THAT GOOD OLD-FASHIONED DUBSTEP

you can have your post-grunge grindcore
you can dance the night away to your anti-trip hop
let the acid jazz wash over your bluetooth system
it’s always been that good old-fashioned dubstep for me

you can sway and swing to your nerdcore all night
you can sing aloud those industrial gospel blues
and ride down the freeway
with your tapedeck playing your neofolk gypsy punk
it’s always been that good old-fashioned dubstep for me

i’ll take my iPhone five off the shelf and dust it off
and press play on my spotify
because it’s that dubstep fade-in
and that dubstep drop
that really soothes my weary soul

you can have your bikutsi lo-fi
and your bossanova reggaetone
you can keep your experimental k-pop
and your happy hardcore freak folk
it’s always been
that good old-fashioned dubstep for me

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “SPIES”

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02.28

0228

“farewell, my black balloon.” -the kills

(end of the line.)

it was midnight in this revolution of my heart. i fell asleep on the bus ride home and woke up at nine mile station, middle of nowhere, and realized that this nap that sucked me into angelic dreams and dreary lucid mental orgasm was nothing more than a sad escape from reality. i pulled down the blinds over my eyes, turned out the lights in my brain, i threw all the clutter from off the floors and tucked it under the bed of my heart and i just sat for hours and hours listening to “let it be” on repeat staring at the white white white white ceiling of my skull.

let it be. let it be. let it be. it all did amount to nothing. a few dozen scraps of poems on the floor with dust and neglected bills, empty bottles of pills, half empty bottles of booze. i couldn’t even commit to alcoholism.

it was cold. i was at a bus stop. my phone was dead. the twenty-four hour grocery store was closed, and the snow was pouring down like i was stuck in a dry erase board and this magic eraser was quickly deleting my stick figure limbs. the bus driver was gone. careless to the fact that i was faced with stalemate at parker and peoria.

but really i was at the crossroads of adulthood and childhood. where the crayon coloring on the walls scrolled along like stock market tickers. where bouncy balls were filled with the hot air of politicians. where the seesaw wobbled up and down like somewhat productive half-baked socially progressive arguments about race, gender, sexuality, all leading to the inevitable conclusion that we needed to learn how to look at each other as individuals.

but what from there? practice what you preach, but what if you’re an atheist? how do you learn to dance like yourself when you’ve been inflicted with the awkward steps of society? how do you fly a plane when the gravity of the responsibility of love keeps you grounded?

we are expecting bad weather nationwide. internationwide. universally. exponentially. galaxically. i have got to stop making up words. i have got to stop drunk texting my invisible friends in the middle of the night.

i’m buried in snow.

it’s metaphorical snow. did i establish that? i’m sorry. am i breaking the fourth wall? am i breaking the fifth wall if i say i know you get sad sometimes? am i throwing a rock through your precious painted christmastime window? i’m sorry if i ruined the little mermaid for you by analyzing my insane quandry that the disneyverse is just the bible with more colors. is that true? i sound like a crazy person. you sound like a crazy person. we sound like a crazy person.

when i need something to grasp onto i hold your hand. in my head. i take us to the movies and i stare stare stare at the screen. i’ve become tainted by the fact i’m a writer. all i can do is tear apart the character motives and the necessity of certain dialogues. i have been invited into someone’s dream and all i can do is mock their wallpaper and tell them the proper way to entertain their guests. i am the king of cocktail parties

that nobody would want to go to.

but right now, i am bundled at a bus stop. in bum fuck egypt. in the middle of the night. in colorado. on this third rock from the sun. our sun. our holy holy sun that just belongs to me, not you. and it’s taken this. it’s taken all this to remind me

that all i have to do

is point to the sky

choose a star

and walk towards it

until i find myself beneath it

then take the next elevator into space

where hopefully my love is waiting for me

and if she’s not

i’ll deal

because sometimes the best life is lived alone, but only if alone means to you that you never find someone to get stuck on a ferris wheel with and kiss until your mouths are sore. down below your friends are waiting for you.

entrapment is the shiny love that takes you away from all your other loves.

be careful.

carry pepper spray and a strong argument.

box without gloves and ride life bareback.

always have at least two quarters in that tiny little pocket in your jeans.

tattoo your name on your palm, and wear it like an indian headdress.

tread softly and carry a big heart.

happy february,

(brice.)

