Author: David X. Hugo

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.

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