Tag: Art

I need to update so have an old one

by sidcorvid

Bloody ‘ell Jasmine!
A free write and a Facebook post?
A poem up Mishter Lusk’s alley!

Or was that Saucey Jacky’s alley!?
Ha, I’m not crazy like that!
I’m just as fun, but without the gore!

This is how one fuckin’ does it!
You write from the bloody heart,
Maybe steal one or two while you’re at it!

He must’ve been a helluva guy,
For Miss Kelly to give her’s so freely.
I’ll never get why ladies like the shag.

But that’s neither here nor there,
This poem’s about me!
It’s about time someone wrote for Paulie!

Ole Sid’s got his back,
Feeding him some grand delusions,
What’s the difference either way?

Let him be great,
Or let him spill some krovvy tryin’.
It’s cheap, plenty to go around.

Now listen to me being morbid!
God forbid!
Back on track, right oh, right on!

I’ll get on up there,
Somewhere high above you plebes,
And when you beg,

I’ll smile and say, ‘no.’
Not exactly, but I won’t do much.
Alright, I’ll save the world with me.

Dammit,
It is what it is,
I wish I was a bird.

Ooooo, this one was emotional

by sidcorvid

What about the fetters that bind
When your bonds are shattered?

The freedom of mind, supposed,
While accepting your iPhone is dying.
Am I me or am I just another?
Claiming no compromise
But bargain shopping ideas.

What happened to me?
Am I comfortable?

Father, forgive me.

I abandoned you,
Like I do everything.

Robert Frost would be disappointed,
Watching as I
Take the load more taken.

There’s a comfort in solitude,
Though. A safety
Though the mind runs wild.
A freedom to wiggle,
Without being called shifty.

I’ll set someday,
Become solid to be
Tramped down upon.

 

Making Buddy headbang to Nicki

by sidcorvid

Whiskey makes my bones shake,
And I’m having trouble typing.
‘Motivational’ wubs inspire poetry,
To be called great by idiots.

On this night,
I feel the dead gods in my blood,
Coursing like my .5% BAC.

There is no past,
On this night there is no compromise,
One more shot to remember the future.
A violence churns as I party alone.
A writer writes, infuriated by his subordinates.

He has no Medevac waiting for him,
Calling ‘Suppressing Fire!’ has no effect,
Except a stagger and a disorderly conduct.
Alone, this booze-fueled warrior, I, will fall.

Imagine the hangover?

I am what happens

by sidcorvid

I am what happens.
Whatever I’ve become,
And where I go, transforming,
I am a product.

Imperialistic in breathing,
I expect to end as all the greats do,
Invaded, perverted and in a puddle of vomit.

I am the Holy Roman Empire,
Something to fear, my very existence.
With existential crises crashing,
I can be… unpredictable.
A Caligula.

Angry, I will sleep.
Accosted, I will sleep.
Ashamed, I will sleep,

And maybe when I wake,
It’ll be worth it.

“Lot’s of self defeat in that one…”

by sidcorvid

Right?

A burn, a passion.

Circles, in fields of black and White Snake,

A symptom of being at a loss.

 

Screaming through my chest,

I shout until my throat hurts.

“It’s not going to get better, is it?”

 

I’m no Pierce Brosnan,

Barely a Roger Moore,

Definitely not a Danny Boy.

 

Searching for a sortie,

HPPD, here I come.

I don’t want to live to thirty,

But only the good die young.

Stop Hitting Yourself

by sidcorvid

“Stop hitting yourself,” the angel says,

“You look like a fool, fighting me.”

 

Knowing it is right, I step back,

Maintaining my defense,

“What would you have me do?

 

“Would you have me accept?

Give up fear and bear this load?

You ask too much,

And bring too little to this fight.”

 

Speaking to air, I think of relief.

To accept this darkness,

Would I breathe easy again?

 

I lessen my defense, asking,

“This path I am to walk,

Am I to walk it alone?

Or will another share my lust?”

 

It smiles, sweeping its six wings forward,

Blessing my sweating face with a breeze,

Speaking, “What good is a passion without a companion?

To what end will that lead? Perversion.

 

“Yes, you have this to bear,

But no man should bear this alone.

I don’t intend for you to be an exception.

