#doggerel

18 posts
  • kevinosullivan 13w

    steam

    Poles so volatile they disrupt all orbiting mass
    A style so caustic that his aura radiates heat
    Burning within earshot, few bystanders exist
    A pounding tight chest so troubled in turmoil
    As lava like emotion, erupts like steam vents
    A man seeking serenity, while lost in surrender
    Knowing funerals will happen gives no solace
    Since solitude is still alone regardless if living
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 13w

    We are all artists of a lost generation.

    Sewn deep in our bones, lives a distant tribal past. We are of the earth as much as we are on it. A confluence of influential snippets through our collective time. We are all artists, crafting and feeding; sewing and seeding, creating and needing. Just as that background music plays in a child's soundtrack.

    The rythym in language, the melody of suffering in survival, a hunger to hear and be heard. While that inner song fades of young childhood when we go gray ourselves; another already woven ancestral tapestry creates the future chapters. That which is oldest and purest will be newest and old again, only to be shelved and resurface infinitum. .

    We are painting the major chords and writing the drum beats as if isolated and insulated away. Our undercurrents of past fragments steady rising and falling with the breaking tides of time. We are connected and tethered to those same mortal struggles; knowing we will all die. Such pangs, yet we play on to create something new; to soothe the teething of another lost generation.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 14w

    considering bath salts.

    You know how bad it gets. When your beard is almost as long as your hair, unintentionally. I am in the struggle, facing it. Most days I can muster enough life to go get a morning coffee at the gas station. Some late afternoons I even ride my motorcycle to the beach to sneak a swim after the parking guard leaves.

    I make unused graphic design projects all day as per usual, I am unemployed. I am a retired commercial fisherman who dreams of touring again with Punk Rock bands. Of course I don't play music or sing. Just a dreamer on the periphery of culture who once sold a few shirts. I once loved traveling as a vagabond.

    I seek community and friendship but others are less optimistic. This is a middle age funk, a shrink may diagnose it otherwise but fuck them. I got sober but then quit their program. My second child turns seventeen tomorrow but has already found solace and solution in pot.. Not me though, I abstain from it all. Better to grin and bare it then toke and share it.

    I am a rudderless man afloat in the world. I imagine vc guerrillas cycling down the hochimin at night while nah champa burns in the porches candlelight. No, I was not in any war and born after the last huey flew out of Saigon.

    The air conditioners whir as my family sleeps inside. One can't stop her compulsive buying and ongoing nagging about me working. While my teen is a teenager. We are all treading just barely above extinction but firmly tethered to poverty. Sometimes I just want to relax and surrender. I find myself feeling trapped, considering bath salts.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 15w

    hundreds

    I sniff hundreds and smell the cocaine and stripper residues left on my past.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 15w

    No amount of smoke...

    Imposter syndrome at the head shop buying bongs for kids. The flowers of the dead men and stoning roles. I could have been there and actually was but the scene was never complete for me. If only I was a smoker, but then again; no amount of smoke will ever make me cool.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 15w

    Roadside Tiger Lilies

    Seascape beach towns of sand and summer.
    Eastcoast shores where vacationers flock.
    The salt scent of childhood blows in the wind.
    Mothers memory by the roadside tiger lilies.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 15w

    willingly

    I willingly go all in on a bluff, preflop.
    My will is to be sarcastic and opinionated.
    Often I am isolated and underestimated.
    Many morons assume they have me figured.
    Born losers will never win, I state with disdain.
    For they are born where we must be willing.
    We choose to participate in games of chance.
    To live is to gamble, hustle and exist as true.
    My time holds my scars as mortal victories.
    Rebranding, adjusting and rebuilt with growth.
    Never willingly giving in to that easiest choice.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 15w

