Author: David X. Hugo

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.

upon revisiting

poetry

i took new roads back to that
old motel and i took a fresh
look at all the dead dead things
and stood there, not touching a
thing
not touching any of their bodies
i just stood with the flies around
my face and i think i may have even
smiled at the evil of it

nobody lives by the river anymore
and she waits there as the travelers
pass her by
offering that nutrition that man
has indefinitely replaced
and she’s bottled
and sold in the stores but nobody
goes to visit her
not anymore

so when i saw their skin piled upon
muscle upon bone i thought why not
and, years later when i revisit
the old motel that no one much goes
in anymore (either) i try to remember
the smell of the rot of them all
so as to remember when i smell it again.

dear dear dear dear

poetry

you remember
the things you do while
alone that you think
no one can see
and you stomach the days
knowing the ways
that you throw all you say
to the sea

when your alone

and your back

is turned

to the world

and what you really love
and what you really hate
and what you really think
and what you really do
and how you cope
and how i hope
you choke on all the
blood you drew

when your alone

and you think

i’m not

watching

for the chains i drag with me

poetry

i am so tired
of the trading of paper
and the loving of traitors
and the words that they staple
words oh so hateful
to the trees made of maple
ever so faithful

and i am so tired
of the silence pervasive
after the laughs have all faded
the glances we traded
i hope i can save it
wont try to escape it
or find love belated

and i am so tired
and probably always will be
for the chains i drag with me

to no avail

poetry

i sit
unaware of the slow rate in which the paint on my walls is crawling towards the floor as if even it would like to leave

i sit
in complete ignorance to the fact that millions of ants are building a penis shaped tower that you can see from space

i sit
with all the momentum one could use to sit, all of the gravity and kinetic force that one can do nothing with

i sit
and i sit
and i sit
and in all of my sitting i never once get up to stand, i only do so in my head, and when i do that with my head i stand on a ledge, you could stay i perform a headstand on a ledge, a ledge that is very high up above some building and i hold my balance there as if i had performed this one headstand my entire life, and with the grace of the greatest ballet dancers, salsa dancers, street dancers, naked dancers, and all other kind of dancer, i let the wind push my headstand to wherever the wind has decided

i sit
and i sit
and i sit
and i fall off of a ledge in/on my head
the wind as my chair.

eviction notice

poetry

you don’t know what you want
but you know what you don’t
you don’t much want to hurt
but are not sure that you wont
you don’t know what to keep
’till it all gets too old
you can’t make up your mind
you don’t have the mold
nor do you have the receipt
or know where they’re sold
you don’t know what you want
so you don’t know what to hold
to keep out of the snow
so it won’t die in the cold
you can’t navigate this maze
so you don’t know where to go
and this is all in your head
and your head is your home
and this is all
and your head
and this
and your
and
and
where’d you get that gun
that the bullets shoot so slow?

this is a long drive

poetry

ohio,
dramamine,
this is a long drive
for someone with
nothing
to think about

i might
show the custom concern
and head south
into the tundra/
desert
because she
ionizes
and
atomizes
while i’m
talking shit
about a pretty sunset

and we go down to
her beachside property,
dog paddle,
and it’s all about
making everyone happy/
mechanical birds
so she goes to sleep
while i’m at the lounge
where
space travel is boring…
wait, breakthrough,
exit does not exist.

fragmented

poetry

i remember 16 as loud as
a gunshot, yet as
boring as cornfeilds in the
summer

it was permanent, then
the insanity
that is
that comes along with
knowing just how long
your
arms
are
exactly
and
not being precisely
sure
not being exactly
perfectly
fucking
sure
of how to use them

i remember 16 as dead as
a cemetary yet as frantic
as hanging to the side of
the earth
(with your nails)

it was all so fragmented, then
love
that is
and now looking back i seem
to miss
every
single
breath
i
took
of
every
day
and the rain that dripped outside
my windows on some stolen night
with the fruition of my higschool
fantasies and the bane of my
young-adult
ones

i remember 16 as well as i remember
anything else these days:
most often when i’d like not to.

the teeth in the smile of the corporation

poetry

when you need them they make sure
that you fit into the square
whether your a circle or a triangle
and that you never have stolen
or curse
or lied
and that you love to listen to people
talk about themselves
and you’ve never lost your temper
and you think about others before yourself
they make sure that you are
a perfect
square
with
all
your
sides
the
same
length
so when the customer walks in
your smile is as shiny and warm
and deft and dead as
the red colored vest you wear

the zoo

poetry

all those mirrors
i’ve left them for dead
my eyesight’s improving
despite what they said
and the fireworks were just
flares we shot before we drowned
that july fourth that
i can’t remember much of now
all the smoke i inhaled
we followed the trail
it lead back to home
or somewhere close i suppose
all our idols strum guitars
and we headbang again and again
running from
the places we’ve been