Saturday, December 24, 2011

6AM Ramblings

The best time I ever had was with you
and lately I've been pretending it never happened,
in a way

Ignoring the realization that's never changed,
long ago I told myself that falling in love with an asshole
was the worst yet most meaningfully romantic gesture
I ever attempted to commit to, by the way
I jest with the gesture word

The happiest I've ever been is with a whore,
someone so broken that I felt superior or somewhat helpful,
or did I really love her, or was it her eyes, ass or the smile she carried,
who knows? I don't.

The worst part of my life, what defines who I truly am,
I've ignored it for too long, the gloves of my crimes grown over
with dust and regret, the best part of my life, the worst

I miss you, but I can't deal with letting you go again,
so I will acknowledge that you still are alive in me
so long as you stay out there, away from me

Monday, December 19, 2011

Back From The Not Quite Dead

I gave up a part of myself
threw it down like an angry man who opens a
cigarette pack only to find nothing but foil
and though it made me sad to do so I felt
that it had to be done, the words, I asked them to go

I ate pills and sat stunned in a delusional happiness
which was the exact thing I thought I needed, and maybe
it still is

The only remarkable thing I learned about myself while in that state
was that I could smile through a lot more heartbreaking events than I thought,
and that doesn't seem enough to continue another delusion

I sit without drive now, finding it hard to care about anything,
struggling half-heartedly for a reason that makes wanting to live justifiable
and I can't find one, not one that seems like anything but a lie

This is not a suicide note nor a cry for help,
it's not even a form of poetry that I thought, as I sat down here tonight
may be possible to roll from these fingertips,
it's thoughts put on a page lazily after midnight
and a confession of a man that has given up
for the most part,
except in those times when he tickles the words with pure truth
and can't for all the straining of his imagination bring himself to imagine a laugh,
like the ones I hear when I tell jokes and smile knowing I wish I were dead

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Putting on Old Gloves

I still come home to microwaved meals
the wait in front of the computer
while I sip soda at 4AM to the tune in my head titled
"What I'd rather come home to",
a daydream like any sane person has, I'm sure

I chew a cheap, mass-produced chocolate snack
and wash it down with more soda, more cigarette smoke,
I blow across my dinner and it steams like my
nearly extinguished cigarette,
a flash of some nipple I once tasted burns my eyes
and I shut them as if the sun was staring me down
remembering yet another chick who couldn't make the grade
and the teacher I thought I was when I believed in credentials

I'm around the corner and across the hall from a former monster,
but they all agree I should feel something positive,
or learn to forgive others or just shut the fuck up
when it comes to half the reason I'm here at all

I'm taking the pills,
I'm smiling a lot more than I have in some time,
and all I can think about is how full of shit I am
although I'm typing the truth, again, purposefully cryptic
because even if explained thoroughly in stunning detail
I feel we'd all still get it different, and I sit here
feeling crazy,
though I'd be on the side which would win.

I don't think winning is enough

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Rhyming Words About A Thought Not Dared

A kiss was the contract two fools wrote
and be grabbed her bottom to sign the note
with her hands clawing at his back, tongue twisted
he asked her if it were okay, and it was, she insisted
They fought through the concerns of love grown cold
kept closing their eyes to see the cards, conditioned to fold
a billion scenarios of people left hurting over this contract
and wondering whether they'd get away afterward with dignity intact
with some shedding, panting, entering and the dance around the sack
that ended too soon, too sadly, both knowing neither will ever get back
into that time, that comfortable history two sad, lonely fools shared
before they allowed a contract, a kiss that never should've been dared

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Releasing Pressure So Deep It Can Lay Waste To Cities And Daydreams

And like the crashing of a nearby and tragically deadly tidal wave her voice shoves itself through my feet on vibrations of deep, hollowed out like whispers through the tube of an empty paper towel roll gently pressed to her lips, just as gently to the side of my head like a rifle blasting sex, slow and smooth, then violent, as if it were shoved down my throat and into the base of my mind, she rested there, this image only described initially as beautiful by my thoughts, this construct hybrid of who she was by my perception, who she was by the general perceptions of she and I's loved ones, and I stare at her wondering if I should continue to continually birth such a creature into my consciousness, arguing with myself and others about whether or not any of our calculations were correct on the actual her and settling on what would it matter?

