Let it out
JonnyPistachio
Posts: 10,219
I wrote a bunch of ramblings over the last 3 years and just compiled them. They are not poetry. I don't know what they are. Some are really things that happened, and others are completely made up...usually inspired by loneliness and/or drinking... an ominous combination concerning the heart and the brain and detachment from reality...
I'll post some here that arent too nasty.
I'll post some here that arent too nasty.
Pick up my debut novel here on amazon: Jonny Bails Floatin (in paperback) (also available on Kindle for $2.99)
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When nothing comes to me
I get worried
sometimes.
Because there is
So much stuff
In the world
to look at
to talk about
to sketch
to listen to
to oogle
to touch
to dry hump
to sniff
to dissect
to frame
to put in your pocket
to make a necklace out of
and stuff to pass right on by...
There’s also stuff
to collect
to inspire
to decompose
and stuff to save for a later day.
And that’s a lot of stuff to choose from.
Through the fog
of waking at 4:52 am
and the instability
in my feet
due to excessive drinking,
I found my way
to the
bathroom.
Just to let you know,
ladies,
I always put the seat and lid down when I’m done.
So, despite my fog
I noticed something
at the bottom of the bowl
because I had to bend over to lift the seat and almost toppled over like a drunk at 4:58 am
It was a spider.
He was no longer with us.
A 1.78 liter swimming pool for that little arachnid friend of mine.
I hate wasting water, but it pains me to think that the poor fella just died
and now
I’m gonna
piss
all over him.
So I consider flushing him first,
Then also flushing my deposit second.
But I got a little lost in my fog
and the silliness
behind the fact
that I had
somewhat of an erection.
And I had to
angle my ass out a bit
in order to angle my stuff down enough to aim for the center of the porcelain tunnel.
Just as I remembered the spider
the stream came quite forcibly
I pummeled him like a protestor with a firehose,
but he put up no resistance.
His legs that were once long and agile
were now scrunched up pathetically.
I flushed before I was through
and the water-park ride for the dead would be fun
I’m sure if he were conscious.
And I’m off,
back to bed
with my 40 percent erection,
a hangover,
and the guilt
of pissing on
my only friend.
Certain things
persuade me
to drink.
I saw a sitcom once and the lead
character had a beer.
I got up
and got
a beer.
I was bored one day
and realized that listening to a record
while sitting on my front porch
with the windows
open
while it rained
was better because I was drinking.
Mostly because it made me care less
that the rain was coming in the window and soaking
all the
useless
crap
that was strewn about
on that coffee table that someone gave
me a million years ago
as opposed to putting it in the trash.
Also, I am persuaded to drink
when my guitar is in the mood.
And I tell you what,
when she’s in the mood
a few drinks can never hurt really.
I read something
utterly disturbing.
By the time we are 75 years old
we will have slept
for 25 years.
25 years
Talk about inefficient.
I want those 25 years back,
damnit.
That’s one cruel, cruel punishment God.
I mean, don’t get me wrong,
I love to sleep.
There’s nothing like waking up well rested
often times with an erection.
That must be Gods way of saying,
“sorry for you having to lose all that time, but here’s an erection,
my friend,
do with it whatever you like.”
25 years in a bed.
Man, that’s some cruel, cruel stuff
despite all the ladies
all the erections
all the movies
all the snoring,
drooling,
and listening to raindrops.
Cruel,
it being
all in one place.
Thanks!!
a few more:
Hobnobing with a Hobgoblin
I picture myself sitting in a high class mall
somewhere in some over priced
shitty new city.
someone strikes up a conversation with me.
But she is old and doesn’t
see too well.
If she knew my inner workings, she wouldn’t care though.
She might even
make me a sandwich if I were sitting at her breakfast table in 1927.
I like to think of all the people walking around
that don’t like the looks of me.
Damn them…
those who didn’t
give me a chance.
Cause really,
who want to be seen with a hobgoblin?
I can barely talk
to a woman
anymore
I’m better at putting things down
on paper
I keep telling myself.
Also, I become
quite nervous because
I always think they know that I want sexual relations.
I feel like I have a neon sign on my forehead
that says
“I’d like to rip off your
goddamn clothes
and really have a fun time with you”
I know it doesn’t really say that though.
and you’d think that
after 35 years
I’d realize that they know we all think
those things
because we’re no better than dogs.
But then I remind myself
that you, ladies,
sometimes
think the same things
and I know one day I’ll see you,
… you, little lady,
who’s not afraid to wear her neon sign.
Every now and then
I wake up
after a night of heavy, yet accidental drinking of spirits.
