs in my gut
Then sets of mutant chain reactions in my head.
Why?
Because everyone gets so nostalgic
About whoever they’ve loved since last year—
And it makes me sick cos
-They all dropped and broke
Like fine china hurtled to stone floors.
Hey!
Realize this:
Our hearts are that stone tiling
That china?
Yeh, its true love;
Crippled and codependent
And it’s so one-dimensional.
But it’s the prettiest thing
You’ve ever let slip by.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

---

When I got home today
I found a new message from an ex-lover.
You know the one: the girl you loved
Fervently briefly then
Threw on the floor and walked out
Into the blizzard.
And I won’t lie to you all
That yeh, I looked back
And yep. I kept walking.
Now its 2 days before what would’ve been
A one-year anniversary if I hadn’t
Aborted the mission halfway
(And I don’t regret leaving)
It was inevitable
Like burning the bridge
Back to a broken home.
So I,
Home now with this message
A lurking shadow in my dark,
Sit here mother’s words ringing:
Stop running
Stop running.
But Mum, it’s the only way
This world keeps turning.
So, I do what I do the very best
Run
Its why I live this lonely life.
Don’t feel flattered, honey—
There’s enough people
That I have cut from my life to fill
A big smiling peace loving country.
This just works best for both of us.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

synth sunshine

Do you remember
Holding sunshine
Blissful days were
Everything feels plasticized
Like lips pressed against yours
Like hips pressed against yours
Like you’re need to feel
And to Novocain the rest?

Well, I remember swallowing bullets
And the slow release inside my belly
An explosion of joy. I remember how
My sunshine has always been synthesized,
Processed, packaged, and sold with a smile
From a mouth missing more teeth
Then the dreams I wake up from.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

sobur(st)

Transcend the borderlines:
This skin and bone - the cage.

Move past what your finger
Tips feel and reach out
Without moving muscles
Without moving molecules.

Transcend the frequency:
This physicality – the lie.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

2nte

While bussing home
I think about how
Living today makes us cold—
It’s easier to not care
If people are just programs
And their death is just
A runtime error.

The man next to me
Is leaning back and forth
Compulsively/drunkly/incontrollably
This program has a glitch.

As we near my stop
And consequentially his too
I rise and glance down
At the seat in front of me
Someone has sharpied “METH” on it
Maybe that’s his malfunction—

Or perhaps society praises
Fucking up
The same way Christians praise
Jesus Christ.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

PS: This is not a bash on religion - just a statement of polar opposites so lets not do the hate mail thing.

vroooom

I have a car
That runs on nothing
But my dreams!!
. . .
Whats that?
It broke down?
Nevermind then.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

sshhhhh

I would give you
All my dog-eared pages
If I thought you’d read.
I would say
So much more
If I thought you listened.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

ghost

I have no reason to carry on
Goodbyes and hellos
Are now equilaterally related
Joints, alcohol, and everything else
Breeds the most transient friends
It never lasts when you’re sober
Hello, it was nice knowing you.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

The sun also rises

Dare I say it: (happy?)
Without substance
Without contact
Without worry
Without sound
Without you
Without me.

Just for a moment
Lend me your eyes
And also your ears,
Your hands and feet,
Your arms and legs,
Your body; upper and lower,
Your heart and organs—
These are unnecessary
Because it is all in your mind.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

---

(2)
Could I speak a moment?
In empty halls
In houses full
With nothing but
Mirrors and recorders
Although no one hears
I feel it is important
(At least for me)
To speak easy
My thoughts.
My audience? (empty chairs)
My reward? (seemingly none)
Other then the ability of
Weaving words in vacant spaces
Because if there were crowds
I would be worried about saying
All the right things.
Fuck
that.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

fin

“fin”
and left with a black screen
you wonder if that is it
and why these movies
always end in suicide
a vacant stare
a half smoked cigarette.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

---

i rob the light
from my eyes
and walk through crowds
dead and outnumbered
by those who appear
to be living.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

---

Thank you.

Mechanically Inspired Poem

112007
Parking garage
5th floor 20 spots
Left from the elevator
Doors sliding open
Eyelids want nothing
More than to slide shut
Jaw the teeth rattling
Ears picking up sound
Feet making a beat
Heart bruised and cold
Lungs full of tar and shit
Thoughts in a toilet
Head getting flushed
Face glides groundwards
Knees begging praying
Hands gripped on the steering wheel.
I am sitting in my car
Park(ed) at ten thirty pm
Trying to warm up my engine
[Heart]

Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Sometimes

111907
I erased what I was trying to write because some times the pages of our lives just turn out blank and there’s nothing we can do.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

nosenses

111807am
if i were made of something more tangible
say skin, bones, and flesh would you be there
when I fall? [because i have my doubts]
[ive never seen anyone “be there” before]
or would you slip away hoping id find the bottom?
but no bottom exists – just the darkest abysses
a human being could ever travel [its hell]
[really] its a place where god doesnt exist
where youre paralyzed, deaf, and mute
but youre screaming screaming screaming.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

iDecay

111307
Work clock, slowmo,
Almost moves backwards.
Tap water, lukewarm,
Tastes like metals.
Lone smoke, ashes
In empty stomach.
Vacant me, blue hum,
Try to forget this life.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

********

111107pm
The last thing I kissed:
A cigarette that burnt
My puckering lips
As streetlights painted
Yellow patterns across my chest
The same way muzzle flairs
Light up a room
During an execution.

The last thing I embraced:
An effigy made of movie clippings
They called it love
Showed it all over town:
Pictures of how it could be
Glowing on walls
The same way apparitions
Light up a room
During a poltergeist.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

The 7th Cycle

111107
On November the 7th
Just past 2 in the morning
I realized that I no longer existed
That I had not noticed myself
Exiting out of my own life.
Even now as this truth dawns on me
My essence fades
Like the lights in a theatre
Before the big show starts.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

move along

11807
Ive out lived you
So I can carry on
You said id breakdown
Before not too long
Well, ive been broken
Its time to make myself
.Whole.
Im gathering my little bag
That has always been packed
Full of the same old bullshit
That i carry in remembrance
That all ill ever have to stand on
Are my own two legs
And if i sit on this tortoise
One more blindingly painful day
Ill never get nowhere slowly
So im running, im fucking running
Straight past your finish line
Into the open arms of oblivion.
Ill see you on the other side
Where nowhere divided in half
Equals infinity and infinity
Equals me.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

you get nothing

11207pm
I hear the distant rumbling of cars
Reminiscent of conversations
I have engaged in while drunk
That just tumble on incoherently;
When I have had too much
My words begin to circle like vultures
Around the carcass of my life
I am honest without shame
My darkest thoughts are exposed
Like rapist clergymen.

I should have been a funeral home
Filled with mourning relatives
Who are really there for the will
Faking sorrow through the wake
Hoping, praying they will get the payout.

You won’t get shit when I die,
Fuckers.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

A Small Offering

112007am
Let me store
This with you:

I have these bouquet thoughts
Flowering from my erratic mind
And if I could only shift the epicenter
Towards the tranquility of thought
I would scrape my skin from bone
Using nothing other than long stares
And thus reach my destination
Naked
.Perfect.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

New poem

But you cant read it.

Sorries!


Ill give you a hint: it was about wire bouquets and tinsle.


<3

Abrupt

103007
Oh, Ive loved before
Had bouquets of roses
Explode out of my chest
But all of my bouquets
Turn into severed wires
Rusting in my hollow form.

Oh, I opened shop
So long ago, the stock
Is getting outdated:
Passing the “sell by” dates
As I wait to flip the sign
“Open” to “Closed”.

And by the way
This ends not so
Abruptly.

©Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Feeling

102607b
Colon c
Colon open parenthesis
Colon apostrophe
Open parenthesis
Colon slash
Greater than
Colon O
Colon X
Colon X
Colon X
Colon X
Colon X.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Transience and Immortality

102607
You see
We are all just reeds
Flowing in
A current
We are all equals
With no front
With no back
The stream is eternal
Though reeds
Are not.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Subjectivity and Objectivity

102507
It is 2 a m
And I am seeing
Through these new eyes:
It has just dawned
Upon my small mind
That the world
Is subjective
Important, why?
Because it means
I am in control
This show is mine
You won’t hold me
Down any longer.
Someone embedded
Victory in my name
And I’ve been fighting
Since my birth. Since
Then I’ve crawled
Through hell and shit water
Through hate and true love
And I just came out 
From that tunnel
At the edge of
My existence
Where I saw objectivity die as I stood above
the tunnel’s mouth in the kind of expanse 
that threads the dreams of those who see 
only what is shown
And it was there
That I moved to
The subjective world
Where I make the
R
          U
                    L
E
          S
                    E
L
          U 
                    R
U
          L
                    E
S
          E
                    L
U 
          R        
                    U
L
          E

                    S.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

I just wrote

A poem about my thoughts and feelings on love.

