Author: David X. Hugo

if a man with multiple personality disorder kills themselves is it suicide or murder?

poetry

they sat in this room and thought up
the worst things that could happen,
and he followed him everywhere
like some stray cat with no tail
but with lots of tales
and question marks
so many it could block out the sun
some days
and he would distract him so much
it was hard to finish his sentences
there were just so many questions
and so many things that could happen
and of all the things that could happen
one of them would surely not be
his disappearance.

i want to wake up and break up this lake of hell

poetry

i keep talking
and reorganizing my words
waiting for an echo to sound
just the way i dreamed it would,
waiting for the words to come
back and for the crowd to
applause, to clamor, waiting
for the worms to hit the
streets after my words bounce
off the earth like rain.

he is the next poe, they would say
he is the next bukowski
hemingway
and i would be claimed philosopher king
the only philosopher king to run
through wal-mart like a downhill slalom,
laughing at capitalism,
dodging in and out of clothing racks.

this desk is lying to me (you are not you, you are a she)

poetry

i think my desk is secretly on fire
and it doesn’t want to tell me because
it knows i don’t want to know
whether or not it burns when she slips
into my mind

maybe my desk is secretly on fire because
i secretly am setting it on fire
with the heat of my fists on it’s
fake woodgrain exterior

or it’s on fire because i just
lit it on fire and am blocking out
the memories because i’m losing
my mind, and
it’s keeping that secret from me too

either way, this desk is lying to me.

god bless

poetry

you grow your legs, and it’s sink or swim
you throw your eggs at the presidents chin
you eat your grass if your one of the cattle
and bicker and babble over who won the battle
but their building a fence, blocking the sun
and the biggest of the bulls wouldn’t dare run
and the box in the room that keeps talking to you
grows bigger and bigger the more of you it consumes
every single day it’s Obama Mccain
every single day it’s Osama Hussein
every single day it continues to rain
every single day threatens to drive me insane
and back in high school when you gave up your brain
and you put on a mask so you could all look the same
now you spend your days grazing with black and white spots
regurgitating what you eat to see your cholesterol drop.

(Disclaimer: In no way am I comparing Osama Bin Laden to Barack Obama.)

the state of the state

poetry

The Skins on the corner
with their bubble postures
and the Muscles they walk with
swaying their hips
and the Muscles will flex
all their cologne and fists,
the college Punks,
the Emo’s and their skinny
jeans and cigarettes,
the one’s that fall through
the cracks in the dirt,
and the Alien’s,
watching the sun cross
behind the balet of the
clouds
twidling our thumbs.