 

“What a wonderful night to have a curse, child.

Quit looking the fool, wipe the dirt off your face

And let us get started.”

 

I holster my weapons, relieving reality,

As I face future with a fire in my heart,

Knowing I will not be alone.

Rest in Peace little fellow

by sidcorvid

I saw the sadness in his eyes, the sorrow of a winter that simply would not end. In the seconds I knew him, I hadn’t the time to learn his trials, his tribulations. I did, in an odd way, empathize though.

Maybe he had a family, a child screaming for his father. Maybe his family had not survived the brutality of suburban life during a harsh Pennsylvanian winter. Either way, I guess it didn’t matter at that point.

He was busy praying to his God or Gods, his ancestors or the spirits of his dead children. Even if I had the chance to ask him what drove him up there, I don’t think he would have answered. This fellow was far gone, and all I could do was speed up and hope he held off on his final leap of faith. Teetering above Route 134, he worked up the courage to end the cruelty of the life he had been born into.

In one bound, I realized I should have braked. In half a second, those deep, beady eyes of his were splattered across the hood of my mother’s van. In a breath, his misery was brought to an end by a Honda Odyssey.

I channeled Kurtz as this dear creature was cleared off by my windshield wipers, what horror! What would they say about him? That he was kind or wise? That he had plans? No, fuck that. Squirrels don’t leave notes, you idiot…

An oldie

by sidcorvid

During my forced slumber
I meet my dear.
Alone and afraid.

In the aftermath
I hold her in my arms,
On an end bound train.

She smiles,
Knowing she is mine,
As I am her’s.

Her red dress entices,
Her warmth welcomes me in,
The cold of this hell falls away.

The train screeches to a halt
At the ghastly demon gate,
Hungry, We look for a meal.

A search to no avail.
As the weeks pass,
Perfection peels and pales.

The gaunt face of my love,
That unfed life of mine,
It drives me mad.

The demons laugh as lives end,
As the platform is cleared of all.
I wipe away any traces.

From the wreckage,
The whorehouse of slaughter,
We feed.

I watch her live
As she feeds on the dead.
I eat only when she fills.

Once again my love, My sweetness,
She kisses me with chapped lips.
I taste the blood of our prey.

The metallic taste remains,
As we lie in cold red puddles.
She shivers, and i hold her close.

Alone, We eat as we need,
Keeping the Wendingo at bay.
Awaiting the next train.

Coagulated blood stinks,
The maggots infect our meat,
Still we continue to gnaw on bone.

Our solitude is broken by a beast,
What used to be a woman.
Feeding on our rotting prey.

She scowls at us that there is plenty.
We eat as she gorges.
Her belly fat with human meat.

Flesh is ripped from bone,
Skeletons are shredded,
As she devours innards.

I cast her a look of disdain,
Holding my love near.
We make eye contact, fear.

“Judge me if you will,”
The she-beast scowled.
“You’ve fed too, the Wendingo will be around.”

I smile as I pull my love towards the train,
“We fed to live,
You die to feed”

As the train departs into darkness
My alarm tears me away from my love
And my joy dies into the mundane

To E from P

by sidcorvid

Why do you sit upon my throne?
Brooding over a love forced, or on the consequences of your gift?
Come and be my brother,
your tribute was planned.

Look me in my eye,
I know your pain.
A god of fertility
With only a boar to ride.
It’s better than keeping up with birds!

Look around, Ing, and see your renown!
Your sickle is as mighty as my spear.
You are loved, and will be remembered.
Your mound will be blessed.
I’ll be proud to die alongside you.

My friend, I will wander
As I have always done.
You’re place is here.
As I am a warrior poet,
You are a beacon of hope.

I never thought a Vanir could be less vain.
Be proud! For you know who you are!
Be honored as the king you were!
Though we are not eternal,
Our names will live on.

Watch the Moon

by sidcorvid

Your Ghastly Heart,
Little remains of your face.
Your id has overcame,
And I don’t miss you.
Your beaten and bruised,
Soft, tender, sweet skin.
I don’t miss your ripped
Golden locks of silk.
I don’t miss your tearful,
Sweet, sickly sweet voice.
All that we went through is nothing,
And I no longer need that Graff Pink,
I’m content with an emerald,
Cut to perfection.