She's like a shitty thought from a beautiful voice, a salesman's pitch to the overly romantic hearts that want nothing more than to give someone everything they are and have them accept it when they haven't even accepted themselves, a shiny used sports car with parts held on my bubblegum, and I sit now with my right foot making motions like a depressed acceleration pedal, next to her, giggling like a doped up, retarded schoolgirl, my smile so wide my face seems about to break as I speed through yet another daydream that I fail to fully acknowledge could go bad any second, and like a baby being born while having a heart attack I snap back into feeling so damned fragile and small, helpless, stranded without that face that could make me laugh and feel okay as I lay in some terrible scenario of my death, and it's in these times I wonder if I'll hold her this way until just before they load my casket, or if someone else will fill the void that letting her go completely may create.

Monday, June 27, 2011

The Rules Of Getting Off And Getting on With It As You Stumble About The Gray Areas

I don't know if anyone has ever written about it,
or spoken, for the matter, out loud, if you will,
the thoughts behind eyes of a man,
or maybe some woman, somewhere,
who I have yet to meet,
someone who has realized
that nothing goes
on
on
off
off.

Sure, lots of things turn on,
light switches, ovens, printers
that spit this shit onto blank pages
when somebody thinks:

"Hey! That might be worth publishing!"...

but we can't turn it on again
without first turning it
off.

It's a law, of sorts,
and now, staring at these words,
thinking of what they may mean to the next person,
losing sight of why I do this at all anymore,
and repeating one thought in the cold background,
I continue to type.

"on
off
off
on and on and on"

until it nearly drives me mad,
and, as we all probably know,
these things can be turned off,
just like I was before these thoughts
turned me on, wore me down, and turned me
off
off
off.

Friday, June 24, 2011

When It's Unbearably Hot Out And You're Smiling Like An Idiot

Why are you trying to kill me?

I think to myself as I wish I could still
see my reflection in the computer screen
but it's alive now, colors flashing
and text documents opening
shining into my eyes like the old days

It's alive like I feel,
but I'm still in the hole

I'm still living at home, I'm still crazy
though all the doctors say otherwise and hand me compliments
because
I'm
not
average

A friend told me once
that 49% of all people are below average
according to mathematicians,
I smile now, like then, and it's a cynic's smile
a charismatic facial voyage as if
I'm still wishing to see my reflection

They make you shake and accept mediocrity,
they make you sleep too much
and smile more when you're not,
they turn your mouth
to dessert sands at daybreak
and don't let go of the dryness until long,
long after the sun has clocked out

I'm happy,
that's what matters to most people, but for me,
I feel I've lost myself, I'm contained...
as if they don't know what to do with me,
kept docile...
when I wouldn't hurt a fly to begin with,
and what bugs me most is
my mediocrity is more acceptable in this condensed state...

this caged beast,
this drugged and ready to trip the life unfantastic fool
with crowds of future and fellow travelers
waving goodbye to one another
and I'm off with a smile on my seemingly sinking ship

Friday, April 8, 2011

Fuck Writing

I can't honestly remember the last time I wanted to type up anything going in my life on these blank boxes, not even things floating around in my head which exist of nothing more than pure imagination or memory, but tonight I had, what some may compare to "fucking insane" happened, and I feel it's my duty to humanity to share it.

I sat in a room with a woman I've known all of a month and a man who I was introduced to and told his name, spoke nothing with him and only with her went on and on about how she needs to take time for herself and forget all the loser assholes in her life. Well, I was the one wanting to make it known that a rule must be in place stating "Fuck off, all selfish, depraved wannabe gentlemen", and that, if only capable in mere voice she should proclaim such a thing. Anyhow, this fucking guy asks me out into another room then lays down what he's after. "I'm tryin' to tag that in there tonight" he says, then he begins laying groundwork on how I'm able to take advantage of his loin's needs, with reckless abandon for her needs or desires, by leaving with a handful of very good pot.