But Im not going to share it.

You'll have to wait for the book.

Haha.

2.0

102207a
I feel bad
Killing the ants
That have staked claim
To my bathroom
And wonder
If I inclined
Cauliflower ear
Would I then hear
Happy melodies?
I cannot help
But imagine,
While they go down
The drain,
How much we share
In common.
I also wonder
If ants feel pain
When I crush them
Between my fingers
The same way
I would feel pain
If god picked up
My squirming body
And crushed it.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

---

102207b
God must have been very lonely
In order to create friends
That stopped talking to him
I cannot help but feel bad
Having been on the outside
Sitting in silence myself.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

102007

It brings in the colours.

Is this how everythings supposed to look:
Bright?
More luminous than the ash sun?

Is this how you see the world:
Do colours leap of surfaces
Into your soft eyes
Spilling onto your retina
Flowing down your optic nerve
Soaking into your brain
Where it’s translated into
True love?

Because I see the world
In 18% grey
All rainy days
And when that rain
Hits my synapses
It’s translated into
Lost love.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Also, I really want to go to an existing/ start a poetry reading.
Contact me if you're interested.

More crap poetry

From a crap poet.


101907
Ive got this equation spilled across my desk
It’s the one of my life in a math ruled universe
It’s the one that I spend years tryin to crack
These numbers just don’t add up
These fuckin numbers don’t add up!
I cant do math – its all lies
Rules based upon theories
Based upon nothingness
Algorithms, equations, formulae:
All nullified by the simple fact
They are inventions to explain
The vacuous human existence.
The answer to my life’s equation
Is not a number between 0 and ∞
There is no answer
(me/∞)-0
(=)
(?)
©Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

The Usual

101807d
This morning I melted in the shower
My particles dispersed with hot water
And I was rinsed down the drain
I sloshed through the my house’s pipes
And finally into an underground cistern
There I mixed with other items repelled
Down drains – I attempted to hold
Myself together, but I continued dissipating
As my body of water rushed
Into a sanitization plant.

I smile now slightly,
Tomorrow morning
Californians everywhere
Will be drinking
Their own shit
And smiling with me
Moving through them.

---

101807e
Sometimes I wish
I could be genuinely nice
That the nice person in me
Was not choked by bitter thorns
Sometimes I wish
I could forget about me
And take care of others.

But I’ve been
The only person
I can rely on
Since bitterness
Became my stale bride.

(sorry – I’m built)
(out of bad news)
(and rainy days).
© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Oh, Im just Trouble

101807

333am movements
Across the astroplane
I heard 333am
Is the witching hour
Funny – Ive have already
Trecked undecipherable lands,
I have already forged a new way
For the new (brain) wave,
Ive gone through curses,
Ive never been praised,
Ive heard demonic versus
Sung as my neck wrung,
Ive been turned away
By some, and
Ive been accepted
By many others,
I sport long grey wings
In limbo: the inbetweens
Of inbetweens,
Where things never intervene,
Catch me where
No others dare lie,
Deconstructed—
Lead astray.

______________________
101807b
I feel as if I am the bi-product of your assumptions and
Lowered expectations—
If I were made of sunrises
Would I have been
Absolutely bright enough
If I were made of smiles
Would I have been
Positively happy enough
If I were made of shit
Could I rise from it?
Make the top of the tree
Move in the wind – joyfully?
Or would I the root rot
The tree and branches
Bring it down
Like me?

______________________
101807c
I watched the lights
Glide over my head
The colours
Most vibrant
The euphoria songs
Play in my ear
As red turns orange
Then green
And Im glidin again
Could this actually be
Peace on earth?
Or ether dreams
Running my show?

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

A poem for the new day

All we can hope
Is that tomorrow’s
Tempests will be
Anaesthetized
By sweet ether
And we may cross
Boldly over ways once
Serpentine, but now
Seductively subdued
By strolling fingers
Beguiling sad souls
Out of their deep
Dark repose and into
Fancy fits causing
Fireshows
Raining down seeds:
The precious present
Seconds of existence
That bloom either
Resplendent bouquets
Or grotesque thorns.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Living?

101507
I stand outside
The place I live
Contemplating
Whether to walk in
Or walk away
And drive until
I am out of gas
Until my car
Combusts
And burns me alive.

Let me tell you something
Bitterness is an amazing
Kindling.
©Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

A quick 3some

1

Strobe lights play tricks
On an intoxicated man
Somewhere police barrage
Maglites – run run run
Drive drunk
Puddles soakin shiverin
Love blankets fistfights
Who’s there in dark rooms?
Could I get more?
I feel like hell

Hard wood floor shiverin blankets
Drugs drugs drugs
Stumblin
Can I have more
Stumblin drugs
Fuck!
Hello hello
Out of memory
Out of love
Out of life
Ive wrapped myself in death
Ive warped myself in darkness
Not goin down
Not goin anywhere
Not livin?

Shiverin shiverin
Drunk
Hello
This is my life

Don’t roll me over

I want to hate you
For what Ive become
But I cant
I secretly love watching
Myself die in mirrors
Thru patterned substance abuse
Ill die like this
Ive made peace with that
Don’t roll me over
Don’t roll me over
Im shit
Im fuckin shit

Don’t roll me over

---

2

Theres nothing I wont say
In my poetry or otherwise
Theres now way to censor
The pressure bombs
Exploding inside
Because theres so much
Still left to do
And say and feel

O im sorry I lied
There is one thing
I can never say
In poetry, or otherwise:
I love you!
Im incapable
Its never true.

---

3

Misplaced
I have been wandering
Through a city lost,
Decaying, and idiotic
Feeling like someones
Filled my mouth
With cotton balls
Muffling my words
My yelling
And now I am choking
Sometimes just breathing
Really is just not enough.

Pan out

111307c

Driving into the sun
The warm welcoming heat
Glowing on these lanes
Packed with thought
Leading to a doorstep:
A place I never call home
Because I feel as though
I’m just visiting here
And don’t really belong.

Driving into the sun
The warm welcoming heat
Maybe I’ll carry on
Past my destination
Allow my car to leave
The road and drift through space
Towards the burning damnation.

Perhaps, everything will pan out
Or at the very least, pan right.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Two new poems today

I dunno bout em honestly.

A bit ruff but o well.


101107
230am

I know certainly
That this weekend
Ill be drunk
And problematic
Someone will
Have to nurse me
Or at least
Roll me onto my side
Maybe they should
Just let me die.

---

101107
1059pm
Open spaces
Vast expanses
Brisk emptiness
Just right now
I want my
Surroundings to match
How I feel inside.
©Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Another peom from the wilderness series

101107
Ive got this late night
Search warrant
Fueled by tea
Dizzying thoughts
A child stares at me
From the steam
PG Tips - slow slips
The child: blue eyed,
Blonde haired,
Sad, confused, lost
I know him well
His hidden tears
The way he will declare
War on friends, family,
Then when no one is left:
Himself.
I know how he shakes
With booming emotions
Trapped and bottle necking
Into a sweet therapeutic addiction
I know how he will search
Through canvases
Crowds, love, drugs,
Religion, fights, women,
Fashion, ego, hate—
Trying to find himself
Where he left off
So many years ago
I know how he can’t
Conjure up the words
Allowing him freedom
I know how he analyzes
His every footstep
His every utterance
His every thought
I know how he cries
I know how he will
Forget how to cry,
How to feel, how to love,
How to express anything
Besides bipolar pendulum
Swayings between negative
And overwhelming positive
I know how he won’t
Be able to accept
Who he is until
He is stuck play acting.


Most of all,
I know how he will be up late
With a warm cup of tea
Staring through the steam
At things that aren’t really there.
Oh, I know these things all to well
If only I could spare him
If only.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

New poem from Sketches of the Wilderness

10807

right now
im completely invisible
right now
this bark and i are one
right now
i can feel the earth rotating
right now
i am a peaceful faun in flight
right now
i want not, i strive for nothing
right now
i am whole, i am empty to the world
right now
time has stopped – almost reversed
right now
this could not be anymore perfect
right now
i feel heartbeats from nirvana.
© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Book Updates

I am picking up the first batch of the "In Silence" books today and setting up a paypal. I'm hoping to have them up for sale from this blog by the end of the week or so.

