Author: David X. Hugo

the ground has something to say

poetry

they told me it’s rules
you have to
and slapped it on my face
it’s not my fault
i’ve been crawling in it
and still don’t quite get it
but you, you seem fine
with everything constrained
you make it work
she makes it roll off
her shoulders
and i’d like to know how
she keeps the soldiers
at bay–
with lips
like that;
and the subtlest breeze
knocks me down
where i walk upside down
and you, well
you’re oh so small
in this wonderland.

you live above the earth

poetry

cage that free bird
you
miniature man
lock him up
business is good
they bring you
things on silver
platters
nevermind that
you could pick
those berries
yourself
nevermind the
virtue of patience,
staring at the
earth from your
plush palace,
a few aesthetic
degrees of separation
for comfort.

song of a sad liberation

poetry

maybe i’m weird because
i don’t believe in stories
or i’m probably a complicated
asshole or something worse
and if i had all the money
you know good god i’d spend it
and ride some epic binges
all the way into a herse
i think you can point fingers
and throw mud on the canvas
keep sticking your ideas
in the sky made of brick
but i intend to be open
fields of green and digging
at the truth beneath all
of you institutionalists

you are a member of society

poetry

you are alive
and you are real
and you have feelings
because you’re real
and all these people
they are real
and they are breathing
because they’re real
you see buildings
they are real
they have windows,
which are real
you’re stealing words
which aren’t real
from real artists,
your ideal
the wind is blowing
it is real
on this planet
which is real
slowly spinning
like a wheel
through a void
a void is real
all these people
they are real
and they are walking
on a wheel.

mtp

poetry

in this barren wasteland,
wherein we selfishly
keep each other for ourselves
and the only constant
is the uneasy juxtaposition
of the worst of society,
i dig my feet into the
ground and keep my head
into the clouds.
the natives now perform
the hunt of the white
man, trailing dollar
bills like bait through
the streets. tiny bits
of data containing complaints
from the scholastic elite
on instructors, classes,
how they are totally lost
and confused swimming through
the mediocre course lessons
that hold two car garages
and mini vans above their
heads, and plans to consume
alcohol to throw their bodies
around with,
fly from metal tower to metal tower.
i am unlearned in the artistry of
the vapid.
similarly, the frozen tundra sits
in the distance
teaming up with the
sun’s hard unforgiving rays
to suck whatever life you
had in you into the dead
grass and plants where
young tribal humans used to
live and die. now a backdrop
for the disgusting play of the
American day.

111 ways to compose your english

poetry

oh i know that you don’t know
wanna fuck my past and don’t it show
found your name on the back of your pants
i’d use it if i had the chance
mrs. princess pants
wanna break the rules wanna break the walls
i got the will but i aint got the cause
i probably could but you know i can’t
gonna bury my head in the sand
mrs. princess pants
you’re hindsight walkin’ down the halls
streaks in your hair and push-up bras
i know you’ve no mind to break in half
but all i wanna do is break your back
mrs. princess pants

NEVER YOU MIND, DEATH PROFESSOR

poetry

the man who sees truth
sees it alone, hungover
in the television set
saturday morning. the
man who sees truth,
suddenly noticing it,
sees that it is something
still needing to be
noticed, as the world
turns antithetical to
it’s purpose. the
man who sees truth
will tear out his own
eyes if not given a
large enough heart
to contain it.

classification, demographic, target audience

poetry

i’m mad, baby
a scientist
i’m sick, man
watching the mice
chase after that
cheese you dig?
i lose my cool about it
these people are
like barbed wire
man i’m just all
caught up. with their
health foods and
terrorists and taking
all the man out of
men or taking all the
respect out of woman,
drives me in circles
like a cab in england,
baby. one never had
to try so hard to be
smooth.
stuck in the grind,
understand?
maybe it’s these formative
years or whatever,
living off of vicodin
and ms. jane.