I stood there amazed and stunned far from words or expression for roughly four seconds, then said that it wouldn't be right, but that I didn't mind leaving but that I think she may deserve better than to be used and traded for weed and another man's time away. He shook my hand and sat across from me a few moments later back in the room, she was out of it and we're within a few feet as I explain to him furthur what I mean by these things I had to say about a woman I barely know. He began telling me "I beleave god must have sent you here just to talk to me tonight, maybe he did. I didn't look at it like you said it just now, but I still wanna hold her tonight..." and so on.

The word "god" floating in the context of his explaination of our meeting, through the selfish bullshit I could see him struggle with in his eye contact when he spoke of wanting her sexually, it was enough to make me sick. I decided to leave. I sit here now, a train splitting the night in two just outside my window while a text message arrives. "We will talk tom. Please." is all it says, and I feel the stern extra fingerpress it took to type that last period before she hit SEND, but I smile at the sickening funny reaction I get to the thoughts of "Who the fuck is Tom?" and why the fuck, if there's that last punctual and purposeful press of the period key, is there not time to type out the word "Tomorrow"?

I began thinking about one of the major reasons why I've given this writing thing up, and that reason is because life is damned predictable, boring, not meant for creatures capable of such fucking disgusting actions, and I'm not so fucking certain that I want to share anything with any of you.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Dust The Spotlight

It all seems like an act
When you come off defensive
Testing me to see where I'll give,
where I'll take, searching for an agenda

It all seems like an act
When I lie down next to you
I say it's no problem for me, I'm mature,
but I lay there with guilt and attraction
fighting amidst thoughts of you holding my
hand while giving birth to my child or standing
with baseball bat in hand next to your husband,
wishing me no mercy for simply being human

It all seems like an act
When you tell me of your love
Explaining the ins and outs of your
time here and how you use those terrible
moments, the worst, how you turn them into
something positive or leave them behind

It all seems like an act
With no curtain pulled
The shades down tightly in mid-morning
No sunlight, just silhouettes dancing slowly
Holding onto you, your heartbeat speeding under my arm,
faster and faster until we're both so caught up we let out laughs,
and I match my breathing to yours, slow but shallow, and I'm fine

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

One Way To Ring-In Christmas

There would always be these long, wordless pauses
between my neighbor and I when I visited,
and sometimes I'd bring along notebooks and pens
in case I felt like speaking
without destroying the enjoyable silence

In those silences I'd begin to try
and force out an observation or yearning,
and every time I'd get a few words down
he'd spin around from his newspaper's perch and speak to me

It was as if he were jealous
of the pen and I's time together,
or maybe he was just in-tune to some brain-wave
sent out from desperate wordsmith wannabes,
maybe all coincidence, but I was gonna write
of some beautiful girl again anyhow,
about some terrible thing she or I did,
about someone I wish she was,
instead I've painted this pen into an artistic corner,
it all feels so fake,
'forced' seems like the right word to describe it,
and I know that as soon as this pen drops back to the table
the newspaper will no longer be as lonely as I
with a beautiful woman in my bed
and me next door on Christmas Eve,
4AM in dim lighting while rain beats the earth all around this town

"We beat the record for rain by a few inches,
that's what the evening news said" he tells me
out of nowhere and without me telling him
of my penning the word 'rain',
I told him how if it flooded us all tonight,
making us homeless or drowned,
we'd be better off somehow

Even with the words still flowing,
no happiness came from them,
whether they were born of old men,
young women or the guy who knows both,
it always seems to boil down
to things you want from someone
that they aren't able to
or interested in delivering to you,
I or the world at large,
and that's every damned poem in the world to me,
it's whining, it's pining, overall,
it's just fucking old, and yet, here we are,
and my mind rambles off on some thought
of the world's greatest asshole
winning a multi-million dollar lottery
then breaking into my house
to fuck the woman in my bed,
and I'm fuming with it as I sit this pen down

Friday, March 18, 2011

I Hate Poetry

I've always hated poetry and usually anything with rhyme
Cause rhyme reminds me of how we like to sound certain ways
And hide what we really feel behind the words we don't mean
Writing words to end sentences with no heart
Poems are the suicide notes left behind by dead dreams
They are the smell on a lover's shirt who's left you
The lipstick smear on the wine glass that sits perched
above the sink so you are reminded everyday of their leaving
That you're not good enough and never will be
I hate poetry

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Accent

The ringer sounded off
over the sound of soft music,
he answered nervously
and listened closely to the words
coming across the air

She was driving some road he'd never seen,
and he wondered what she looked like
under the dim glow of dash lights
and the street bulbs as they'd bounce off her eyes

And when she spoke
it was as soft as the breath of a sleeping angel,
like a cool, silken sheet covering his ears
and the feeling from her smile
came through the phone like a whisper

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

What Now?

