Posts Tagged Failure
Etude 2017-13 — The Screams of My Failures
Posted by Carl in Finding Purpose, Music on April 10, 2017
Was I at Denny’s with her One Time?
Baby brown booth,
you staring, then shouts
tell me you
hate me; my
mother hates me, shows me I’m
shit living badly.
.
America, 2016, #2 – On Gravel to Avoid the Hit
One in front
of the other they
said and no
one would love
me again, tossed I am on
rusty grills.
.
Carl’s dystopia today shot near Gibbon, Nebraska, September 2016
.
When the lightness of sky, darkened and shattered by winter branches, showed me my fears
Pierce my will-
ingness, make me sail
over shocked
towers fir-
ing waves, that iron jumps, kill-
ing angst, making m’love.
Today, Briefly, Trying to Be Good
Posted by Carl in Finding Purpose, Poems on September 16, 2016
Forcing myself into the death chair,
thinking, now I’ve got it, now I will do
what it is I lie to myself about being
mandatory, feeling so disciplined when
really, I’m alarmed at how close to
nothingness I have become, and that
dark crevice where inspiration lies
is filled with contempt for being,
and the doctor might try, but the
required self hatred fills the hole.
The Decent Man, Part I
Posted by Carl in Fiction, Finding Purpose on April 10, 2014
The black on the coal grey screen said 9:08, confirming ugliness in the truth of being. Failure drips down, seemingly from hair follicles that have tremors. She was smiling in the room with glass corner until she glanced at him as he sailed the hallway, and he knew the screen on the phone on his desk would show bad news. He had been hoping for 9:03 or 9:04 after seeing her violent eyes. As it is, there is no defense. He had promised her that he would arrive by 9 AM each morning, agreeing that this was entirely reasonable. He failed, failed, failed, and today there was clarity to the failure. Even the most simple parts of life squeeze and expand the pulpy mind of consistent failure. This is not a decent man, so it may be a terrible way to start our fictional dig into psychological essay about what it is to be a decent man. We will find out despite his failures.
.
Riffed Out of Easy
Listening to loud Middle
Class Rut, wishing I
could run away to
their fields of play.
Some things are simple,
blare with clarity,
and they’re impossible.
You Too Can Write a Novel in 30 Days
I’ve been sold on so many things.
But I’m slow.
Too slow.
Too old to be slow.
Might die in 29
if you only give me 30.
Need infinite time
to create infinite art,
but I’m a wasted old man.
Accept my lack of time,
knowing my dreams are
infinitely stupid.
Dream I might write one,
just one, artistic poem, but
while I might finish,
it will never be good,
so I’m at peace
with my infinite inadequacy,
fueling my hopelessness,
but fighting my restlessness,
and putting it away.
.
The Unshakable Infantile Spirit, Part II
So many say they can write, and here I add pink flurries
to the leaning stack, as gargoyles snort snot and
hang from my eyebrows laughing at my twisted,
sick, inadequate brain, and the excuses grab
my knee caps, rip them out, and the man on the corner
snickers. I don’t say I can bake. Why am I compelled
to write? I spy on the snake that guts, rather swallows whole,
all the other writers, and he and I drink grape juice at all the futility,
and the man on the corner hands me Pessoa, tells me
to read this, this that will tell me why I can’t
write, but the ants keep crawling up my
ass, while the gargoyles jump in the man’s pipe, burning
up into little leaves that blow up toward dirty clouds, and I keep
trying like a little baby with nothing to say worth anything.
.
I’ll Never Be Cured
My brain leaks,
just like my mother’s did,
my brain hurts,
I’ll never be cured.
They throw it back,
they give me shit,
my brain leaks,
I’ll never be cured.
My brain hurts,
just like my mother’s did,
she threw the black pans,
hailed our personal failures,
told us we’d never be good,
but I’ll never be her,
I’ll never ruin your psyche
My brain hurts,
just like my mother’s did,
my brain leaks,
I’ll never be cured.
The world hates,
It foams in my head,
with no smile,
I know I’m no good,
just like my mother said,
just like my mother said.
My brain hurts,
I’m scared of you all,
‘fraid I might crash,
you’ll see my soul crushed,
for my brain’s dead,
excepting total despair,
yeah, my brain hurts,
just like my mother’s did.
.
stillfugue 