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

02.14

0214

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(lovey dovey love love love.)

i love you so much
some nights i just stand outside your window
and watch you sleep
in the middle of winter

i love you so much
i have wired your entire house
just so i can hear every last word you speak
i love you so so much

there ain’t no mountain high enough
ain’t no valley low enough
ain’t no restraining order effect enough
from keeping me from getting to you, baby

i love you so much
that i slashed your car’s tires
just so you’d have to call in to work
and i could continue to watch you
from outside of your window
in the middle of winter

i love you so much
that i replaced all the mirrors in my house
with murals of you
that i made myself
my favorite one
is all of them

i love you so much, baby
that i have our kids name’s picked out already
i think we should name them fred and wilma
because you watch the flinstones alot
i’ve noticed
when i watch you
from outside of your window
in the middle of winter

it doesn’t mean a thing
that we’ve never spoken two words to each other
it doesn’t mean a thing
that your dad has kicked the shit out of me
true love conquers all

i love you so much
that i haven’t worked a normal job
in several months
i’ve been way too busy loving you baby
from outside of your window
in the middle of the night

you remind me of my mother

i love you so much
that i knitted these little sweaters
for all of your cats
all six of your cats
i can’t wait until all six of your cats
are all six of our cats
when do you want to get married?

i love you so much
that all i want for valentine’s day
is for you to lift this restraining order
so that i can knock on your door
and give you this giant teddy bear
and these dozen roses
and this box of chocolates
and this collection of seven thousand poems
that i have written for you
while standing outside of your window
at midnight
in the middle of winter

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.15, THE NEXT ENTRY IN THE 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

02.13

0213

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(beck #1.)

sitting in the attic of the basement of heaven
quarter past half past ten til eleven
looking for a reason in the garbage disposal
divorce papers for the marriage proposal

camera flash jump back ice cream truck
standing in line with the sitting ducks
earning my wages a day at a time now
squares trying to figure out where is the line now

i work tomorrow morning so i’m gonna sleep in
if heaven has a problem with me, let me sin
tell me what to do from nine to five
i’m certain when i’m dead i’ll feel less alive

flipping channels through the ocean t.v. in the water
the birds fly south but the weather gets hotter
met a man from texas who was chronically single
looking for a good place to try and mingle

desperate little bars and repetitious lovers
find more than flashlights underneath the covers
dedicate my will to the future leaders
bury me in armor and my favorite sneakers

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.14, THE NEXT ENTRY IN THE 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

02.04

02.04

(feeling like a burn out…)

i am trashcan scratchpaper
i am goodwill artwork
i am unfinished dishes
and i am sawdust from the crucifix
of the thief beside jesus

i am stems of marijuana
i am clicking alternator
i am shotgun shells
swept off the floor
of a shooting range

i am the skin of onions
i am the aftertaste of alcohol
i am a wax candle
where the wick has been snipped

Ii am a cardboard box
with the bottom cut out
i am the foreskin
of the son of Abraham
i am the baking soda
used to cut the cocaine
i am one third
of a one dollar bill

i am an outdated damaged copy
of an encyclopedia in a dead language
but somewhere
a dead man wakes
lost at the crossroads
of dementia and amnesia
and he finds me in his pocket
and i am his salvation
i am the book he holds in his hands
until he become useless white dust
in the stupid brown dirt

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.05, DAY 5 OF THE 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a thirty day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

02.2013

02.2013

Good Morning.

I wanted to take a minute to let you all know about a project I am going to be starting up on Februrary 1st. It’s called “02.2013″ and the concept is fairly simple: I am going to chronicle my experiences daily through the month of February here on the blog.

Other than that, I don’t know what will come of it. I’d say the biggest difference between this project and my normal entries is there should be a more cohesive element to the 28 poems I intend to write.

I hope you all will check in daily with me, and join me through this journey. Should be a lot of fun.