There was a moment,
a clearly unexplainable moment
that I realized I wanted
to eat this girl's pussy so bad I ached, literally ached,
my cock swelled with my lack of any decency or pride
and had me so snug downstairs that it was nearly impossible to hide
with mere shifting in my seat or crossing my legs
like I'm Sharron's character in some movie
that titled itself on instinct,
and all she'd do is giggle shyly at my advances,
never quite saying no, and I stalled in the door
using wordplay like "I'm Joseph Stalin"
and she again giggled,
but this time it was because she knew a bit of history,
in that moment I felt I understood very little about her,
I knew I wanted to know more than I can learn in bed
with a woman who seemed to be offering me her's,
my ego wasn't enough,
my curiosity is peaked,
what now of this moment?

Saturday, February 19, 2011

A Rebellious Afternoon In Concours

  We were 15 and 16 year old boys, midday and bored. My father had purchased a 1977 Chevy Nova Concours, deep, faded red with a white vinyl top, and we stood like slobbering wolves staring at the ignition key. Knowing it was against my father's wishes for me to drive the car was beside the point, I was a bit of a spoiled little shit and had to show off to my older friend, Tommy, who always seemed to get the girls and left us wondering how. It seemed an inspiring thing to try and top this fucking guy, and today it would only take the turn of my wrist. I turned the key and told them to strap in with the seat belts, as if we looked natural in that old car with expired tags, as if I had a license and could talk my way out of it all if we did see the blues through the rear view. We crept around town like a grandmother. I never got the thing above 35. We pulled into the mall and locked the doors. I remember thinking "This is what it feels like to be an adult, to own something and be proud when people see what it is.", and now I know it was silly to think such a thing, but at the time I had no clue and was very happy to be looking at my reflection in that glass that was at least a year older than I.

  A few moments later we were rummaging through stacks of old comics in Pie Eyes, this run down comic and card shop in a dying mall with the scummiest looking guy running the place. We told him something of how he drove a van and ran a comic store and how these things, when mixed with his general demeanor, kinda made us theorize that he were a child-fucker. He kicked us out of there, the old men across from us halted their game of dominoes to see what the fuss was about while we laughed and acted disrespectful to the world around us. I remember making eye contact with one of the old men though, just as we were turning to get out of there and it disturbed me, made me feel awful for what I'd just done and was continuing to do as I headed toward the parking lot, looking at those white-walls and shaking my head. I'll never forget that old man's face, that look in his eye that seemed to say he knew where I was coming from and one day I will too, and when I do I'll know why he was so seemingly sad to see us perform our bullshit rebellion.

  We moved on though, hit up this old pizza place with a buffet and convinced ourselves that although the place was full of cops and we look like we should be in school, if we act cool no one will fuck with us. "When we walk in here, we own this place, fuck your paranoia, I want some pizza!" I laughed as we jumped from the car. I didn't lock the doors this time, and I laughed as I thought about it while staring around the parking lot at the half-dozen or so Little Rock police cars. We ate and Tommy hit on the waitress. She didn't even serve us drinks but she came around to our table many times, and I'd look out at that Chevy and think "You'll never be able to drive whatever it is that attracts these creatures", and laughing at my silly sounding inner monologue.

  A few of the cops left and we followed them outside, got back in the car and went to the edge of the drive to wait on traffic. As we pulled out, I pushed the pedal too hard and we laid white smoke black marks for twenty or so feet just passed a puddle I had previously paid no attention to. I knew that right then, every cop in that place felt like we'd just slapped him, that it was personal. That these two shitty brats had just been allowed to eat and enjoy their youth without intercept only to be so disrespectful with an accelerator. So there we were, 90 or so miles per hour, midday, hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel and every curve now a mathematical calculation that with an incorrect sum could kill us both or someone else, and we knew it, and we kept going.