News

I have just finished "In Silence" and have started to make arrangements to get some small "indie" style books put together. Indie style meaning Im printing them at Kinko's "coz its cheap, like the budgy!" I will keep you posted on those poppin up for sale off this blog. I am thinking cheap 5 to 10 dollars seeing that it is not a large book (about 15 pages).
More of that later though.

Also, I've started a new body of work "Sketches of the WIlderness". And I will post bits and pieces of it as I work on it. My general plan for this body of work is to comprise poetry, illistrations, and possibly photography into a large book that flows between each of these three mediums seemlessly. I want it to be BIG, because I have never done anything big.
That is all I will say about that may the rest be mystery.

More soon.

Wishin you few readers the best,
Liam Elliott

A Hang Over Poem

Drinking at a friends house
(Ari’s is like a haven)
(For stupid drunk nights.)
Girls will arrive soon
(I said girls not women purposefully)
But I am drunk
Too drunk to understand
The possibilities
(I’m always too drunk)
(Or too sober)
(And alone.)
I hear sex
From a bedroom
(Very loud moaning sex)
Down to two girls now
One for Ari. One for me?
(They are not pretty.)
Dark blurry vision
My car driver’s seat.
Sunlight.
I sit up slowly:
No shoes, no keys
(Vomit here and there.)
Ari appears in the driveway
Cautiously looking at me
(We stare at each other for a moment)
(Like strangers thrust together)
(Isn’t that what all friends are at first?)

“Let me get your things
Don’t come inside
My parents are freakin out.”
He says almost whispering.
“You were so fucked up dude,
O my god. You were stumbling
And puking out here.”

“I don’t remember.”
I say somberly.

He goes inside
Comes back with my shoes
My phone, my keys
Were in my car door.
As I take my things
I think: how does he do this
So god damned well?
(And leave.)

Honestly, all this
Is quite simply because
I’ve been searching
For someone to help me
Rewrite my life’s story
But I only find bottles
And lonely mornings
Hung over days
Where I sleep in baths
And after that
Vomit repeatedly
Only to go out
And do it all again
(Until there is nothing)
(Left.)
© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Life

It is not that the grass is greener here
It is just that it is a different shade
Because life is not lived
Inside a 50s black and white
Television show
Not at all!
It is lived in colour:
Infinite shades from
Infinite hues.
Although at times
I wish it wasn’t
This way.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Heres a secret: I feel very alone all the time. . .but sshh

Primer Uniform

Primer Uniform
In these waning hours of days
Winding down like old toys
I am a soldier with a green beret,
Plastic rifle held at forty-five,
And paint chipping off my uniform.
The other toys are in similar shape:
Plastacine villages melting in the acid rain;
The town clock has slumped sadly over,
Our military is stuck in the mud
On our front lawn pointing canons at leaves
And twigs blowing evasively in the wind,
The zoo is shut down due to a rare
Strain of STDs that spread
Throughout their population
Shortly after a holiday celebration.
But days continue to wane down
Until nothing is left
But the ash from your cigarettes
And the realization
That the once brilliant vibrant uniform
You donned day and night
Has chipped and faded
Revealing drab primer.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Also, check out what A Blinking Robot did with this. With my permission of course.

Sandman

Mr. Sandman,
Bring me a treat
Bring me a couple pints
Maybe some pills to eat
(Because I don’t sleep)
I’m sure you’ve seen
My eyelids being held up
By those little devils
And their pitchforks
Conniving smiles amass;
They think they’ve won
They haven’t
Not yet, not yet.
Not ever.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Addiction(SHIT)

Utter shite.
Im a fleeting shadow
Upon a desecrated street
Im a reflection
In a shattered mirror
Im the end
Of a never-ending story
So light up your embers
Burn slowly as I tell a tale:
Destruction and destiny
Mixed; blow out a cannon
Mouth dropping a-bombs
As if tomorrow did not exist.
No worries;
Debts are cleared at sunrise
With broken limbs, swollen eyes.
Tomorrow you’ll make it
Tomorrow you’ll be alive.
Night after night
Empty bed: no one there
Reach out
Nothing.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Tangibility

Tangibility
Uncertainty.
Eyes fidgeting
Beneath my coma,
Glossy print gaze
Soaking in soft focus
The thousand words
I could never fuckin say
Never spit out
From my toxic waste,
Sewer pipe mouth.
That while death
Fails to intimidate
This heart thrashing
Inside my echo chamber,
Cavern chest
That there is worse
Than elongated death
Oh yes. A far greater
Torment dances
Inside my bruised exhausted,
China doll bones: to be—
Inverted via doubt
Then retrofitted without
That which was dubious;
The great ambiguous:
Love.
The illusory reality of which
Is papier-mâché bricks
Adhering to my chest.
It seems so real at times
That I loose my breath;
Only to inhale deeply
The soot of a tangible universe.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Divination?

Unwind
I’ve seen the end.
It comes while I rise;
Mid-air, between breaths-
I will go silently
Into the night
Like love departing
Down an alleyway.
Perhaps many will notice
Perhaps still, many shan’t.
Traffic lights may pause
Sirens may roar
A state of emergency
May be called (or not).
Whatever happens
Upon that fair day
In that fair moment
Is strategically planned:
The scene is set,
The only thing left
Is to press play
And watch the movie
Quickly unwind.
Then let it pass to memory.
It will be like nothing happened.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Just a thought

Dreams become Purpose.

Last night I had a blissful dream where the sun shone everyday and the temperature was perfect. Last night I had a blissful dream of a place that offered everything I need, and miss. Throughout the dream as I traversed the alien content I found I spoke the language. I felt healthy and whole. Last night my soul wandered away from my body to a place where it could run free: escape the everyday and fly in the wind. My soul has always wanted to be in such a place as this, but I have never been able to physically get there.

It is now my life’s endeavor to find the place where my soul will be free; even though I will go through struggles and risk my well being to do so. I will find it. I have to.

Poem Meh.

My stuff is shit right now I think.
Who agrees?


Sidewalk

I kick around empty streets
You know, the kind that are as welcoming
As a lover with open arms and large eyes.
But I’ve never been one to take up lovers
And last all the way: forever.
I’ve always found the end.
The same way empty streets
Always lead me to the same place:
The gradual stroll up the steps
Leading out to eternity’s
Ephemeral bliss:
My body feels iced
My mind drugged
In a landscape of
Everlasting short-lived
Bursts of sunrises
On concrete walkways
Lined with play-doh buildings
With iron bars over windows
That look into padded rooms
And the mats that line
Symmetrical doorsteps reading:
“Welcome Home.”
I know that behind each door
Are scared people whose guns
Line up the walls: just in case!
And I’m hoping if I stand out here
Just long enough that maybe
Some dangerous, dear soul
Will blow my brains out
And paint beauty with it
On this suburban sidewalk.
© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved

Winter is my favorite season.

Au Revoir, Passé

It’s time for chapped lips
And drawn-out sips
Of hot beverages;
Traversing cities in a storm.
It’s time for the ice to form
It’s time for all this
To never be the same,
Ever again.

It’s time we put away
The summer games we play:
The dances of checkers and chess
Upon a sun drenched desk.
It’s time for growing up
It’s time for all this
To never be the same,
Ever again.

I have a plan
For this winter
See you next
Summer.

Au revoir, passé.


© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

9-10-07

Today I did something out of the ordinary. I disbanded responsibility and disappeared into Westwood. Partially due to a doctors appointment for new glasses; the rest was all fun.
Here are the poems that came from the day.
Enjoy, criticism welcome.

Assisted Living

“Sunrise Assisted Living”
Is stuck on the side
Of a green minibus
Via magnets-
I watch it roll past.
I wouldn’t mind some assistance
Living.
I’ve been so dead since
I transfused my blood
With alcohol.
I’ve been gearing up
For some kind of alcohol
Related demise
Since I was the age of five.

Let’s be honest for a minute:
We are not kings, nor princes,
Not even their jester.
No, we are the ants
In the hill, in the dirt
That the rich spray raid on
Everyday.




Bustop

Bus-stop-lady
Applies make-up
But miss, you’ll never
Be 20 again, like me
No matter how much
You wear.