I tell you, despite a hang over
I love when I find a napkin from the previous night with all sorts of shit scribbled on it.
I felt I could relate to each in detail, especially the first one.
And also a lot with When she’s in the mood.
well articulated pieces here. Kudos! I will be reading them a few times over
And I won't make the same mistakes
(Because I know)
Because I know how much time that wastes
(And function)
Function is the key
Thanks! and yes, boys are gross
I love 'when she's in the mood'...it can mean so many things.
more to come...
You know what’s good about
being
a
laft handed
guitar player?
Absolutely nothing.
Actually, that’s not
entirely true.
Although this has
never
happened,
I suppose it would be
good to be a left handed guitar
player
if you were driving across country
with a pretty girl
in a compact car and you were in the passenger seat smoking a cigarette.
That way, the neck of
the guitar could stick out the window just as long as there’s no rain
and she’s a pretty
decent driver.
I think it’s pretty funny
when you’re tall
and you’re intoxicated in public.
I saw this friend of mine way, way down the street wandering along
all drunk.
Not only is he tall,
but he has a mohawk too.
So when he goes ziggety zagging all over quite drunk, he is very humorous.
I never caught up to that friend walking along,
because it would seem that I am tall as well, and I was zigging and zagging worse than he was. I don’t have a Mohawk though.
Fuck.
Shit.
Double shitfuckers.
Detestable shitfuck.
Fuck.
It’s been an awful week.
A terrible week.
But you know what made it better?
I’ll tell you what made it better.
After I got over the women and the money and the shit, it was
my mailman.
All in one day,
I ran out of laundry detergent,
cat food,
soap,
and deodorant.
And the next day I forgot to pick up all this stuff at the market.
Well, what do you know, that mailman
left me a sample size
of the very brand of deodorant that I use that very next day.
Well, hell…I take all that ranting back now.
That makes for a pretty darn good week,
with the exception that my clothes smell like hell and my cat is pretty fucking hungry.
Boy, am I a big fat
waste of space.
Sometimes I sit on that
mushy old couch
with my smelly feet up,
knowing I need a shower
and wondering if the next person
who sits on the couch
will smell me there.
And I see bad shows
on the tube.
I mean really fucking bad shows.
Make my brain hurt, they do.
But, there I am,
a big fat
waste of space.
Sometimes I notice that,
from rustling around on that mushy old couch,
that my shorts have become
twisted
and they are kinda
pressing against my balls
in a funny way.
I hate it, but I don’t move
because
am I a big fat
waste of space.
But you know what?
If the same thing happened
tomorrow
I would get up and do something productive because it’s likely
that I will not have had eleven
beers.
I always ask myself
why don’t I do it more often?
Then a few weeks go by
and I ask myself again,
why don’t I do it more often?
Then I get busy
and tool around with some friends
or a lady
or something
that distracts me from that one thing that I wish I did more often.
Then one day finally comes
where I get mad at myself
because I haven’t lately put on a candle and
laid on the floor, then
put on headphones
and close my eyes.
It’s really something we all should do more often.
My ex-girlfriend and ex-fiance
who claimed to know me
pretty well
(well, fuck her, it turns out I didn’t really know her)
once said that
I have a “type”.
That is a standard
In our society
to say that one prefers
a particular thing over another.
She told me
that it was obvious
that my ‘type’
was a girl with blonde hair
and blue eyes.
Well, I tell you
that’s fine and all
but in my whole life, and
I’m telling you from experience
that I don’t have a ‘type’…
I like the girls that like me back.
Thanks!
You make an excellent point. Especially because I wrote many of these awhile ago and I was embarrassed by them. But I showed them to my best friend, Fusco, and he passed them around to his friends, and some of them seemed to get a kick out of the stories...sO I figured, what the hell...let it out.
So here are a few more:
Sometimes I think to myself
“damn, I don’t want to check out early”.
That means die, you know.
But it’s mostly greedy,
this thinking…
because it’s really only because
I dont want to miss that next Pearl Jam album.
Once they break up, or disband,
It’s all back in your hands, God.
No, fuck that.
I have more music to write.
More books to read.
More pornography to click on.
More quips to laugh loudly over.
More flowers to pick for a nice lady.
More Frisbee throws in my right elbow.
More pizza to eat.
More pillows to drool on.
More television series to become a fan of.
More funny looking dogs to pat on the head nervously when
I visit a friend who brings me to a friend’s house who has an overzealous dog
who sniffs me in funny places.
I have more hangovers to endure.
More phone calls to make on necessary holidays.
More gifts to leave on unsuspecting peoples doorsteps.
