Category Archives: poetry

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7 December, 2012

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poetry, writing

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Why I Hate Tying My Shoelaces

Flipphantomskip
JCD Kerwin

I want to twirl glow sticks
around my fingers and
dance all night
like a burning, shooting star…

And maybe I want
to draw on brick walls
with crayons
like I still see the world
covered in white paper.

Maybe I want
to play make-believe games,
laugh when I drink too much, and
have hangovers in meetings.

Maybe I want
to get a bunch of tats
because then I’d finally look
like what I feel inside.

Maybe I want
to chase down my dreams
for a few more turns
‘round the clock,
and not worry
where my next meal is coming from.

Because maybe I just
don’t give a damn about falling
when I try to fly.

Dec. 2012

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4 December, 2012

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poetry, storyteller, writing

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Because I’m Not Feeling Mushy Today.

Made of Clay
JCD Kerwin

I’m not much of anything.
I’m just a something
some guy
in a white cloud
decided to form one day
because he knew
I’d be damn entertaining.

He laughs
at all my fuck ups
and wonders why
he never made
me earlier.

Or maybe I’m molded
after some broken Edo samurai,
who gave their heart
to save the world.

Maybe I’m a rock star
incarnate,
pretending and faking
to be a hero up on stage.

Maybe I’m not
special at all;
I just think I am
because it makes
words on paper
seem more worthwhile.

June, 2011

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3 December, 2012

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poetry, writing

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Because I’m Feeling Mushy

God’s Country
JCD Kerwin

We made Babylon once.

We built statues out of blocks and
found our way to the promised land
via an old map I found in the trash.
I wore my father’s hat and you
went barefoot.

We asked nomads for change and
scribbled songs in the sand
while we danced
in shadows under the sun.
In the evenings we picked
forbidden apples from trees we planted
in the hanging gardens of our dreams.

We watched the Tower fall
and made up secret languages
we knew we’d hear one day
on opposite ends of the Earth.

You drank the poison because I told you to.
I remember you died and I
breathed the same dust the buildings did;
they all crumbled when we fell.

You woke up first and left me behind,
but now we run around the world
looking for new ways to build our Babylon.
We haven’t found one yet,
but I won’t give up on antiquity.

Dec., 2011

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1 December, 2012

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poetry, spoken word, writing

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The Creature from the Black—Just Kidding.

Blacklagoonadoom
JCD Kerwin

Sometimes I stay awake;
I stay awake staring at the wall—
staying, staring, waiting
for the other me to take my head
and pull me into concrete,
paint and fiberboard, and
take over so I don’t have to
pretend that I’m okay looking at sunspots
on my winter skin, hoping that
the summer sun will come
and turn it to the darker shade
that I like better.

But it never comes;
no face explodes, screaming from white walls.
I just turn into an insomniac
and start to smoke my fingers because
I forgot I never bought a pack
of cigarettes.
And my eyes start to sink and I start to wish
I never was born at all;
it’d sure be easier than
pretending I knew
what the hell I was
really supposed to do.

Dec, 2011

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25 November, 2012

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determination, poetry, spoken word, storyteller, writing

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Black Butterflies

Le Papillon Noir
JCD Kerwin

I want to cake my eyes in eyeliner
and have it smudge black blots
into my retinas.

I want to drink battery acid,
exhale fire, and
run flat-out for miles
before I vaporize.

I want to make my fingertips
speed like bikers
across a guitar’s neck
and have the world
scream my name
like I’m fucking its brain.

I want people to call me god
when I’m licking my lips
and shouting rhymes
into a microphone
with my eyes closed.

I want to be
a psychotic entertainer,
making words out of fire
like I’m a mastermind
hyped up on amphetamines
and painkillers.

I want to paint naked
at midnights,
abdominal muscles throbbing
with each brush-stroke,
and acrylics dripping
down to my toes.

I want people to gaze
at my masterpiece
and see me,
reflected like lighting
in glass clouds.

I want to be Oblivion
in thunderstorms
and create magic
with my heartbeats.

I want to fly
like butterflies
when they’re getting
ready to die:
headstrong and determined
to leave a mark
before they’re gone.

I want to be.
Want to be.
Want to be.
Your fucking papillon.

July, 2011