Bus-stop-man
Reeks of old spice.
But sir, you’ll never
Be 20 again, like me
No matter how much
You wear.

Bus-stop-me
Fashionably dressed.
But I’ll never be
Over the hill, like them
No matter how much
I wear.



Dress Rehearsal

In a waiting room in a doctors office
I sat across from an elderly couple
The type that lived through
The last world war
And possibly helped in the war effort.
A doctor is explaining to the man
That he must take him away
And the old man follows
Leaving his wife in her light green dress.
She’s noticed now and in trying to follow
Looses her elderly elegance
As she tries to stand from the chair
I look away. She goes down the hall.
She is too slow. The hall is empty.
She returns without her husband
Muttering to herself.

In some odd sense
I felt this was rehearsal
For this gentleman’s demise.




Coffee Shop Space Ship

I’m sitting in a coffee shop
As I watch traffic rush away from
My corner window
Feels like the edge of a world
That’s passing away from me
As if I dropped it out of disgust
But I see now so much beauty:
From the scattered vagrants
To the business people who
Scatter around them;
From the young woman
Pursued by a cloud of smoke
To the man smoking a cigarette
On the other side of the street;
From couples in stride
To singles standing still;
To me: taking off in my
Coffee shop space ship:
Solitary confinement
In the darkness of outer space.




Malibu Dream

I had a Malibu Dream
In Westwood Village
Thinking about the warm sun
On my skin, slowly crisping.
And a soft beach scene
Based somewhere in Southern France.
And I’m thinking how
I’m not supposed to be here
With these people and
They’re friends
Estranged from myself I think:
I deserve to be somewhere
Beautiful.
©Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

~Liam. <3

Yeh, I know. . .Mooooore poetry

Not that I really think anyone read this but eh its habitual now.
O, and if your stealing this I will find out and I will do the most ungodly things to you.
Enjoy :]


A Cigarette and a Compliment

You know you are at your lowest
When you go from store to store
Neighborhood to neighborhood
In search of the right pack of cigarettes
And finally settle for a freebee
From a stranger who watched you
Enter the store anxiously
And leave cussing under your breath:

“Do you need a cigarette?”
She asks kindly
I was taken off guard;
“O, uhm, yes. Please!”
She shuffled six packs
Of cheap alcohol to dig
In a rather large purse
And produced the damn things.
“Here.” And pause - as I take it.
“You smell good—
Whatever that is.”
Again, I am taken of guard;
“O, thanks.” I laugh nervously
As she looks at me gently,
But also like a piece of meat
Somehow at the same time.
“Do you have a lighter?”
I ask somewhat embarrassed.
“O yeh. Here.” Again from the purse
And again, I: “Ah, Thanks.”
She almost lit it for me
But I delicately took it,
Rudely took it, away.
I lit up and returned it.
“O god, thank you.”
I could sense something;
Feel it crawling up my spine.
I slowly drifted away
Across the empty parking lot
Feeling like I used my looks(ha!),
My charm(haha!),
And a year or so of acting classes
To get what I needed to forget
That damn dial-tone ringing
Provocatively in my head.
If only she were younger
And thinner. Or if only
I was less picky
I would have asked her
Where her night begins
And followed her to the ends.

But I’m not gunna put out
For a cigarette and a compliment.

I finish the cigarette at my car
Leaning on it like some junkie;
Like some scumbag shithead.
I could feel everything move
Fluidly again. I flicked it down,
Stomped it out, swam into
The driver seat of my car,
Started it, waited, waited, waited,
Waited, checked, waited, no calls,
Or texts. No nothing. I turn on
The radio, send out texts, call
A person or two. No returns.
She probably had pretty friends
Right now I’d put out
For a cigarette and a compliment.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Snickers anyone?

Dinner
I’m hungry
But I hate eating alone
I’ve got text on a screen
Representing a companion
But I don’t ask
Because I am horrid
At dinner table conversation
Somewhere in my childhood
I befouled my parent’s sacred table
Repeatedly and without shame
And now I am socially crippled.


Dinner 2
I think I’m hungry
I’m having an internalized
Debate on whether to take the fall
And go out for dinner
But then, I ask myself, who with?
Tables are awkwardly built
For two these days.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Kind of sprouted at random

Old

Even as I tell
An old friend
About how great
You and I were
Together—
The good times are replaced
By memories of how
I fucked you
Metaphorically
Speaking
The colour fades
From an arm chair
As I do from
My own life
Effervescently
Playing itself
In a fashion
Of a record that
Slowly sounds incredibly
Old.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

New Poem

See You (Scrambled Eggs)

I dropped her
Like a cigarette
Into an ash tray
Spent, but still
Alive. Somewhat.

I grabbed at air
Like bottles
Filled with freedom.

Now,
I’m riding
A snail to victory:
To a finish line.
See you.
See you there.

There.
I load
Pills in my mouth
Like bullets in a clip
Bam!
Scrambled eggs
All over the place.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.


Sauce

Its funny how I tell my friends
I don’t miss you
Yet
I do and I don’t.
I miss not having
Nightmares:
Scrambled eggs
Running from
That hole in my mind.
But you? No.
More, myself
Before me
And the blender
Crossed paths
And I got sauced
Constantly.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Surprise

Surprise
The clouds are rolling up my stairs
A semi-formulated thunderstorm
Swirls at the door to my room
I am sitting on the other side
I could feel it coming, not surprised.
The door explodes in a mixture of
Blue electricity and fire.
I am thrown back against the wall
I could feel it coming, not surprised.
The tail end of the storm is at the stairs
As the head begins moving its way to my ceiling
More and more it grows with great fever.
There is nothing now, just this storm
Consuming my room from ceiling to floor.
I could feel it coming, not surprised.
Crawling slowly from my reclined position
I locate the eye of the storm and stand.
The storm swirls about me, I reach out my hands
I hung my head—
Time stopped instantly.
Then from opposite sides of the storm
Two arms of light appeared
Moving towards my arms
I could feel their heat:
The pure electricity.
I completed the circuit
The mass energy gathering inside
My body exploded in a mixture of
Blue electricity and charred body parts.
But, my consciousness carries on inside
A euthanasia needle, a bullet
Streaming from a gun to someone’s head,
A noose dangling in a small hotel room,
A plastic bag being pulled down over a face,
A razor blade across someone’s wrists,
A bottle of alcohol beside pills on a nightstand;
I didn’t see it coming, I was so surprised.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Land of the Living

Land of the Living
One day you notice a bleak, blue corpse numbness has slowly slithered down your spine. As you sit there in an uncomfortable office chair you think to yourself; in the moment where the phone lines are vacant of calls, that you should be surprised. But your not; that’s the rub of being numb: there is nothing to disturb you. You will eventually find yourself at this plateau of your own organizational success. Generally speaking, you arrive here when you follow a set routine everyday; you coast on autopilot through a few days at first. Then you find yourself coasting through whole weeks without even noticing them passing. Before you know it a year has passed without any exhilarating events. By now you are just living on a perpetual loop; your movements, your expressions. You walk the exact same path each day without much alteration. Even you conversations repeat a infinitum. Your once impeccable fashion sense seems to repeat from day to day; Monday’s it’s the brown shirt with the black slacks and brown shoes with black socks; Tuesday’s is the white shirt with black slacks and white shoes with white socks; and so on in an endlessly repetitive manner. Then one day as you are standing next to the parking spot which is not actually dedicated to you but in which you always park; you realize everyone knows you as a dinosaur of stead fast loyalty to a routine. Pausing briefly, you glance down at your shoes; you note that it is a Wednesday – solely on your tan hushpuppies with grey socks, that’s when you know its been so long since [. . .] Your train of thought loses its track off a cliff in your mind because after a while you have developed blinders and certain thought processes are not traveled on in your routine and thus you are unable to travel upon them ever again. At first you find this mildly frustrating until your footsteps glide back into the quintillion footsteps of yesterdays that have slowly ticked past without your knowledge. And that is it: your set now. The rest of your life is etched in concrete like the names of children from the 1980’s. And it will never change until the day your heart slowly stops, or perhaps you fall asleep behind the wheel, or even your shot in some sort of robbery mix up. Then you will be dead and the small sphere of the world that you affected will morn. Many will take on religions and faiths; others will promise themselves they will live each day to its fullest. A few others will commit suicide when they understand their future parallels yours exactly. Then those still living shall slide down hill into their old patterns until they too perish; whether expectedly or unexpectedly one by one all will disappear. Once the sphere in which you existed has all but passed to the afterlife it will be like you never existed. There will be no great stories told of you. In photographs that are found by distant acquaintances of acquaintances; you are an unrecognizable face. That is what we all we amount too.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

