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.
30.7.07
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.
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.
29.7.07
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’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.
28.7.07
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.
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.
26.7.07
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.
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.
17.7.07
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.
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.
15.7.07
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.
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.
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