  After a few moments we realized there were no blue lights nor sirens, so we slowed down, way down to 35. We crept along like that back to the driveway, I backed it in and parked it where I'd left two piles of rocks in the tire centers on one side. We had our methods, and some paid off. The car was supposed to be my first, but that didn't happen because we needed to make a house payment. So my father sold it to this guy a few years later, and he used it to hop around town to the bars and pick up all the fly-types. I seen it a few times while I was in my first car, and when I was in my second car, then I heard the guy had died and I never seen the Nova again. I still think about that day often, what it meant and how it affected me, and I wonder where that old car is and if anyone has any stories they'd share about it.

Monday, February 7, 2011

Thoughts As Long As The Days

Thoughts of being alone with my mind and genitals seep in,
and that's when the weight of it all hits with it's hardest blow,
the fact that there's no one here to feel
the breaths blow from between my lips
when I share the inner most parts of myself,
as well as there's no beautiful woman blowing me,
taking my mind away from all the torture of being alone,
instead, I'm typing about it in mid-afternoon
with a hard-on the happy pills won't let cross
the messiest of finish lines
and nowhere moist to run the race
regardless of my love for breaking tape.

It's in these moments that I feel the duality of man kicking in,
times when I'd sacrifice any chance of something real
for something I can, at the least, pretend is real,
even if only so long as to again realize my heart longs for more,
knowing all the while my mind and body wouldn't so much give a shit,
knowing that talking from the heart is just a commoner's way
of describing that they don't know what they want,
but they want something, I want something,
and I don't know who or what that something is supposed to be


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

On A Cold Afternoon in February

I grabbed a balled-up napkin from my nightstand-like table
and could smell lemon, sending me back to hours earlier
when I'd sat alone at a local "goofy shit on the walls" restaurant,
staring out the window into the parking lot
as old people fought against the wind to get back
to their over-sized trucks and extra-long cars,
one guy even lost his hat, and every once in a while
I'd stare at the fire the had going in a large stone fireplace
with little pots and kettles hanging around the logs,
as if somewhere, amongst the store out front filled with cheap toys,
chocolate scented candles and over-priced Ameiricana,
there lies lost some wandering old cowboy who now wonders
if he's make it back in from the 140 pound peanut brittle mountain
in time to stir the beans before they burn,
how thinking about her and burning anything
made me want to push my plate away,
the one I'm eating alone,
and all I can think about is my muse,
how I used to feel about her on days like this,
with all these ridiculous thoughts in my head that bring me a smile
or anger me with their uselessness, how today is her birthday
and I can't tell her that I truly wish it to be a happy one,
how I miss her still... all this from the smell of napkins,
lemons from the tea I drank to wash down the food
that I could barely stomach and later expelled
in a violent case of lost nerve,
all I can do is make myself laugh
at how terrible it is that I miss her,
a girl who could never understand how silly I can be
when I'm so damned directionless on a keyboard
and all I can think about is her


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Monday, January 31, 2011

In A Chest Deprived Of Oxygen No Fire Can Envelop The Heart

I look around my room and on the floor
there are multiple envelopes
from a woman up north

I remember how when we first began talking
I told her not to love me,
not to even say the damned word,
and she did it anyway,
like I had locked up my love
and she were the most skilled of safecrackers

These physical representations begin to anger me,
these remnants of yet another woman's attempt
to give me something I didn't want,
and I'm left with only one comforting thought;
"At least it wasn't the other way around"

Grabbing up the papers and burning them seems the thing to do,
it's funny how a cleansing through fire
can seem so very dramatically right
yet be so truly unfulfilling,
so I go through the motions
of putting flame to the debris of an old flame
that never really lit me up


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Hours Alone

I don't have anything anymore.

I remember how I once woke up,
multiple days of the week
and I'd have this great plan
for what was going to occur that day,
some girl, some place, something I could go do

Now, I awaken,
I decide whether or not
I want to smoke a cigarette,
if I don't, all I'll do is think about it,
and if I do smoke one I become surrounded
by thoughts of dying
as my chest forgets how to breathe properly
and lungs leave me short of energy

I lay or sit here on this bed
thinking of how pathetic my life has become
for hours a day, and I get no closer
to anything resembling a better thought process

It wasn't much better when I had something,
some girl, some place to go,
but I wasn't facing my own death at the time,
and that's all it feels like anymore inside this chest
that loses against the intake of oxygen

waiting. to. die.

