Category Archives: Poetry

Asp

 “You’re different.”

 

I’ve been hearing those two words my whole life. No matter how hard I try to come off as hip, or sincere, or even just plain regular, the fact is I’ve been afflicted with an unsightly disposition. It’s in the way I walk, talk, and socialize. It’s the invisible mannerisms.

 

I was born with a disorder, but that’s hardly my one concern. I also come from a broken household, a toxic upbringing, and a blank generation. I’m diagnosed high-functioning and I’ve always found a way to adapt to my environment (albeit turgidly), and at times I feel older than my peers. Am I the world’s youngest 46-year old hipster? Maybe that’s why I say “I miss the 90s”.

 

I do miss the 90s though. Back when I was a care-free little nymph. Weened on video games and Nickelodean, and harnessed to proclivities that would later evolve into drug addictions. I had not a care in the world, even when I could so blatantly hear the screams.

 

High school and college were delusional periods. I was on some non-sense quest to be “cool”. Sometimes this meant being a database that happens to smoke cigarettes. Sometimes this meant coasting myself with liquor, and impressing friends that I wasn’t afraid to talk to those more beautiful than thou. Times where everything was paltry, except for the spring-feel. How I longed for that ever tricky rebirth though, internally wondering how goddamn long it was going to take?

 

My post-collegiate years found me in a playground called Gentrified New York City. I spent my days writing and consuming, and the nights found me looking for drugs and plastic fucks. Most of the time I got egg on my face, but it was all about living in the moment. I told myself I was doing what I needed: breaking my status quo. I felt like I was finding myself in decadence.

 

I wasn’t happy. My hangovers were unending, and I was alienating myself from the ones that really did love me. The ones that did get me, but I just had an image to uphold…

 

Then I almost died.

 

One year later, I can say I’m doing things a little differently. I’m not dependent or desperate, and sometimes I even think I’m genuinely happy. Hey, I always told myself things were going to get better, I just didn’t realize how much worse they’d have to get first. I may not be a new man, but I changed a substantial 2 degrees.
Not too shabby

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Camp Lawless – Summer 2016

fantastic-planet-education

Madame A

Ingesting the sweet depravity of crystallized euphoria

          Breaking oneself from the moral wallows of the conventional

                      A rising gauge of dirty joy and rugged thrills mount the nervous system

                                                                                                      This is a real fucking killer

Reality dissipates. An explosion of concentrated madness overtakes everything rational. Nothing matters now. All’s consumable. Every though is speakable. Anyone can be fucked. “Hey, nice dress. Pardon me, I’m fucked up, but I got to talk. – You’re beautiful. – Listen,    I have a lot of problems. – Thanks for hearing me out. Hey, wanna neck? – That’s fine.” Much more pretty for the evening. Maybe shouldn’t appear a predator. Where’s a man? Here. “Hey buddy, are you feeling this shit too? – I haven’t felt like this in a long time. – Any luck?  – Fucking awesome man!  Listen. Listen to that…It’s fucking Kendrick! I gotta dance to this!” Swirling beats and unmatched fluidity. Every joint is gliding to this fucking pop song. Fucking! Curly hair that’s auburn red flies by. Elope her by the shoulders. She’s enraptured and fleering. She’s twirling. Everything. Ass, Tits, and Pussy. Hands to her waist. Kiss her on the face. Cheek. “I think I love you – You ain’t never met a guy like me.” Friends come. Now she’s gone. Moved. No worries. Plenty more fish in the sea/Plenty more cunt on the dance floor. Any giving skirt. Black hair with septum. Diminutive with dimples. Looks concentrated too. Must speak to her. “Hey there hot stuff – Same here! Hey, do you know this song. – Can you listen to me for a sec. (Life story)-(Shameful detail)(Grotesque Sex Episode)-(Embarrassing Attempt at Sympathy)…”

Dance. Hit. Dance. Hit. Dance. Find Friend. Dance. Hit. Dance. Hit. Dance. Hit. Dance. Hit.

                                                                                                                                                  Wait!

                                                                                                                            What the hell?

                                                                                               Where’s the satisfaction?

                                                                              Just shitty reality again!

                                                                    “Somebody get me a drink!”

                                                        Fuck. Just got castrated.

                                               Just want to feel nothing

                                       Do nothing!

                              Nothing…

                         Nothing

                    Nothing

Can’t stay here.

Someday

Dear Art School

 

Dear art school,

 

What did you give me? Why did I sink 4.5 years of my life into your institution?

You were a misfit’s wet dream that promised me personal growth and creation,

and you grabbed me at a time when the world appeared to be a gumdrop trail.

A time when I didn’t know what gentrification or student loans even meant.

You were a place that was supposed to be the fantasy version of education.

A place that would make me look back at my friend-less days and just laugh.

 

Dear art school,

 

How did you know all the right ways to corrupt an anime-loving kid like me?

You took me by my loving arms, and then filled them with beer cans and shitty pills

Made me a mess to fuck, and a challenge to love. Making me forswear sobriety.

Had I been wasting my youth? Or should I have just been a drunk teen like you?

I came to have fun and learn, but instead I got a sloppy Bukowski novel.

 

Dear art school,

 

Why did you feel like an After School Special?

A place for lost popularity, and an outlet for me to digress in different ways

A place where I could go on for hours about my trivial obsessions and feel admired.

