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

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TOO FAR DEEP

and it’s getting
darker
and darker
by the
second
redefining
the concept of
black, the blackest of
black
and i’m not afraid

don’t
misunderstand me
for one second

i am not afraid
in the least, i am
content to
listen to the
sound of water
dripping
from
the
walls

i am happy
to listen to the wind
echoing circular

i am lost deep
in too deep
way too deep
too far deep

i’m running away from
something
into the arms of
death

i am trapped
inside a rising bottle of
poison
i am kissing
alice through the
looking glass

we are falling, our
guts in our mouths but
we are falling together
and i’m crossing
the line
the line
the edge
the point
where reason melts
like clocks
broken hands
of a clock
black eye
on its face
and seconds
are beats
in this
symphonic
movement

i am wide awake

i do not need light
to see i am everything

i can imagine myself
to be doors left open
the wind catching on the shades
red silk shades blowing
i am lost amongst them
whiskey dreams
absinthe nightmares
marijuana reality
the onyx shine
of the inside of
a beautiful
mind

skeletons
running on
treadmills
glow in the dark
thousands
and thousands
and thousands
around me
burn
down
the
curtains

my dear,
we don’t need them
let the stars dance with us
i can never be alone
as long as
you’re in
too far deep too
and you
are the muse i’ve made
you’ll never let go

a codine buzz
a disdain for yesterday
and i’m on it
i’m in too far deep
and my intent
is not to climb out

my intent
is to keep digging
until i get to
the
other
end
of my
reality

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “THE HOUSE OF GOD”

MY GREEN FAIRY

the absinthe drinker. viktor oliva.

the absinthe drinker. viktor oliva.

some days
i just
fall
down
the stairs
and i
just
keep fall
ing through
smoke
and mirrors
i travel through
this
funhouse
and past
the golden gates
to the other side

of reality
where she waits
for me
my green fairy

she dance for me
my green fairy
crazy ballet of fire
on her glass stage of desire
she dance for me

her wings in proud display
naked and raw and hard on the throat
she walks across
the good and the evil
of my spectral shoulders
and this she says to me:

“calm your head
your days will collide
if you do not.

close your eyes

feel me running up and down
your spine
this waltz
in waltz three quarter time

taste my heat upon your lips
feel me burning on your breath
sugar cubes and billowed smoke
white lighters and youthful death

open your heart
let me in
the ceremony
is about to begin.”

and i listen to her
my green fairy
my blue delusion
my red midnight
my black confusion

she dance for me
in sacred gardens of the mind
waltzing in three quarter time
she moves the moon along the sky
visions of toxic absinthe why
channels of unrequited love
dirty water, holy dove
she dance for me
she lie with me
and every night
she die for me

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “EARTHBENDING”

Interesting in submitting to Flashlight City Blues?

HOW A RAVEN IS LIKE A WRITING DESK

raven writing desk

when asking one’s self
how a raven is like a writing desk
things can get a bit
unnecessarily complex;
it is not hard to see
how a credible
and verifiable answer
may be hard to come by.
in this piece,
i will attempt to answer this question
which really
should have been answered long ago.

the first thing one must do
is to qualify
what exactly defines a raven.
experience points us towards the idea
that ravens are inconsistently
the strangest of businessmen.
note that all ravens crave independence
and a nice warm bowl of soup.
another less common accusation
of the raven kind
is that a multitude of their chamomile
is that which provides
shelter for storm drains
and by association
wormholes in the eternal treetrunk.

this is great and all
but what is the use of such conviction
unless we dive equally as deep
into the trenches of
orange libraries
to ask ourselves
what is a writing desk?
many scholars
have written on this
but in my research
i have found
they rarely remind us
that historically
writing desks
have been predatory creatures;
often confused with old crows
and barkeepers
who say things like
“put the jam beside the marmalade”.
i implore you
to not be ignorant;
to acknowledge
that bishops and angels
both use writing desks
as a source of inspiration
for their dissertations
of the latter subject
and the ladder observations.
writing desks taste of freedom
though the splinters
have been known to clog the drain
and leave a nasty hangover.

and now for the big question:
how are they alike?
it’s been suggested
that poe wrote on both
but i have no time
for absurd claims.
one’s life
is far too short
to get lost in logical nonsense.
we must be men
and stopping being children.
as we discussed earlier
ravens are the genesis of polka
whereas writing desks
symbolize the civil war
and the flamingos
who became martyrs
for its mahogany cause.
which is really the key here:
architecture.
both seem to have
a keen design
a design that suggests
dances with drunk waiters
and orbital malnourishment
which plagues us all the same.
a writing desk is to sweater vests
as a raven is to bubble bath water.
from there
certain jumps in logic
can be established
and we can find ourselves absolved
of the great question
which so long has burdened us all.

in conclusion
though it may be difficult at times
to find a system to something
as absurd as this
i find that these: two things
may be more alike
than we are willing to acknowledge.
the badgers of humanity
have a knack
for refusing to accept
that tolerance and compassion
towards washer machines and
the occasional stomach rumble
leads us to living in a glass onion
where we stop saying
to the top hat cricket on our shoulder
the ways that a raven
is unlike a writing desk
and start to genuflect
on the passing notion
that a raven
and a writing desk
are in factualitization
the exact
same
thing.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “CRICKETS”

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