Author: David X. Hugo

a very tiny percentile of the reason i do what i do when i do it (to you)

poetry

if i spent time worrying
about the things that came
out of my mouth or the
people being killed in
distant lands or the
bums outside begging for
meals or the kids getting
beat in their beds by
their dads than i would
be crying all the damn
time like you and your
liberal friends so i
don’t.
and i don’t watch what
comes out of my mouth,
or who it offends.
and i don’t watch
where i put my p.eriods
because i’ve, never;
ended. a sente,nc;.,
probably in my life.,.;’\
and i don’t care about
my fellow man unless
he is one.

i sat there quite a few different pieces

poetry

so i stood there
at first i was a young child with spaceships in my head, then an old man, then a beggar counting his change, then a wealthy man with continents for fingertips, then a woman with tattooed hands, and then i was charles fucking bukowski! and so many other things until i couldn’t keep track any longer
i was kept just out of focus

as the beautiful world around me was all sharp pink and vivid blues and luscious purples and bright yellows
all we had ever known, most beautiful place in the whole damn place
right outside the gates of fairytale castle
and i had known, and knew, and was experiencing, that it was slowly dying

the magnificent colors got duller the more your eyes would travel towards the castles shiny exterior, now something just below shiny
and once your eyes got right in the middle, right in the heart, right in the goddamned eyes of the thing you could clearly tell that it was going black and white
all the carebears and unicorns and leprechauns would soon start to lose their magical powers
some of the leprechauns would commit suicide, others adultery, others would become irish
unicorns losing their horns
carebears who stopped caring became just bears
starting eating the humans

not that there’d be much news to that now, see, because i decided to go inside of the fairytale castle
not just to look around
not just to see
but i went in and i set it upon myself to see just what the damn place was made of
just what made it tick
and i came to an unassuming room that said:

“DO NOT ENTER”

the whole place was magnificent otherwise
more beautiful than fairytale land, mind you, which i reside, and is the most beautiful place anyone had ever seen
this castle, the head castle, the main artery of fairytale land was the most beautiful place in it, for good reason, with good measure, and other things that are positive
and i had decided, i had picked the lock, and i watched in horror

they had been feeding the sick and poor to an evil monster that was hooked up to some vile machine which, after seeing, i understood was keeping the whole facade up
and i sat there, split into quite a few different pieces outside of fairytale castle, watching the color drain from the world and everything that could ever be good with it
having removed the machine and letting the vile beast go i sat wishing with every one of me that i’d never been to this damned castle and knowing at the same time with at least one of me that it’s what i was made for.

a spoonful of sugar makes the acid taste sweet (i know)

poetry

put the square through the
circle to fit your nightmare
in a good dream, all for
the prettiest book cover
apocalypse make-up
apocalypse smile

and god has the answers
he’s just a really good liar
and maybe that makes him
hard to admire
makes me cold on the outside
but inside i’m on fire

how you expect me to hold up your world and my own is hard to grasp given that mine was crumbling before yours was placed atop of it and for it to
be
so
heavy
when you said it so light
makes it hard
for me
to lie
for you.

nnnnnnnnnnnnnnegative

poetry

god damn
their eyes are burning books
and their pre-selling what
they haven’t bought for
a date to be announced
god damn
if this is sanity i want
out into the black abyss
with no air or ground or
pressure holding me back
god damn
my voice is soaring ranges
like the mountains falling
from my stomach to my
mouth the way i scream
god damn
good, god damn

autofictionographic

poetry

the melodies rolling off your tongue
rhapsodical and fleeting
halfhearted lullabies
sung under your breath
the chemicals driving the motors
of your throat

ah, the whole worlds laughing
poet philosopher
sitting in your liars chair
humming your whiskey tunes
your face beaten by the roads
you’re already too tired
to travel.

i guess i’m still writing ‘cuz the wind is still blowing

poetry

so i got stoned to proposition a prose
about you, i suppose
for who you do and don’t have ’round
while removing your clothes
and why it matters to me well
as we know i’m merely composed
of jealousy and rage and
freezing and cold;
so you take pictures and smile
and oh all the while
all of the past goes out like a style
like when god is disproved
and i’m still in denial
taking the scientists and athiest
to trial,
forgive me a bit
if i stutter and shit
speak with my fist
get red as a brick
my throat full of bile.

no real finality can ever be understood

poetry

ah, to be the rock
off some unforgiving shore
with the knowledge of it all
or without knowledge at all
not to be moved by chemicals
or by any ill-thought plan
to be eternal and ephemeral
simoltaniously
no clever plot devices
nor clumsy accidents
nor seething animosity
or the acceptance that follows
to all that are wise
just what it is to be a rock

ah, to be the rock
for being human is so incomplete
happiness defined by it’s absence
the mind an ever growing
grey matter only shut-off
by will or unwilled haps
and the lies that turn it
on it’s self and twist
all of it’s senses into
some black hole that no
god could ever have
purpose for

ah, to be the rock
that i one day hope to be
that when my heart
throws it’s last fit
i will be taken by the
germs and decay into
dirt,
then put pressure upon
and am next to some
glacier that forms
some new ocean when
all of humanity has
either died or
left or survived
to something inconcievable
to me at this moment
and i will be on a shore
as a rock
at peace

bloody nose

poetry

this was a stinging
critique on love,
and the insanity of it
or the insanity of me
and my bipolar disorder
and my anxiety
and my hatred
and how i’ve probably not trusted a soul my entire life and have subsequent problems doing so in the present or any forsee-able future,
but it ended up
dead as the leaves
replaced with something
now as i re-read it,
decidedly more dead
and probably
better.