    Moving

    Injuring myself physically while being injured by my own emotions.
    Fraternal interactions among two cynical peers.
    Surging like jockeys in a petty race of trivial superiority.
    Abandoned by each others inability to ever be made humane after sobriety.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 16w

    hard

    It's hard to live your authentic life, when
    you are authentically damaged and torn.
    When childhood traumas make kids to be fed
    It's easy to be authentically angry and bitter,
    when you cannot get drunk while being sober
    It's hard to rebrand and succeed while lonely
    when your bridges got torched in aging retreat
    There comes a day when death is nearing but
    you are still hung up on those painful demons
    Looking down on young adult kids, wishing
    they had the most loving father possibly there
    When deeper the cycle of losing and doubt is
    the saddest truths I wish were just fucking lies
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 16w

    Equal

    The holiday is dark, cold and wet this year. The waring artillery of fireworks rumbles on
    Lead astray, divided and infirmed with death
    Our US Capital was violated by vile ignorance
    We are still here in these working city streets
    The smell and sound of urban warfare wafting
    Safe inside with pets, an end to front line duty
    Fabric meshworks of America, broken in hate
    Restorative tears craving national democracy
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 16w

    Artificial

    Awoken bright glass, molten and formed
    Bespoken white trash, pimping be scorned
    Seeker of deep learning neural networks
    Topological layers of intelligent meshworks
    Expunger of futures while locked in the past
    Gravitating towards lava while turning to ash
    Rapping on parchment without singing a hook
    Such doggerel is amateur, not read in a book
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 18w

    IBM (impossible butt-wiping machine)

    I sold my vintage olive green IBM Seletric ii with auto-correct feature to get money to buy toilet paper. I never wrote anything worthwhile on any of those engineering masterpieces. This parricular machine was supposed to validate my identity as an actual writer. Am I a writer? The verdict is still out but damn if this prop didn't get my creative juices flowing while completing the aestetic.

    I always was gifted at being unemployable. A radical who could woo hiring managers with fudged resumes and fictional cover letters. I still am fairly good at this process but most always, I send emails. Naive, optimistic and temporarily passionate before I get to see behind the curtain. I am an both autotelic and autodidactic, a self driven researcher and accurate assesor of value.

    I have been such an intellectual explorer who tinkers and toys with stuff. This curiosity helped lead me to repairing such old electric typewriters. It was fun hunting, acquiring and resurrecting increasingly hip and desirable vintage machines. I would collect these basket cases for free or cheap on craigslist, thrift stores or flea markets. I would then totally degunk with cans of PB Blaster while working at our second hand Ikea kitchen table.

    With poweful penetrating catalyst fumed dreams of being an iconoclast writer like Hunter S. Thompson or Hank Bukowski; I would clean and disect. This was only further fueled by my long distance friendship with modern poet/writer/blogger Jim Trainer. We share much in common, from influences to dreams Jim has his own fire engine red IBM Selectric and decades worth of blogs and several self published books of poetry put out on his #yellowlarkpress. Jim is a middle aged East Coast guy, now a Texan regugee and working class punk like me. He calls a garage apartment in Austin home and comes by way of Philly; also without the destructive crutches of booze or drugs.

    I am occasionally romantic and nostalgic but also routinely pragmatic. I am reminded of how towing a large wagon through life requires ongoing personal sacrifice. I don't dispute my lack of commitment with writing analog but I did love that hum and pur of those keys clacking. As an itinerant yet mostly accountable dad and common law life partner, I must remember to provide for mine.

    Regardless if I was working on fishing boats, hopping freight trains or touring with Punk Rawk bands, toilet paper was and is always needed. My individual dreams cannot extinguish the realities of being a needed family man. Our wagon and I live in a tenement apartment in Melvilles, "Whaling City" of New Bedford and has many pets, plants, wife, child and a six-hundred a month child support obligation to boot. Farely often I can escape my collar, bridle and reins for adventure and to recharge my batteries.

    I cannot escape who I am, though. I am a recovering drunk who made a pledge to provide just as my family has allowed for my existence and my occasional furlough. So one day after years of getting, fixing, trading or selling several old steeds from my stable; only my olive green baby was left. I would imagine the provenance and journey that was traveled before her stop with me. She worked flawlessly and green has long been my favorite color, but at the end of the day; a decision had to be made. She got sold to a business owner who wanted to use it to save on toner and because of his mechanical appreciation of these beasts.