The Long Way Home

The Long Way Home
I took the long way home from work that night; something about the freeway seemed just too easy and quick. So, I drove the stop-and-go city streets all the way home. And I drove slow because I was in no means eager to get to my home: angry parents and that damned thing I call a room. Thus, I switched on some minimal from Norway to romance me across those long drawn out streets that intersect the way we did, once. But now I have grown unsure of this all much like a man becomes unsure of his religion, just every once in a while. Driving easily I note how streetlights seem to streak past like shooting stars; I make a wish one as I breeze through another green light. The minimal moves syncronus with the street in the corner of my eye so pleasantly I feel as if it were a dream. Raised trucks and lowered home-made racecars shoot past me; both of them are driven by men trying to prove just that; that they are indeed men. It’s a sad show of overloaded testosterone that I gave up on years ago when I realized no matter how greasy I got with my father beneath his broken muscle car I would never be as machismo as he; thus I gave up.
I hit a red light. At this pause I breathe a heavy prolonged sigh. The streetlights, buildings, parked cars, every spec reflecting light, and, even the heavenly bodies themselves, were perfectly align. Everything was finally in it’s right place. And then green. I drove on down the road that easily morphed into another via a sleek right turn where the arrow is always green. The minimal at that moment seemed as though it could glide into jazz led by Miles Davis as easy as—diddly_diddly_boom boom boom_dooowop--that.
An hour later I arrived at my street. I parked and sat a moment. A refreshing breeze came through my car window; brushed across my face and ruffled my hair slightly as a lover may. That was it; I was home again.


© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Sand and Directors Cut

Sand

I’ve accepted that I am sand
On the beach of eternity.

[Fuck that! Be a rock.]

Why?
After ten thousand years
Rocks become sand

[Exactly]

So, I’m already at the base
The waves do not degrade me
I merely soak in their power.

At times I am lifted off
One part of the beach to another
Where I can get in people’s shoes
Food, hair, skin, eyes,
Vaginas, assholes, foreskins,
In between their toes,
In their cars, in their socks,
Mysteriously appear
In their beds late at night.

Everyone sees a rock
Stationary and note it exists
They step over it
They ignore it.
If a rock were to fly—
Everyone would see it coming.

Sand?
You never see sand coming
But then it gets everywhere.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

---

Directors Cut

I created you because even I get lonely at times. You see it was just me forever in every direction. So I reached out beyond myself and made you. I thought that we would all walk together everyday in beautiful harmony – that the night would not terrify you all needing your eyes to be perpetually closed. And for a while we did; everything was beautiful and just how it was meant. But there were those with me who wanted more. They wanted the control and so rallied against me. They tricked you; it was easy. I did not want you to be like them – I wanted you to be my comrades, and even family. We’re equal. So when they came to you with treaties and promises – you took the bait. That was the last time we saw eye-to-eye or reclined in harmony. Since then it’s been decay. You’ve slowly drifted farther and farther off many of you fighting through the miasma back towards me standing alone. You see? The emptiness that keeps you awake and searching is me. I’m always waiting here but I can never come to you – you would tear me apart until the universe unravels; proving me right. So, I send the few faithful souls I have left to reach you, but you and those that now rule you; although you never know it, stop them – hurt them. Send them back to me bleeding and dismayed. Dismayed that they had to fight and kill those who once were their equals: those who once were so close. I watch as the orchestra looses tempo and key; the conductor purposely tries to spite me. The whole scene and story has gotten battered. You see; you all read the past thinking it’s going to reveal something of the future, but let me tell you the future: I have to be with you. I will be with you. In the end we shall see eye-to-eye after we all have destroyed your creations. There will be no balance, nor chaos; there will just be us: immortal in harmony. I will hold you and you will hold me; and we will cover the devastation with our tears and leave it. We will go somewhere new: a place where we can be together. There will be no secrets, no night; just perfection.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

NEW NEW NEW NEW NEWNEW

Bullets In Our Spines

Time
That’s really all we have
Right?
So why waste it with games;
Trivial pursuits.
Why not chase
Down speed and listen
Hear it explode
Like the orgasm
You dream to have.
Trivial pursuits;
Women, money,
Sex, and fame.
Why spend all
Time searching
When you could
Listen to speed
Explode
Embrace
The void
Like children kissing
Stars
With bullets in their spines.

But we don’t.
We chase down
Dreams
Recited to us
By corporate America
And we buy
And sell
Abstract stock:
Like happiness,
Contentment,
Self realization,
And so much other shit
That is meaningless.

Then we kiss the sky
Then we kiss the sky
With bullets
In our
Spines.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

And here is a rather muddled piece.


Killah

If looks cold kill the whole world would be a black hole: a void in space where nothing and everything exists. The last thing we would all remember would be me sitting in a back seat of a friends car staring into the sun as we belt along the 101. I used to hate the bleached out essence the world dons when your eyes are engulfed by floating flames, but now I am enthralled with it. So much has changed, but some things are the same: like how my mood changes faster than tracks can switch in the CD player up front. Or perhaps, how I still contemplate how I would experience brief pleasure while gently grazing the face of God - right before the freeway slams into me and my limbs scatter after diving out the backseat of the car at eighty miles per hour. What is the same is how I occasionally live life like I’ve lived it before and now I am bored. As if, in this one sun bleached 30 minutes I have played out every scene of my life – only to get out of a car at the very beginning. Other times, I walk like I just got legs and damn it feels good when these fresh legs bend. I move and jive down the street as every molecule around me dances to my footfalls at 120 bmp: and damn how this city loves to dance. Damn how this city loves to move. Occasionally, you may see me stopped with old legs. An oil leak on these rusty kneecaps: fucker at the store ripped me when he said “new legs” – more like new paint. I limp home in disrepair. I’ll have to go in and get serviced tomorrow before work – there is no way in hell I’ll be able to deliver boxes of lies with an oil leak. How did I get on this topic of rusty kneecaps and oil leaks? Ah, well. But if looks could kill the cheap greasy spoon cafeteria’s plates would be impaling prime ministers, presidents, the senate and senators, the house and congress, the IRS, presidentes, dignitaries, royalty, sluts, my boss, my various managers, movie stars, rock stars, porn stars, and anyone on a pedestal who praised themselves to the top and expects you to respect. I cannot respect a man who has not crawled on his belly cast down – and those listed above for the most part have never crawled; or even walked bent down. Their pride is foolish; a barbiturate they take daily to cover up their multiple failings. Failing makes us human – it’s how Adam and Eve designed us when they mistook apples for oranges; and fucked us all. I wonder if they will formally apologize for making my life shit when I die. Or am I being far too arrogant? huffed up on my own sense of pride for spending most of my life crawling on my belly and then gaining the strength to get on my hands and knees; and take it like a man. And let us all be men and do manly things: kill puppies with shot guns, beat sense into some and out of others, smoke, drink, jump across train tracks with bags of money in the back seat with the police in hot pursuit, fuck bitches, screw bitches, avoid marriage, end up dead. What’s the point then? And how did I get down here? I started off talking about how looks could kill!

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Adult Material Follows

Masturbation

He lays in bed
The cool digital glow
Of a monitor
His only company
As he massages his cock
Squeezing it harder
Waiting for the cream filling.
The girl on the monitor
Groans as a mysterious
Penis jabs her like a sword
She’s screaming now.
He grips his throbbing piece
Even tighter. Any second now.
Then it happens:
As she lets out an orgasmic
Squeal his twinky explodes
Into his bed sheets
And sticks.
Quickly forming
Stalagmites of semen
As cum dribbles down
The digital girl’s face.
Slut got what she deserved.
He thinks, and falls asleep
In his own filth.

She lays in bed
The cool digital glow
Of a television
Her only company
As she fingers her pussy
Digging deeper
With her shovel fingers
Digging for ecstasy.
The romantic porno
Of a muscular man
Caressing a gentle beaut
In candelabra.
His voice is deep, reassuring;
She toggles her clitoris
Like the joystick of an arcade
Kung fu game played
By a frantic chubby adolescent.
Then it happens;
Her free hand tightens
Onto her bed sheets
As she shovels deeper
Whimpering almost
Like a forlorn puppy.
Everything is wet:
A decadent mixture
Of sweat and juice.
Her climax dies
Slowly as she regains
Her panting breaths.
The man on the monitor
Singing her praises.
She falls asleep
In her own filth.

