Author: David X. Hugo

abt snowy streetz

poetry

from my window the light reflected
off the pavement makes the streets
look covered in snow

but they are not covered in snow

and it could look like
alot of other things
too
but it would be none
of those things either

it’s october and it there
hasn’t been a drop of snow

and when my perspective shifts
my perception will change
and i will step out onto the
dry streets and remark
“why there isn’t any
snow out here
at all.”

pizza is moving out

poetry

when you sent the message
that you were moving at first
i didn’t care and i thought
it might be a good thing for
you and for your life and stuff
but then i thought about the
times we had and feel really sorry
that i didn’t talk to you more
because you are pretty cool
i’d go to a show with you
and let you hold my phone
and have my back when things
go crazy
and that’s the kind of friend i want
and that’s the kind of friend
i should ask to stay
when they tell me they’re going
to move out.

the nature of nature

poetry

it is completely natural to hate oneself
and make arbitrary judgements of
morality based on one’s own relative
experiences and act as if the natural
world is somehow altruistic and not
being consumed by greed when in fact
biology itself is having it’s greatest
performance right now
and it is cement and steel
architecture
it is nuclear power and snuggies
and although we are not rutting around
in the ground and eating raw meat
and raping or fighting on a miniscule scale
we still are a species here
come from the same womb as our surroundings
we just do it big
we’re the best that has ever lived
our name is nature and we are greed
we are plastic and compounded metal
we are choking ourselves like it is our job
and it seems natural, to hate that.

foretold

poetry

i like to hold congress
with my past selves
i have them frozen in time
to help me debate on what to do
even if their opinions are
naive
i still value them
but these days there is more silence
and, i do value silence, too
but i’m uneasy here
because either they are dying
or i’m really lost,
now.

schmal

poetry

are they not all the same?

twisted in some way

not morally equal

yet identically created

a magnum opus of one artist

to judge only as yourself

in the end just the same,

like a million random ghosts

and so many of them confused

am i really that confused?

no more parents

poetry

there are no parents anymore
and here we are passed out
on street corners with
canada house strewn in grass
and when we wake up smelling
rolling over and on one another
there will be no scowls of disapproval
we will drunkenly disrobe
and dive into dispassion
numbly injecting happiness junky style
as if nothing even mattered at all.

no ground

poetry

staring at the wall
paralyzed

some people call it
second-guessing

i feel disinterest
in even moving

there’s a leap of
faith in walking
like you’ve got
somewhere to go to
but that place is
just a different one
to repeat the same
tradition in

until you’re staring
at a wall

infinitely second-
guessing

wondering what you
should do.

hate poem

poetry

i retract what i said previously
about wanting to scream or shout
or cry out upon my demise some notable
phrase that might get etched somewhere
so people could say “oh he was so” this
or whatever because i realized one day
that i hate almost every last other
human being i have ever met and would
prefer not even a tombstone to be
remembered by because you would all just
fuck it up somehow anyway.

Zackarie Neyill

poetry

it’s kind of funny to watch
everyone misspell his name
and say he was with them while
they were hunting or doing their
laundry or just thinking of him

all because they want him to be
there

all because if it was their way
he would be

all because people are supposed
to understand that death is unfair
and that he should be there still
because humans are used to imposing
their will on unwilling surroundings

but sometimes we fall absolutely
short

and blatantly lie about the truth and
claim our will
imposes on
even if nothing happens.

i need to go running more often

poetry

you are waiting for
a miracle to happen
as you look in the mirror
your body decomposing

the blood will turn purple
then black

energy will ebb and flow

until left standing alone
in a field full of corn
is you with just the crickets
mocking you and you are
waiting for a miracle
to happen

i’m telling you that
statistically speaking
you will turn to dust
waiting for a miracle
to happen

your beautiful face will
be lined across
and the tears of regret
and the pangs of nostalgia
may bring you to your knees
waiting for a miracle
to happen

the building and mirror will
disintegrate

the president’s plane will
circle around

tons will be moved here and there
in metric and standard
humans imposing their will
and you will be just waiting.

this is about the monster

poetry

you indignant monster
maybe you are green
at the towns-folk for
their primal jeers

conversly

they hear your cries
echo through the valley
and are angered and
who is the chicken?

I SAY BOTH

I SAY

AFTER THE MELEE

WITH THE PITCHFORKS
STREWN ABOUT

WITH THE BLOOD ON YOUR
GREEN SKIN

YOU’RE ALL CHICKENS
AND THERE ARE NO EGGS
AND I HEAR YOUR CRIES
DOWN THE VALLEY STILL

and i will meditate
on your tears.