liars world

poetry

these are the liars rules
you must put on the liar shoes
learn to lie like us liars do
walk the path we made for you
the quandry of freedom understood
but we keep it like any liar should
in the shadows no passerby could
see our eyes under our liars hood
a liar can bend what’s in the light
any decent liar knows the liars might
that could take the day into the night
infecting everything in the liars sight
the liars spread throughout the land
and no one dares to lay a hand
on the liars lines, drawn in the sand
but what you can’t do, a liar can
no one can know what a liar sees
the words he speaks carry his disease
all the liars wonder who the liars could be
it must be you, it surely can’t be me
in the liars soul is a black hole
that is eating up everything we know
this liars world is growing cold
with these liars rules, etched in stone

decay

poetry

smell it all the damn time
in the gutters of the streets
in the hallways
in my room
smell it all the god damned time
the decay
creeping into your head
to my head
follows me all the time
like a shadow
or a bruise
manic and inviting
follows me all the god damned time
creeping into my sheets
fowling up my room
the stench that follows me
talks to me all the time
it’s voice a shiver
down my spine
all the time
oh all the god damned time
hiding around corners
and mirrors
and monitors
and pictures
or thin air
the smell of decay

alone

poetry

practicing your poetry with perfect punctuations and no room for fluctuation built up your forces and your stations and your place where you play patron with your cut-out cardboard population needless to say your alone
(alone)
and your best friend is you
one the color red and one the color blue
and both are you
but which one is you you couldn’t guess who
might as well be self-absorbed
because everyone else either leaves or robs your grave when you are dead and to keep these thieves around requires you to play pretend and it’s such a lofty game that you just wish that it would end or be alone
(alone)
that’s the magic word of today
lone like a wolf with it’s predicessor a
lone like an alcohaulic
or god
alone like every word you say
sentences like their friends

what kind of monster am i?

poetry

all the times i’ve cleaned
this mirror still the monster
is there vomiting his orphan
words
crying
as am i
this has got to go away
like cell phone rings that
never rang or waking up from
dreams mid-drive
leaving
town
trying to become an ant by
pill or smoke or shrinking
machine
i could lift my own weight
and many times more
not be such a monster
with a hunched back under
the weight of all the
miles i can’t ever reach
or with eyes
so large
making
the
villigers flee
seeing them run away
for minutes, and understanding
why
what kind
of monster am i?

tiny violins for my fake friends

poetry

real friends don’t play pretend
and make ammends if they offend
surely with no intent
to damage you but by accident
and real friends are by your side
would never lie
or leave you dry
or let you die
but real friends do not exists
like unicorns and sentiments
like aliens in rocket ships
but much much more like sentiments

the old world

poetry

oh what a tangled web we weave
when first we practice to deceive
hiding love beneath the leaves
so night will steal all that we see
forgiveness fails set as a seed
and grows a crooked unbalanced tree
which birth’d an apple gave to eve
then consumed by shame and greed

the choir boys and choir girls
yellow with their hair in curls
refuse to fully recognize the plot
with their shit like molasses
and their heads in their asses
they all wait to see jesus get shot
through centuries of neglect
they most surely forget
oh jesus, oh jesus who wept

AND IT MAKES YOU WONDER SOMETIMES
if Brutus or Judas made it to heaven
if a man who knelt and pray to jesus
is saved after holding up a 7/11
none can debate in this horrible age
that both light and dark are brethren
so where do you go when your hearts not
a home it’s a cage filled with rage
and venom?

that all real conflict is internal
that you and i are not to question
it’s i and i that is the focus
eyes and ears they can be tricked
but you can never hide from yourself
and save marriage or siamese twindom
you are alone in your head with only
yourself for the rest of your life
and there is absolutely no debate that
if you look in the mirror you can
attain that there is two of you
we have two of everything
except our heart, alluding to the soul
which you can only believe exists
you can never see
god is like logic and logic is like
a cat chasing it’s tail

words are fanciful and fun
and belong to everyone
but actions are guns
you need only fire them once
and things then are done
not your place on the sun
or the pace of your run
can undo what’s become

and when based in deceit
with ill will in your teeth
no matter what you speak
you’ve planted that seed
death will then creep
the apple she eats
this ignorance runs deep
these ignorant sheep.

waits, bukowski, kerouac, eliot

poetry

in the thorn valley where
the trees are made of needles
and the rivers are made of
fire i saw a man walk once
without breaking his stride
humming a tune something about
the blues

the

blues

got him through the valley
and i thought to myself that
i would one day endeavour
through said valley and maybe
sing a tune but i figured
i’d have to put it off ’till
i found a suitable song
to sing