    I still write just as much as I wanted to but didn't on any of my Selectric's. I publish here on Mirakee or Miraquill or whatever this app is called now. Treasured literature always has greater value than the paper it's written on anyway and toilet paper is priceless. Don't believe me,? Try wiping with the paper from your favorite book, poem or broadside. It may be uncomfortable but possible where as using a vintage office appliance will just make you bleed.

    I myself bleed plenty, albeit while on my literary pursuit and as for the wagoneers; we have yet to go without toilet paper.

    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 18w

    Childhood races

    Such a deep expanse from kitchen to parlor
    Just a tenement but long like a royal ballroom
    As childhood races faster without gilded waltz
    From crib to casket, just as lost as our parents
    Better to get busy in ignoring to trick the eyes
    Now with aging kids, I now see distance truth
    Locked in ancestral lies hiding our mortalities
    Mixed sadness as we mourn our shared loss
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 18w

    Living low down

    He sips an iced Red Bull that with the two mgs of Ativan feel just like the former calm preceeding a raging storm. As a sober alcoholic I see the edge and risk of this caustic mixture. A celebration of living when ready to kiss that considered mortal flame.

    To drink booze is to die everywhere fast and sad. Drugs, drugs get you high, but will fell you faster still. These head butting bulls give you the upward wings. With ice its taste is eerily reminiscent of drinking such booze infused cocktails at night clubs.

    The calming lorazepam and redbull gets me just free enough to be sad but without depression, just happy enough to get euphoric without hangover or regret. In these past recovering years I have had a few such stabilizing night vacations. Never desiring booze or needing to further abuse drugs.

    A recreational reminder that I am still fucking alive, it's been bad, broken and worse and also must mean that brighter days are also still possible. No martyrdom of darker emotions using Samuel Colt tonight. Not desperate enough to booze or die but every once in awhile I want to feel free and be reckless again.

    A broken healing tonight to salvage a looming, premature and pending mortal end. To ride that slipstream, surfing naked on the knifes edge, without regret, remorse or repentance. A rest from trudging that destined road.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 18w

    Wet Sidewalks

    Approaching lightning inside a summers rain
    Wet sidewalk smells mixed with fragrant trees
    Night flashes grumbling like Polaroid flashes
    Memories of childhood charged as if tethered
    Time racing as we the living mourn the storm
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 19w

    without

    Drinking up life; verse, booze, laugh, smoke and song.
    A cacophonic symphony, all competing to be heard.
    Friends, family and compatriots reveling into night.
    As the summer heat subsides merrily on graying hair.
    This cycle of soaking it all in while the wick burns so.
    Our flame will stop burning so live on with abandon.
    To party on together to forget the coming loneliness.
    Celebrate hard and reckless for us who don't imbibe.
    Wasting on as living beings without single drop of life.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 19w

    Goodbye

    Bend your flames and curb your hustled defiance
    Stagnant brass knuckles melted for business casual
    Unchallenged and oppressed by employed normalcy
    The rebel dies without wild cause and chaotic ideas
    In rough mourning of the loss of one's truest self
    Goodbye
    ©kevinosullivan

  • writer_bychoice 205w

    Tagging my gang for writing a #doggerel
    doggerel: noun
    comic verse composed in irregular rhythm.

    doggerel verses"
    verse or words that are badly written or expressed.
    "the last stanza deteriorates into doggerel"

    :loosely styled and irregular in measure especially for burlesque or comic effect; also :marked by triviality or inferiority

    Read More

    I am in my car
    In my car I go
    Stopping by every wood
    Wearing my favourite hood
    Are you there are you there
    Come here oh birdie
    What I see, there is
    A left alone doggy
    I run, he runs Both of us run
    I run to save me For him it was fun
    My car goes vroom vroom
    The doggy chases boom boom
    Save me,o lord! save me
    Save me from this monster
    Then comes an ambulance
    On the top was a hooter
    Ambulance goes fast fast
    I go even faster
    It saved me from doggy
    Or I was going to be his dinner.
    ©writer_bychoice