And tomorrow,
When they meet
On the street
They shake hands
And feel dirty;
Embarrassed: What if
This stranger knew
Of my lonely late nights?
They both contemplate
While walking away
Quickly.


© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

PS. This is meant to gross/unpleasant and make you feel uneasy.

Kamikaze Pianist

Kamikaze Pianist

I’ve always been drawn to the piano ever since my mum had one laying around our old living room in England. The way in the summer time the long lonely hours of mid day casting itself upon the keys as if the sun light and the keys were lovers. And I’d play it; Dillon, O! I’d play one handed disharmonic symphonies while my other hand dangled free. Ever since then at times in my life when I was drowning in deep negative thoughts there is always a piano to be played. Tucked in a corner with dusty keys and out of tune, but that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t even matter that you do not know how to play it – just let your hands run back to the god that once held you so tight – before one of you let go. And if only you could remember whose palms slipped from who’s, but you can’t; so you play the Grand Piano. That is what I would do in the house that was slowly demolishing itself with parents whose faces are not as clear as their backs. It was how I cried when my tears were dry, it was how I screamed when my throat was raw, it was how I touched the sky although I was small, it was how I breathed air for the first time in years clearing the cobwebs from my soul. And it works so well because all the parts of life are not tuned on key, or on time with a metronome, but purely flawed in raw abrasive instances echoing around dusty piano cords struck by small mallets. And what else is there to do but to throw those mallets flying into the chords – make the piano wail with all the torment exploding inside of you like a thousand light bulbs overloading and raining glass shrapnel onto an aristocratic dinner party. The blood shall rain from your fingertips in pure discordant fury – as living creatures flee hurriedly from the ghastly sound – the cacophony blares on as light, time, and space tear. And with tears in your eyes your reach the conclusion of the piece. With tears in your eyes!
As your fingers kamikaze the last mash of keys your heart stops briefly – the world collapses, everything slows to a halt but your fingers moving towards the aircraft carrier keys at a speed that seems almost stopped.

Then it happens: impact.

Fín.


© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

I went to barnes and noble tonight

Bookstore Cashier

He was in my theatre class
In high school, back when
I wanted to be a liar by profession.
Now he is a senior in high school;
And me? I am the “established”
College student buying half a dozen
Poetry books I cannot commit
To finishing, or even remembering
In several years time.
I am the older guy still as lost
As he was several years ago
But can hide it so much better now.
I am the one who drove home
Tears forming in the black part of his eyes
Because I was going to get
An application, but didn’t
Because the cashier
Was so much younger then me
And I am a proud old fool.

©Liam Elliott 2007. All RIghts Reserved.

Poetry

Choices

Damn near dead
My tire marks like scars
Across the tar skin
Of the freeway.
But no panic.
Just acceptance.
And with it; calm action,
A gentle maneuver
As smoke, pieces of tar,
And blurry lights
Flew around me
As fireflies about
A small child
That I; growing up
In the fast city of London,
Would no nothing about
Having never seen fireflies
Except in movies.
And things are never
How they are in the movies;
Especially dying.
I’ve strayed desperately
From this fate: this dark room
At the top of a narrow stairwell
Eleven feet by eleven feet
And a roof that is too damn low.
O! how I tried to leave the occupants
Run off down city streets;
But Los Angeles is no London:
All I encountered were doors
Locked and barred.
No late night carousals
Just vagrants dicking around
In much the same muddled way
As myself. Shocking that I feel
Somewhat akin to the kinless
Somewhat at home with the homeless.
But they reject me from their society
And I wander on: my feet dragging
The conveyor belt earth haplessly.
I’m still up late at night searching
For the answers to riddles
Posed in youth about reality.
What if this were all imagined?
What if I was making it up?
The pain, the madness,
The narcissism?
And what if; after the lies,
Teas, toasts and jams,
What if I ceased to exist?
What if time lapped over me
As elegantly as silk over skin?

And with that; I close,
Murmur an empty staunch
“Goodnight.” To the blinking
City lights of my life.
Perhaps tomorrow I shall wake
Elsewhere; as if by choice.

©Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Crime and Animals

Crime and Animals

My resolution
To stay clean?
Fucked! like a whore
After 8 months
Off the streets,
Then right back
To her pimp.
And into the arms
Of some random man.
And [I want you,
The reader, to pause
-Right here–
Inhale deeply
As if you were about to drop
An atomic bomb on a village
Of smiling school children
And make that sound
You make when deeply thinking.]
I’ve been thinking
Self destruct sequences
In the codec of my brain,
My soul, my very being
Bursting like a cantaloupe
Dropped from a skyscraper.
The concrete welcomes
Another impressionable youth
Driven mad by his own markup
Language: that wrote him that way:
Backwards, inverted—
Like developed film negatives.

And then,
2AM hits
Delirious fever
Fits of madness—
I’ve been running
All this time
On an empty tank.
Consciously, I dropped
Like a poached deer
Drowning in its own blood
Because I’ve grown
Weak wings—
And cannot fly away.
Someday, someday.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Lost Youth

Lost Youth

Our generation
Has no great war
No great revolt
No great leaders.
We have no cause,
Except abusing substances,
Sleeping on a friend's floor,
Preparing for life
In homeless shelters
If we are lucky.
If not, a stoop,
Or a dark alley will do.
Pan handling,
Stealing, possibly
Killing - just to live
In the life we chose
But, only on accident.

Our generation
Is the mistake generation.
Dad forgot to pull out,
Or Mum screamed:
"Cum inside me!"
And he did.
And here we are.
Mistakes - unwanted:
Living in patch work homes
With family that is
Patched awkwardly together.

Our generation
Is narcissistic,
Reasons with technologic,
Bipolar, manic depressant
Attention whores; nostalgic,
Romantic, addicts, aliens,
And all sorts of messes.

Our generation
Has been offered
The mainstream truth:
A gilded teaspoon
Filled with cod liver lies
That we spat out.
Our search for truth,
God, true religion,
Love, and happiness
Often seems to be in vain.
"Vanity" is our generation's game.

Our generation
Lost its youth
To pedophiles,
Drug dealers,
A war no one
Believed in,
Divorced parents,
Parents that fought too much,
Parents that beat their kids,
Parents that killed their kids,
Parents that ignored their kids.
We lost our youth
Because the older generations
Were envious of our youth,
Beauty, and endless possibilities.
So, when we were little
Unable to fight-
They stole our vitality
Leaving us premature adults
Relying on substances,
Possessions, and sex
For a happiness
Walt Disney taught us of;
That does not really exist.

Our generation
Is lost
In a cold technological era
Never leaving home;
The comfortable electric hum,
Unless we are getting our drugs.

Our generation
Was misplaced between
The eighties
And the new millennium


~Peace.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

A Poem loosely about emotional ties

Tea-Cup Tempest

I have etched
My footprint
Down the roads
You never took
And felt in ways
You have never felt.
I have stood above
Mist coated valleys
Stretched out my arms
Flew briefly –too close.
I have lain beneath
A macabre mist
So dense, breathing
Was belabored:
Asphyxiation—
A dream in the dark.
Shortly thereafter
I managed to live
Under the surface
Of a tea-cup tempest
In a submarine
Soldered with nothing
Other than a child’s
Imagination
Rent on escaping
In anyway possible.
I have swept aside
My darkest parts
Into dark corners
In my dark psyche
So I could brighten
A room or, perhaps, two
But darkened them
In the long term.

But at other times
I have had copycat
Experiences
Just like all of you.
All of our feelings,
Reactions, even
Thoughts—
Were all identical.
This is so we all may
Hold each other raised,
Like wine glasses in air
Above gaping mouths
Waiting to drink us dry—
Maliciously sipping
At our very being
Until we are empty
Again.

©Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

An Experience

The God Spot

I spent today in another world, another universe, another time. It all started when the day refreshed much like a browser window does with an influx of new data. I awoke on my friends couch. The others were in the other room neatly tucked inside a warm summer’s morning bed. Its been a blur these past few days – something to do with my tempests under the control of the moon, some bitter lows like an aircraft caught in a hot pocket, that same old revolting self pitying, and then excuse making. We all reported to each other what we had forgotten from the previous night, found nourishment at a local smoothie shop, and went our separate ways. I found myself driving slow down sunny surface streets the same way old people do while they wait to die. And instead of turning down the street where I am visiting my parents for a brief time until my financial situation is cleared – I turned down a nearby canyon road. I found myself returning to a spot I found a week or so before: the God Spot, as I call it. It is here where I parked my exhausted sputtering vehicle and stepped out into another world. The God Spot is at the apex of a canyon hill – but is not the apex itself which lays a little ways ahead, or behind depending on your direction. No, the God Spot is a humble spot on the side of the final climb to the top. There is a small path and a mediocre clearing. But that is not why I came to it – I came to it for the view. Because you are so high there you can usually see above the clouds but not today. Today when I slowly stepped out of my rolling coffin I stepped into a heavy fog that was rushing over the hill tops. I quickly walked down the path to the mediocre clearing and it was the same. The fog was rushing from inside the canyon to the top of the hill and then was burned off by the sun. In a sense the fog was striving to die. It rushed up the beach of the hill like a high tide coming ashore. I was drowned. I fell to a sitting position beneath the oncoming flow. I then told God I would not leave until he spoke to me. I waited an unknown amount of time beneath the fog, not reveling in the fact I was at a greater altitude than those in their toy cars below me – but burdened by a silent God. But I had made a pact, so I asked questions: “Where am I going?” – “Where should I go?” – “Hello?”. Then after I had meditated I felt the small quiet voice of God tell me this very specifically: “I am bigger than you. You cannot push me around.” I sat there a moment not sure whether it was God or just my mind trying to not let me be disappointed. At last as I watched more of the fog commit suicide overhead I knew it was God. Quickly, I apologized to him for bullying Him and general evils done. I sat a moment longer looking out across the now almost clear canyon. I had never been there during the day before and thus had never seen the canyon fully unveiled. I watched as the fog slowly ran up and, much like an elegant dress sliding off a young woman’s body, the canyon began to be revealed. However, I got up, went to my car, and left before I saw all of her treasures. I did this because I felt I was undeserving to see the glorious view at this time. Perhaps later, my spirit will be at peace and bring me back for a better view.
I then returned home to my glorified bed-sit, walked in past my mother vacantly watching government propaganda on her small, black broken television, and went into my room where I began to conduct a symphony with imagined instruments digitally mastered for my enjoyment. I took a break from my composition to rest briefly and watch the thoughts of other people on a DVD. I dozed off multiple times but caught the gist of what the person was portraying – something about forgetting not being the opposite of remembering, but its lining. “So true.” I thought at the finish of the film.
And now, I sit in silence. My vague disconnected thoughts played out before me on digital paper written by digital hands of which I am the puppet master. I write this not only for others to read and maybe comment, but so that I do not forget what happened this day: July 5, 2007.

Illistration

Yeh.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Without Our Names and About Me

New Poetry of the "In Silence"


Without our names.

Those moments that you deem perfect
Fade like an old over worn belt
Donned around the waist of time
Underneath the shinned leather
Is the gray fabric called Shame
And this, we all wear delicately
Even when referring our past
When we were ivory deities—
But no one recalls our memories
They have sailed away down stream
Into a small pond full of dreams,
Delusions of grandeur, and moments
We are left up stream, in silence
Left only with our nightmares,
The acceptance of obscurity,
And time traveling around us
While we are harnessed to a rock
Where we die a little more each day
Only to rise the very next
And wait to be torn apart again
By an eagle. Or maybe vulture
As the historical record
Fades and is carefully rewritten
Without our names.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.



About Me

No one will read of me.
About me no one
Will ever wonder.
My existence?
Purely negligible.
I am the small cog
In the American
Dream machine
Limping home every night
Defeated again
Defeated again.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved

New Poem

Welcome Home

These blank walls
That welcome me
Back inside
Make me sick
So, I throw up
A painting here
A picture there
Masquerading
The emptiness
With Feng Shui.
No avail
This here room
Has not found
Itself yet
And cycles
Through fads
Underneath
Which lays
The same void.


© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Announcement and New Poem

I am starting a new body of work- which means that I have already started it and will close "The Unmentionables" soon. The new body of work will be entitled "In Silence". It is partly enspired by the fact that one day I ran out of things to write about I had noticed my topics become boring. I fell into a poetic silence. I searched inspiration and found an audiobook of Billy Collins' which I listened to promptly because I rather enjoy his literary style. He encountered a similair experience in his writting carrier to the one that I am in - so, I decided to take a few pointers from his work. "In Silence" is basically what I think of when I am surrounded by silence. It will be a collection of quiet calm maybe sad maybe happy moments. The blog will be filled with it and such and so forth. Art Galleries was the first of this new venture.

Here is a new one.

Airplane

There is something
So warming about
Watching airplanes
Fly overhead
The way the white stream
Slowly follows the plane
And passengers soaring
Soaring above us mortals
Stuck with our heads
Supported by our arms
Stuck in the grass
Like tent pegs.

The plane moves slowly
Or it seems that way
From such great distances
But really, the plane is speeding
Towards a horizon that we,
Down here, can never reach.
Once the plane goes over the horizon
We must find another flying machine
To watch drift across our little blue sky
Perhaps aliens in a flying sauce pan
Who has come to take you and I
Back home – at last.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All RIghts Reserved.

Yet Another New Poem

Comments and criticism very welcome. You do not have to be a member to comment.


A Car Ride

She listens to bland music
Riding in the car back home
The kind of music
Which drives men to seats
Erupting long stares
At the plaster on the wall
Or maybe, out of a car window
At night as yellow streetlights
Move like stars briefly lighting
The car and couple returning home.
She drives, the radio drones,
And he watches light-speed
In the white lane marks
Wondering about movement
And whether the world moves
Around him
As if he was perpetually
On a treadmill watching scenery
Drift slowly by inanimately
Or if things are as they seem
And he is insignificant
To the world outside
The four wheeled vessel
Traveling along a stationary road
Late at night.

© Liam Elliot 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Ta for reading.

~Peace.

New Poetry: Art Galleries

Art Gallery

Art galleries
Are spiritual
The souls of artists
Reaching out of a canvas
Towards the heart of the viewer
Causing the beats to quicken
The pupils to dilate
The eyes to dart-
Mouthwatering
Splendor.

But sometimes
The artist fails
Reaching out of a canvas
Towards the heart of the viewer
But aims for the purse—
A nullified stare
The eyes blink
Dry mouth
Emptiness.

6-9-07
© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Skin Deep

Skin Deep

My indulgences
Are more then skin deep
Then run like chasms
Throughout my mass
That etch into my heart
Bleeding it raw.

I cling to a teddy bear
Stuffed with barbed wire
Doused in poison.
Daily I thrust my teddy
So the barbs impale my chest
Digging deep, the ridged wire
Fastens itself to my muscles
Causing indefinite paralysis
Until the poison fills my blood.

I am addicted
It laces my capillaries,
Veins, ventricles,
And even heart
When it runs low
I must have more.

I am addicted
To a 90 year
Suicide process.

ⓒ Liams Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

NEW POETRY:

Where I am Weak

In a dusty field
In my mind
I kneel down in slow-mo
The great army
Follows suit in a panning
Slow cascade.
Rows of soldiers on their knees
The wind moves
Dust flies as I arise
The army jumps
And I, at the head of it
Would rather die
Here, a sword through my heart--
Than in the future
Where I am weak.

NEW POETRY

Six Months

Six months
Is some turning point
In any situation:
In relationships
Abstinence
Is much harder.
In sobriety
Staying so
Is a trial
When crystal
Resolves are rung
Rung by
Temptation—
What to do?
Down hill
Loge at high speeds?
It starts
With masturbation
Letting yourself
Go – little by little
Until there is nothing
Just coming down.
The addiction’s grasp
So tight – your forget
What a model man
You’ve become
You succumb?
Sway under the force?
Or stand tall?
Baby sit those
Still young?
Hold their hair—
Help them walk—
Catch them when
They fall – they always do.
But who is there
To catch you?
Crystals catch you
But sometimes
They break.

--

Cuckoo Clock

I feel that too many times
I have been at the doorstep
Of greatness soaked in the tears
Of some forgotten god
Only to be turned away
With haste by my own heals
Wheeling in a 360 like
Motocross break dancing
Down the street I go
Back to where I am no one
Where I blend with furniture and walls
That’s just fine – I’ll bid my time
Living inside a big cuckoo clock
Coming out on the hour
And 360ing back into my door
It’s a big world out there
But this track steers me away
While on the hour every hour
I try to break free.

©Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

New Poem:::Ugly Crows

Ugly Crows

On your knees in preparation of tomorrow
When an empty chasm mind is filled with rot
Rotting people and situations proliferated
By the lack of compassion or acknowledgement
Bleeding off the skin that is so palpable
You could feast upon it and nurture despair
Like a hungry crow picking at garbage in the street
Desperately trying to find something to keep it alive
Finding nothing it weakly flies off on shaky wings
Starving with eyes puffed up, protruding
In a most ugly fashion.

This is what we are:
Ugly crows.

Count Down

Count Down

I think about it sometimes at night
Death I mean, but not suicide
The ultimate escape from here
Slip out after goodbyes
Or maybe none at all
Just away I go
With her heart
If not; me
Just me
Gone.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Morning

Morning.

Empty bottles
Burnt cigarettes
Bile like regret
Stained carpet
So please, don’t forget
Where you stand now
Waist deep in your own
Ejaculation.

The Weekend

The weekend

Freeway blowout
Center divider
Or hard shoulder?

Time lapse!
For the dramatic
Stop – roadside – halt—
Stillness – silence – police – sirens
Sober –sober –sober—
Still sober, you got that?

Knock out on the couch
For a hour or so—
Next scene—car won’t start
All over—all over!
Back to apartment
Filthy apartment
Holes in the walls.

Her place – studying
Exhaustion sets in
Sleep—sleep
Three hours nap
Back to the apt
CleanCleanClean
Sleep—sleep.

Sunday morning – Sabbath
A quick ride to work
Thanks, you are great!
Work – work – work
Build personal books
Leaving early – she’s here.

At parent’s house
Church – preach — pray
Dinner – nicely cooked
Back to the apt
Filthy apartment.

Pop new hole in bathroom
Rage at everything
Strewn anywhere
Sleep – sleep.

ⓒ Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Driving home from her place

The highway panning out
The yellow flickering
Synchronic with the beats—
Speeding music for streets
So empty you would think
A rapture occurred
And god did not want you
Decided to leave you
Behind –home – silent—
Dead, like peace on earth
Back when you gave a damn
About wars – victory—
Or just unsettled
A quiet moment
Much like an admitting
Of defeat to sound
Back when you gave a damn
You don’t, no one does—
Driving home from her place.

4-5-07

ⓒ Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Human Knowledge, the Soul, and Planes of Existence

Human knowledge is a funny thing: it would completely fail were it not for our educational institutions; schools, libraries, and such and so forth – which continue knowledge. As if to say: our knowledge is without flaw. But is it not possible to be the opposite? Perhaps our knowledge holds us back from spiritual enlightenment. Imagine Sir Isaac Newton was misled? That the apple fell downwards due to his mind’s wondering and searching physically pulled the apple down? What if gravity only exists because it is widely accepted as truth? And what if we stop believing in gravity, will we be able to fly or float? If true, I do not think we would drift off into a vast nothingness unless we so willed. And if so then our minds control events. Buddhists say that there is a shared consciousness – if so is this shared consciousness only the knowledge carried in oral traditions or books? And does this knowledge keep us harnessed to the ground? Does this learned fear of physical death keep us from living – hold us back fully utilizing our minds and/or bodies?
Another question is our existence: what is a person? Is a person a body, soul, or mind? It could be that we are not people as we believe our selves to be: a body inhabited by a consciousness. But what makes a body the ownership of the consciousness? Surely, if I wake tomorrow in a different body I would note the difference from yesterday’s body and feel displaced. So what is stopping the consciousness from wandering? It cannot be an issue of mass – or we would be capable of extracting it from the body, as we do organs. If not mass then what? It is almost troubling to attempt to pin-point from where your own thoughts derive. It must be that there is another layer of existence.
So, it appears the existence we are most perceptive to is the physical. Leading one to conclude that there is an over laying existence: a spiritual one which literally lays on top with our consciousness existing as souls. So, then do our souls simply shadow our physical body movements. Mo, we must be the puppets of our souls! And if this is the case, again - what stops us from being the puppet masters of a different body? There must be an authority of some sort keeping our conscious souls controlling one body. Or is it that our dreams are our consciousness leaving our bodies and having experiences in other bodies? If so, why are dreams not always as vivid as reality? Also, why do they seem to correlate to the past experiences of the original body? Is it that the soul finds a body to practice in? This seems unreasonable and foolish; causing a return to the idea of a greater authority making sure we remain with a certain physical body. Then dreams are just the imagination of the soul attempting to sort through all the sense information received from the physical body. Science, it would seem backs this up.
So, contemplating on such things throughout the day I note that if we were to not teach any of the past knowledge of man we could; perhaps, be free.

~Liam
5-1-07

5 Gs to 500

The temptation of doing dirt
Some easy crime
In some quick time
Seems almost sensible
When evening woes are setting
Like repetitive sunsets.
5 G’s, 1 brief case, a car
A man in a Cadillac
Saying it’s an easy gig
To the man Arizona.

But I turned the offer down
And the paycheck from work
Mocking me for it this Friday
Only five hundred dollars
Is barely enough for rent
5 G’s to 5 hundred
Hardest part is
It was her birthday yesterday
And I couldn’t afford
Anything for her.

ⓒ Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Peace.

This is it?

This is it?

Early morning sunrise
Is unreal—
Looks like a hungry man
Smearing cold bacon fat
Around dirty dishes
While muttering something
Inaudible–
Best unheard because
His words shatter eardrums
And social orders
Like china out of a canon
Pointed to the floor—
And what if that is it?
Pig grease sunrise
Directed by a man
Who has potential
But never uses it—
The fat stays in the sky
The feet stay on the ground
The fat stays in the sky
The feet stay on the ground.


~Liam 4/19/07

Day Trip

Day Trip

So I drove – I just had to get out. I got on the open road headed north because I have been south too many times before; I know what lies down that path. North, however, is mysterious: the hills seem to grow upon you like giants sneaking up on villagers. If you exit the highway onto the back roads you will notice that they wind as if the car you are in is electricity through the synapses of a rather gifted mental patient. The trees stretch overhead in a foreboding manner – as if they are hands attempting to brush you away; as if they are saying – “No, go away – you are not welcome here.” And you believe it and turn around only to find the road you traveled upon has some how altered form. The road now turns another direction leading you horribly astray while those hands reaching for the sky are telling you to turn back. You cannot, it is too far now. I found this to be true – so I kept driving steady and unyielding - letting my frantic-manic-drop-down-all-of-a-sudden guide me through this unknown place. You see I had driven to where the air is clear, where you can look out of the bay and see the islands dotted off the California coast. Out here where the smog from the city, which is broken like glass, can not penetrate the steep incline. I went here because I was immensely troubled; in fact, I was hesitating upon a much larger issue: the issue of leaving and never returning. Never again setting foot in the dank apartment in which I willfully decided to place myself – never again seeing my so called friends and family from whom I feel so estranged to them that I am almost more comfortable with strangers in small town gas stations. Never again going to my job amidst tall buildings where mad men try to genetically alter mankind to be impervious to disease because, well – let’s just face it: the human race is dying out. But they still want to find a cure, dilute it so you will not be completely cured but just hooked, sell it from behind a counter where their agent in a white coat tells you: “this will make you better”, and keep you coming back for more. Never again saying I am sorry to parents who are set on proving me wrong at every turn and then supporting my endeavors as if the mixed signals they send me in my early 20s are meant to make up for the signals they sent me as a child. Thus, I drove to find my own path through trees with only the thought of her slowing me quick ascents and descents.
I began to run low on gas and searched out a gas station. I walked inside to find the clerk looking at me with one eye – the other was lidless and the fake eyeball was extruding from the eye socket in such a manner I felt that it was searching through my being. It felt almost as if I was looking into what could be as I looked at him from my one eye with the other also fake but with a dropping eyelid. I felt a great force greater than myself saying; “This very well could be you!” And I quickly paid, took my gas soaked in the blood of some soldier so distant from myself, and left. I drove back on the highway: straight back to the place I wanted to be the least. I returned for her and her alone. I drifted past the hills that snuck away like cheeky children and the misting coast like the tears evaporating on a summers day. I parked and walked to my apartment, reached my hand out for that same old fake bronze door knob that is fading from years of use, turned it, and allowed the weight of the door to open itself. Inside it was dark, almost damp as if I had walked into a cave. I closed the door and collapsed onto the uncomfortable, but free, suttee. I sat and pondered my day of almost escaping. Next time – I will take her along with me and then we shan’t return.