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.

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.

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