More shows to attend where I am thinking that
I’m not really happy
that I’m there -- but I’m more happy to be alive.
More text messages to send to Fusco at 2am that I don’t remember until the next day.
More bike rides in me where the chain breaks and I have to have greasy hands when
I get to where I’m going.
I have more shells to skip along the Atlantic on a calm day.
And I also have a few more waves to ride on that old hand-me-down surfboard that
I love so much.
I have pop-up books to read to kids.
I have one more girl I’d like to meet.
More burns to endure on the top of my mouth from a too hot corn dog.
And I have more words to speak,
Write,
Sing,
Or just give out to whomever…
And more sunsets to see that make me feel like giving myself back to God.
Then, and only then, do I give you back that power, my friend.
A mug of beer
doesn’t sound too good right now.
But that’s only
because
I had too many mugs last night,
far too many, I tell you.
Now a rum and coke,
that’s different, my friend.
Pour me one and
just look out little ladies
because the neon sign is looking bright
this Friday.
I have to thank my Mom for all my brain cells
and at the same time
I’m going to apologize
for not being so careful with all of them.
Apparently we can’t get them back.
But I am a fan
of science
and have faith
that my errors,
misjudgments
bad judgements,
mistakes,
faults,
bloopers, and blunders
will be reversed
with science.
Someone once asked me
what my favorite smells were
do you have a few minutes? I replied
Who the hell doesn’t love the smell of fresh baked cookies?
fucking lilies
and godamn roses?
That’s cliché though I suppose.
Let me tell you a little something…
I loved that day about three years ago
when this little lady I was dating
brought me to an outdoor concert with a few of her friends.
We had VIP treatment too.
We drank yaegermeister in the parking lot
and a few of them smoked marijuana.
I was bored because those three girls
got on my every last nerve.
However,
I tried to lose them, because
I love the feeling of being alone
among 50,000 people.
And I walked into that concert a little bit sweaty.
but more importantly
I’ll never forget
what happened inside my nose that day.
I entered the facility through the back, but
When I came out
from behind the pompous shield of that VIP tent
it was like a Broadway curtain being pulled back.
it opened up to a slew of people,
and the most electrified air I’ve ever floated through.
Then my nose took over.
I detected the faint scent of grass, mostly trampled varieties.
I smelled sweat.
and marijuana, the marijuana…
you’d get a little perfume every now and then if you were lucky,
and piss, if you were not so lucky.
I smelled beer too
But most importantly I could smell the music.
Really, I did. I smelled it.
I don’t really know
How I ended up feeling like this.
I’m talking about how indifferent I’m feeling,
like I couldn’t give a damn if the roach coach was
selling babies out of the trunk.
I was tired Monday.
Then I was hung over Tuesday.
Kinda depressed on Wednesday.
Now it’s Thursday and I’m just impartial to every damn thing around me.
And this bitch from accounting
just keeps on
yacking away about
some work order.
And I couldn’t give a damn.
I just keep thinking about
slamming her pretty little head down
into a giant pile of pancakes.
Repeatedly.
But then again, she might not appreciate that
And I wouldn’t blame her for being turned off on pancakes for a bit.
I wouldn’t want that to happen,
Because everyone likes pancakes.
Well, there you go, I’m not impartial to that
I don’t want to ruin her outlook
on pancakes.
That’s something I’m not
indifferent to…
I feel better already. And it’s not even Friday.
I think I’ll go to Dennys for lunch.
Lifting weights.
Running in place
while watching
your neighbor’s fake tits bounce all over
(Or not bounce),
all while seeing the news,
baseball,
or a goddamn soap opera.
We work out…
work out
lift heavy stuff
push heavy stuff
run
and pedal
and try to get healthy
I’m just here
to balance all the drinking.
___
There was this
guy and
his old dog walking along
in the park.
That hideous old dog was missing an eye
and limped like hell.
Scared the shit out of my daughter, that dog did.
But then I told her about far scarier things in the world.
I can’t remember what I told
her, but
that must’ve been one lousy day in the eyes of a six year old.
And, yet a pretty damn good day in the eye of that
fucked up dog.
___
That's true, and everyone would be so much happier!
Wish you were here...
♥~RIP Dad
Wish you were here...
♥~RIP Dad
There are about 70 poems and one 10-12 page short story at the end.
Here is the link to the paperback:
http://www.amazon.com/Sloppy-Senseless- ... oppy+poems
Kindle Ebook:
http://www.amazon.com/Sloppy-Senseless- ... oppy+poems
I believe the kindle app for iphone/smartphones is free if you'd like to go the cheaper route...