There's nothing of interest outside of a girl or two,
and there's only truly any interest there
because I want someone to inspire me to believe in living again,
even at the risk of falling in love with life
just as I were to die,
one second would be so worth it
compared to these hours alone


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

And So She Returns

She's been coming into my dreams for days,
this beautiful girl I fell in love with long ago,
having conversations with me that I can't remember,
and I laugh at my silliness when I realize
it's just me talking to myself in here

It doesn't feel like it used to,
that nagging that would tear a hole in my gut,
the sense that the only woman worthy of my time
were throwing herself to the wolves and gone,
now, instead, I look at my watch and laugh about
all the time I spent thinking about someone
who never lost a moment of sleep for me

The girl who almost took her place
is moving back to Little Rock now,
and she's saying for the 30th time
that she's getting a divorce,
I don't buy it, but I do want
to buy her a drink and see if she
can still make me feel like a handsome man,
dancing amongst the lies I tell myself
and the ones she spills out over the table,
interspersed with just enough truth
to keep the interest of a man
who no longer calls dreams filled
with women he can't have around
"nightmares"



© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Friday, January 28, 2011

My Desire To Take Out The Trash

She's just the right amount of trashy
when she bends over to set things down
in the passenger seat of her small car,
leaving her son to stand there in the heat
wondering why his mom's ass is stuck in the air,
and twenty or so years from now, why he's attracted
to the fair skin of inconsiderate women

It's a fairly new car, and I'm left wondering
as she drives up and out of the L-shaped parking lot
just why she wouldn't be running the air conditioning
and just what her moist from sweat parts would taste like
if I ran my tongue over them like the damp, cool washcloths
sat next to the beds of the sick or dying, soothing her
as she soothes me with her flesh and sighs of good pain


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Between The Bullet And Beating Yourself Up

I can hear the sound of a hammer being pulled back
on one of the world's invisible pistols
every time she speaks to me,
this coldness in her hand that'll finalize saying goodbye
to the things she no longer has the desire to throw "hellos" at,
and it's quite disturbing,
to the point that each time
I can feel my own thumb pressed firmly
against my own

When someone you love and respect,
whom you think is bigger than you in so many ways
upstairs and in the chest,
decides to or feels compelled to end it,
well, it's a fucking heartache,
I somehow feel guilty, and I've never figured out why,
but I do know that in the middle of these moments
I find myself wishing I were good enough to pull her from it,
but I know that's silly, because if I were
I would have holstered the cold steel feeling from my hands
and have this fucker hocked by now,
if only for a few thought processes
that could make me smile

When she speaks to others in front of me
I can hear the shots going off,
aimed from her lips to their hearts,
these desperate shots expected to bring them up to her level,
shot-off in hope the perfect words will flow from their lips to her ears,
but you can see in her eyes that she knows this will never come to pass,
as if she already knows it's hard to hit the bullseye when your lips are quivering

I know that look too,
because I know that feeling,
that pressure against the cold
screaming out, wanting someone to be the perfect negotiator ,
but the disbelief that one even exists haunts you
if you're walking around with these invisible pistols,
after watching so many fail at your "perfect" test
usually inspires one's heart to believe in no perfect counterpart,
knowing you'll only settle for less until you pull the trigger
or surround yourself with people you know would put themselves
between the bullet and you, no matter how selfish the world takes it


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

The Downtime Of Most Men's Favorite Part, Exclusion From Her Heart

She quoted some song by a band I've never liked,
something about not knowing if she were ever loved
by any of the hands that had crossed her flesh,
I giggled at the song choice but became saddened
by how true those words seemed, though, I promise you,
this will not change my idea of how crappy that band is

Anyhow, I don't know if I have been either,
touched by any hands that have loved me,
usually I find myself only being touched
by the most broken hearted and generally broken,
no woman I've ever thought was great
has swept me off my fucking feet
or allowed me to do the same for her,
not that I've needed it, but it'd be nice
to know what such a wonderful thing feel like

