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.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
13.10.07
27.9.07
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.
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.
13.9.07
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.
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.
30.8.07
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.
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.
7.8.07
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.
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.
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