Author: David X. Hugo

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

robots, paranoia, leaving

poetry

once they decided to extend the day time
due to poor productivity during the night
he knew it was time to get out, time to
pull the plastic metal machine out from
his neck. not knowing what to call it,
or how exactly he was going to live
without plugging into the dock every
night before his stasis period was
beyond him. but as the tension
was building in the others who at
first held signs and
threw fire at the robots holding them
down he now saw taking jobs. the spirit
had ended, the game was over, they had
lost and it was apparent.
so he’d head out of his house and
never stop until he saw what
he could best guess was the color green.

stalks

poetry

they can’t even hear you
through the smoke and the
corn stalks
your stuck here
building walls out of
cd covers and garbage ideas
to hide your private stash
of different colored needles,
empty kool-aid packets,
and dead bugs
with your head in the clouds
screaming.

corn

poetry

walking around the garbage bins
i knew i was gonna find you here
lamping in the dim moon light
with street lamps and alley cats
i still pretend it’s on my way to
work and you still pretend like
your not gonna stay long
looking all confused and lost
and i hear rumor you left,
moved to a darker part of town
where the churches fall down
with all that fire on the ground
without all my unsent mixtapes

things, other

poetry

drifting and drowsy while drifting and
driving is nifty when thousands of
soldiers are dying and digging their
dicks in the ground all around
sing a song where a frown turn this
world upside down with a phrase one
of change one of might one so sound
built on drifting while driving and
drinking ’till drowned —
till my stinking silk skin turns
to soil in the ground and my soul goes
up and up and up and around just like
satellites or mediorites or
merry-go-rounds like the things that you
see at night when no light will come
’round like the silliest sincerity you
could try to compound and package and
sell for just cents by the pound.

artificial light

poetry

they’re eating you up
piece by piece
those people in your head
(the only ones left to
talk to)
are eating you up
and when they finally let
all the artificial light back in
you know it wont make
you see any better
you know it wont make
you feel any better
and the icicles on what
used to be the sun
hang so low you try
to jump to knock them
down but it’s hundreds
of feet up
the sky is ugly from the
street lights
you feel ugly from the
street lights
and right before they take
the last few bites
those people in your head
(the only ones left to
talk to)
laugh as the incandescent
rays freeze your face.

the chains he made holding us down

poetry

all of the blood was surely
pumping when my black knight
woke me under what was always
a full moon to sing me gothic
lullaby’s and take me wanting
into his lair under the dirt
where we would crush everything
in our paths

always i would wake in the
aftermath confused and lost,
my most precious belongings
scattered around my room,
and parts of me broken and
bruised and ashamed and i
would wait for another bright
moon never more prepared.

The world ablaze

poetry

The webs we wove to ward off wondering wanderers wanting what was withheld by one wondrous machine now wore off, waning with the wind, wasting with the weeks, weakened by the wrestlessness of a wretched mind. Yet I perservere, through the tireless and ceaseless ticks of the clock, every clock, bent on my destruction and the eventual fizzling out of my fire. Lit with the intent of burning you all.