Love,
Brice

DEATH RATTLE

always the bridesmaid, never the bride
he dresses in your sister’s clothes
and sneaks up behind you
with piano wire
he strangles you
just when things were beginning
to go so well.

lies. lies. lies. lies.

it’s life that’s the killer;
so dramatic, so whiny
callin you at two in the morning
when you gotta work the early shift.
calling lonely and horny
when you gotta work the graveyard shift
and shit, man
you know you gotta call in
because seize the day
carpe diem-
am i right?

but no-
death is the asshole.
the one who punches you
in the kidneys,
makes you piss blood
not true!
not true in the fucking least
life has just perfected
her death costumer.

but life is the day
and death is the night
right?
wrong.
if life is the day
and death is the night
then why do you crave
a little more two a.m.
and a little less
six thirty in the godless
morning?

death is your ally.
your friend
who just wants
to get you drunk.
tell you
to dump that bitch.
she’s just playing games
with your head, man.

life.
shit, man.
life is your friend
sometimes.
death is always waiting
by the phone
for you to call and
hear me, you:

when life stabs you in the back,
when she
sleeps with your best friend
and turns off your alarm
so you’re late for work.

when life cancels your insurance
just before driving your car
into the first brick wall
she finds.

when she strikes you
with sodium penethol,
truth serum,
just before
your lifetime achievement speech
and calls your mom
and tells her you murdered someone
and the cops catch on
and they break into your house
in the middle of the night
and arrest you for the crime
that life committed,

hear me, you, brothers and sisters.

death will be the friend
who takes a taxi
to the penitentiary
to try and bail
your sorry ass out.

life is the terrorist who hijacks the plane.
death is the friend who is waiting
on the other side
with a sign
with your name on it.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “BEAUTIFUL HOUR”

Interesting in submitting to Flashlight City Blues?

BUKOWSKI #2

i wonder
if bukowski
wrote
so
many
of his poems
like
this
because
he knew
that
publishers
paid
by
the
line.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “OLD MAN POEM”

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OLD MAN POEM

i am one hundred and fifty years old already
my bones ache and my cane is brittle
i mope about the house and write old man poems
to the sound of dust on the shelves
i drink my soup without a spoon
and look back on the golden days that never were

i take cold showers and hour long baths
my friends call from time to time
but most times i can’t figure out
how to answer the god damn telephone

the mail man, he knows me
margaret on lane six at walmart, she knows me
the people through the phone, they listen to me
talk about my life, my life, my life
and the war, the war, the war
and the garden, the garden, the garden
and my wife, my wife, my wife

the edges of memories need mending
but i hold close in my mind
a picture of Sicilia, in her prime

the television and i have become too familiar
he reads the words of the stories to me
i put him on mute and read the words
i listen to the rain hitting the cluttered storm drains

i breakfast at the crack of dawn
i drink coffee and eat very little
lunch at eleven
dinner at four
at seven i turn off the t.v.

i pray beside my perfect bed
i lay me down to sleep
and i wonder
if when i close my eyes
it will be the last time

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “MADNESS IN RESPONSE TO MINGUS”

Interesting in submitting to Flashlight City Blues?

SEVERAL THOUGHTS ON A FLY IN MY BEDROOM TONIGHT

1.

as i watched
this fly
land on the beer
on my dresser
he clasped his hands
together

this fly
prays more than
i do

2.

he swarms
around my head
and near my ears
as my blood boils
and i think about
murder

he just wants
attention

he just wants
to be seen
and heard
and loved

3.

how come
i never
encounter a fly
when other people
are around?

4.

this fly moves
in a severely unorthodox way
zig-zagging
and writing through the
stale air

either he governs
his own motion
or something else does

he lands
just to take off again
he goes
to the same place
twice

there is a method
to his madness
i don’t know what

what keeps him
doing the
same quaint thing
over
and again?

5.

if i swat at him
recklessly
i will never kill him
i have to watch him

i have to understand him
at least a little
if i want to absolve him
of his horrid fly life

(is it horrid?
i can’t fly.)

he grows to trust me
it feels like:

he lands on my bed
then the fabric
of my pajamas
then my knee
then my bare chest

6.

after i killed him
i lifted my pillow
where i found him dead

i picked up his lifeless corpse
and his legs moved
pain
i euthanized him
from the suffering i began
and set him outside
of my window

i’m not cut out for this

life is so big
and i’m flying desperately
in chaotic patterns
landing in the same spot
over and again

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “MY GREEN FAIRY”

Interesting in submitting to Flashlight City Blues?