Author: David X. Hugo

apathetic title

poetry

the world-famous guitar extrordinaire
played some hendrix upon a mexican
stratocaster
oh lord
he was so good
i could barely tell
i thought those songs were his

and neither of us wanted to tell
the secrets that were so painfully
clear

that he was high on crack cocaine
and that we both felt like the
weather outside

and he’d never been world-famous
either

and i wanted to just go away

we wished otherwise
like the people driving down cork street
and all the people in the hardings
and at the day-cares
and everywhere

somewhere in each tune he changed it a bit
original, i thought
unrecorded, too

he played on, and on
la la la
and it rained outside.

unfinished too bad

poetry

you’d not want a black soul like mine
which would suck the color from the
dandelion fields who breath only for sun.
and on the days when children’s laughter
sounds like a trainwreck approaching.

you’d sit and say “let there be nothing
but which i approve” and dig yourself
a hole somewhere out in the woods.
and in there it would be warm
even during the coldest hours
emanating enough heat for just you.

tim is in a bubble (part 4)

poetry

the bills were payed
the car was running clean
the sun was high and shining
and so was tim
messages, on his phone
were full of things to do
full of wanting lovers
and not so full of shit
at this time tim was a member
of a higher type of being
and feeling a unique euphoria
touching the bottoms of a holy aura
his moderation might be questioned
but his spine was true
and at the top of the hill
speeding along felt just fine
but one even sure of grip
knows the old addage
“what goes up,
must come down”
and down he’d
go
just
like every
breathing minute.

men who are good at describing themselves whose moralities border so closely the line of acceptability that they are interesting

poetry

i won’t tell you how to use your legs
i will let you lie, and sip my drink
for i’m a man who can describe himself
and my morality borders so closely the line
of acceptability that i’m interesting
and someone who can walk will come and sit
next to me and sip delicately on their drink
in tandem and we’ll sit far above the floor.

i will discuss with them.
and my compatriots.
dying.

tim is in a bubble (part 3)

poetry

he sat as a beggar and held
a shakey hand out to the princess

she gave him a slice of bread and
it was wonderful,
wonderful enough to well up tears
in his hungry eyes

but later, as the pangs began anew
in his lowly stomach, he saw
trough a thicket of bush

the princess
frolicking in baths
filled with the finest meals
with fat
smiling men

fat smiling men with fat ear to
ear smiles like they could die and
be happy
fat smiling men that could die a
happy death in pools of the
finest meals whose stomachs
would be full and souls would
be empty and so tim the beggar
moved on again

his hunger subsiding.

tim is in a bubble (part 2)

poetry

in room 104
in between rooms 103 and 105
he lay unconscious

if you walked from one room
to the next and to the next
like he did in his dreams
you’d see vacancy,
of all sorts
and you could imagine
people coming and going
all wrapped up and tight
like little springs

the doctors and hangers-on
discussed mortally while he
floated in his dream way
above their heads

but then

hadn’t he

always been

above their

heads?

he’d not find himself, tim
on this plane or any other
ever again
he’d never find himself ever again.

tim is in a bubble (part 1)

poetry

this is a room full of televisions
turned on and on and on and on the
same volume and on and on and on
different channels on and on and on and on
they play filling this soulless room

distorted
distopian
discordant
distant,
lost;
the colors flash and the sounds to
a trained ear tell you to run away

our protagonist friend and narrator
lies here emitting putrid electric waves
shaking up the air for no genuine reason

he’s just a television,
after all.

the jazz singer

poetry

in the chorus you said
he was your daddy
and printed on vinyl
with all that passed
you’ve got to play that track
still
it’s your most requested
biggest hit

that night we toasted
to liars, and
everyone looked around
then to their feet
and i added,
“for wasting all our time”
and everyone felt like i
was talking to
just
them

then, when the stagehands called
and there was no one at the mic
i knew you’d felt your mortality
i knew all your songs had died
and they’d find you at home
pulling out a strand of hair
every second

6029

poetry

it’s best for me to be asleep
as the world spins too fast
and alltogether now
sometimes you just gotta give up

the grass holds my footprints
degrading the vista, for you
and i wish i’d not have stepped there
not have wanted to even at all

i told bowie to drop his guitar
told antonio to quiet his strings
and i quieted, too
finally because no one was listening

it’s best for me to be asleep
as the world damages so
and sand will cover me up
and time will be the great communicator

i love you and you’re the best

poetry

my friend john always looks at the ground
he’s THE BEST at it and I LOVE HIM so
whenever people come ’round there go his eyes
right past his feet

my friend john watches daytime tv
EXCEPT FOR THAT he’s pretty smart
and knows how to just look at the ground
and stay away from people’s eyes

my friend john is THE BEST around
and he talks about his strategies
and he talks and talks and talks
until his eyes then hit the ground

my friend john says he feels so large
knowing that he’s the best around
with billions of others, much worse
because I LOVE HIM so

ZvH

poetry

the walking dead look alive
but move at a glacial pace
with no structure to keep their attention
from wavering, from fading

their nervous tissue is dying
so they can only feel a selfish pain
and the pent up anger
from years of holding a bored stare
is the only thing burning in their dead hearts

with human money they buy serum
to keep their decaying flesh fresh
and then, like lemmings with an
entitled sense of dignity
they walk in line to the graveyard

and reserve a place
for their dead body to rest
empty like the void of space
and just as useless

fatigue

poetry

every time you gotta fight
to keep the cold from sinking in

the shiver lies dormant in your spine
you don’t wanna let it out

this time, you were doing so well
save one gust in a blustery storm

and now that it’s snowing
the shiver wont wait to get you

you let it out, you damn fool
and now it shakes you wherever you go

try and sleep it off, make it go away
spend time under artifical suns

how many times has it been now?
and with each time it takes longer

longer to sleep off
longer to get warm