Feel appreciated, at a place where a small legion of outcasts procreated and felt cool.

Growing up was the last thing on anybody’s mind. No one knew shit about shit.

No one knew shit about art. People just wanted to get stoned amidst your hallways.

They listened to Gaga, they watched Lost and Heroes, they talked about Obama.

They sucked at student government. They sucked at understanding me.

 

Dear art school,

 

I took comfort in your halls. I must have ran around your empty slots so many times

Sometimes to role-play, sometimes just to listen to a really good album before class.

I remember just spending so much time in your grassy knolls smoking, pondering

Resting my head with a hill and blanket. Where was my summer romance though?

Was I really the bleeding-edge of outcasts? Apex of weird/nadir of social grace?

I spend half-a-decade a lost virgin, and now you want a fucking donation from me!

 

Dear art school,

 

Yet I just took umbrage in your library. Feeding my being with essence and story.

Your professors that made me look past Wikipedia. Teachings close to rapture.

The classroom was a place where I could feel fully absorbently unabashedly prudish.

Who is Jean Renoir? Who is Nicholas Roeg? Who is Andrei Tarkovsky? Fellini even?

What about Don Delillo? Or Joy Williams? Or Philip Roth? Or William S. Burroughs?

Philip Glass? Leonard Cohen? Scott Walker? Tom Waits? John Cage? Glenn Branca?

Now I’m just being a big name dropper!

 

Dear art school,

 

So what did you do for me? I’ll hum till you give me an answer. Here we go: 3, 2, 1
hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm     hmmmmmmmmmmmmm hmmmmmmmmm

You gave me something. You gave me character. You gave me enjoyment, and belief.

Belief in passion to take me closer to reality, and realize life isn’t an action movie.

It’s not even a Richard Linklater movie. Not all the time. Life is your tapestry.

You choose the tone. The colors. The pitch. The time signatures. The editing style.

Life’s a painting. It’s a movie. It’s a TV Show. It’s an album. It’s a 1000 page novel.

 

Dear art school,

 

Did I even really want to graduate? Probably not.

 

 

 

 

Wave

Eyes open

A Cacophony of artificiality

———

They’re the giant blue aliens that inexplicably took the planet

I’m always trying to escape them, but what’s the use?

I’ll always end up their fisting puppet

———————————–

WTF, OMG, FTW

Chemical acronyms that express shit on tiny little screens

Synthesize people to life and humanity

All I hear are birds

————————————————–

Acrylic cleansing for the five senses

Mind and body all get enveloped in a systematic numerology

Limited characters

Repetitive jolts

All part of the daily desecration.

The techno-ism that makes you a millennial

——————————————————————-

“…Electric sex gleaming in the window.”

Scroll through all the pretty pictures

Look at all the plastic people fuck

Get that summer blockbuster of an orgasm that you deserve

———————————————————————————-

Eyes close

Right now it’s just a man and his cock

No buzzing or vibrating

Just the humanity of flesh

The dream state of the release

That ephemeral moment when everything makes sense for a single white instant

———————————————————————————————————+

 

Eyes open

A Cacophony of art…


 

 

 

 

 

 

February 27, 2016

Where were you these last four days?

 

Did you cross over?

 

Did you feel the grieving of those around you?

 

Did you sleep like a baby as your body was desecrated?

 

Did you feel the toxins going into your mind?

 

Did you understand the tears?

 

Would you have done it if you realized all these people cared?

 

What saved you?
***

 

I just don’t know. It’s as simple as that.

I can’t remember what happened that night

Nor can I understand the circumstances of my survival.

But I can make sense of what led me here

Of the hedonist’s cackle that almost cost me my life.

Of the years of self-deprecation and loss of humanity

The shame, the anger, the depression.

A diagnosis that I’ve sheltered, but has effected my whole life.

I did secretly predict this

I always knew I’d reach a nadir before I’d reach an ascent.

As I’ve been dragging my umbilical cord along about 28 years too late

 

“Stay out of my personal space, and grow up!”

It was almost a year now since I heard those words.

It was hardly a cryptic warning, but I still didn’t heed it.

Is this the cap-stone for a life-long series of fuck-ups?

Lying now like an infant. Shattered and immobile.

Feeling like everything I worked for just came to a crashing halt.

 

Oh mother, what have I done?

What have I become?

Did your nurturing forsake me

Or was I always a lost cause

Am I shit?

 

Eyes wide open

 

Brother,

Friend,

Cousin,

Teacher,

All you have for me is love

The non-judgmental appreciation I’ve wanted my whole life

You didn’t leave me in my time of need

Even after I shrugged off your help for so unfathomably long

Now as I play the wounded fool, all you still give me is hope

 

 

5 months later

 

Here I work

Here I write

Here I observe

Here I see the world in a whole new mind state.

Yet I haven’t sacrificed an iota of character

 

Gone is the desperation

Gone are the endless chases with pitiful results

The madness and ineptitude of my growing pains have diminished

Even if that night’s digressions show their scar tissue

 

 

 

A lingering feeling in my chest

A non-pain that grips my frame and confides me with hushes of death

A mark of my mistakes and my abyss

Of the gap in life that ultimately made me transgress

 

 

 

 

 

Today

 

 

-P.Foy