Instead, like the world's worst comicbook hero
I stumble into a woman's life at one of her
many, many down points, I say a few "new to her" things
and find myself balls deep inside my latest mistake
because it feels nice to be someone's greatest thing,
if only for a brief moment, as if I'm saving her

Using the bedsheet as a cape
and my words as a superpower
I charge into the mind of women
who'd rather not have me in there,
only to find the kryptonite that is their hearts,
these dark masses that've grown so cold that no amount of capes,
words or fucking can make them beat with any signifigant warmth


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Friday, January 14, 2011

On A Quiet Night Your Explosions Run Wild Across My Nervescape

A newly discovered sound
the nature around me
things chirping and buzzing
in a moist, half-moon night,
I sit with a general knowledge
of where exactly on a map I am
but haven't the slightest idea
if the guy who designed the map
were as full of shit as I may be
sometimes...

but I can't hear the auctioneer anymore,
and there's no screaming of motorbikes,
no silence cut short by the man-made,
at least to my ears inside the short bursts,
when I can almost push you out of my heart entirely,
even when I know it's me that keeps you there,
the warden of a prison you left long ago,
I keep the damned cell locked around your ghost
and just as I think of how it'd feel to set free
the ghost I've made of you for me,
a firecracker goes off a block away
silencing the night like my thoughts on your voice,
how you sounded when you said those dishonest words

You are a distant and constant distracting explosion
on the edge of my sanity and begging me to fall over,
and I am forever silenced with the echo of your passionate flame
across nights like these when I'm surrounded by what I know is beautiful
yet I'm blinded and deafened to anyone or anything that seems
to want to prove that you aren't the only thing capable of burning me,
desensitized to the touch of sparking flesh that isn't yours,
knowing that when they ask me to be sincere in the night
about why it is I'm not drawn to their flames as maddeningly
nor as often as I am to your star which lights the entrance of my heaven,
in those moments, when I see that look we get in our eyes
when we watch our hearts born in the body of our love
and cast them into the sky above all other desires,
as that look grows across the face of who wants to love me,
I'll wish then greatly that you'd never been born into my heart,
a birth that leaves dead any chance of them gliding in your sky



© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Friday, January 7, 2011

Reactions To Ordinary Things

I was standing there
losing my breath
over the stove,
waiting for the burner
to get hot enough
to ignite my calm

Forgotten memories of the night
were coming back at me
like boxing gloves, swaying me
in my socks on the linoleum floor,
spinning every thought out of control

I tried like hell
to just come back in my mind
to hold a former lover once more,
to step in the ocean for the first time,
to pull the handbrake not knowing
how the little car would react,
but my heart raced
for entirely
different reasons
I knew too well

I noticed the smoke from the burner getting thick,
I took a drag, blew out into the dimly lit kitchen
and stared at a cobweb behind the edge of the refrigerator
for a few seconds before turning off the burner
and heading towards my room

With smoke trailing behind me,
cigarette dangling from my lips,
I push open the bedroom door
like a train through a stranded semi-truck

I think about helpless tracks
having to watch the horror of my path
as I stumble past trophies of some former life

Pictures of me
staring back with a smile
as I sit in front of the open window,
rain beating through the limbs,
headlights flowing through
the drops like kaleidoscopes

I think of light bouncing off her eyes,
I think of slide turns
in neighborhoods unknown to me,
I think of you, and you and you...


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Sunday, January 2, 2011

The Only Moisture I Never Question

I looked through the wet windshield
and flashed back to the night
she'd first flashed me
then we went too far

She lay across my lap
as I pushed fingers
in and out of her softly,
with her cooing the only thing I desired to hear
she whispered "Do you know why I'm this way?"
and told me her first time was an uninvestigated rape scene

I looked inside myself and asked why
I could stop my desires then
and have them naturally change themselves
into something closer to selfless
yet still crave her touch later
knowing she were still being raped,
only now she does the physical push,
she's the mad force holding herself down

I'm just the lab rat she uses
in some experimental procedure
to make peace with it

My cheeks are now the windshield
and this rain comes from the cloudiness of mind
after the storm front of her memory
knocked me over and drowned my eyes


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)