"Don't be here in ten years." – The Factory Line

Posts tagged “poetry

My “Down With the Underdogs” tribute to the mystery scene

My “Down With the Underdogs” tribute to the mystery scene

 

To the former punks

And factory workers

Border crossing saviors

Shitty lawyers

Tattoo artists

barmaids

Cops

and

Ex-cops

or ex-cons

and ex-military.

 

To the inner-city players,

Of both style and substance

Silent geeks, the crazy kind

And other Fuck the World

Types or people,

 

My kind of people,

Always.

 

Down with the underdogs.

 

And now some context to this post:

I’m in the editing of my next novel, Down With the Underdogs, with no date in sight, but I am starting to think about things like tributes and photos and covers and working on expanding my network…that kind of shit.

Some version of this thing will go in as tribute in the book.

As for networking, I decided to go to any artistic or literary event I could find these past few weeks.

Tonight, I went to a mile-end poetry reading. And I’m a kid from the East, so you know I don’t fit in no fucking mile-end poetry reading. I also happen to be a poet who doesn’t really like poetry, or as Bukowski would say, “it’s all so boring! Where’s the guts?”

I mean, Cat Kidd was as impressive as I expected her to be, but the rest of it, I could’ve lived without. I mean, they can do whatever they want and who gives a fuck, it’s all good and well and everything, but it did make me realize just how much I could appreciate the mystery scene I landed in a few months ago.

So there,

Some of you I’ve met in real life, others I’ve only met online, but there is this unique meeting point of so many representatives of the working class in the people I’ve met. The bottom half of society is well represented with you and I wanted to say it, I guess.

Take care,

 

Ian


Doomed Love Southern California (a Poem)

I have known real love

True love

Doomed love

Love met in the haze of

Youth

Anger

Fire

Love met in the hail of

Poverty

Fistfights

And the still cold rain

Of early spring

 

I have known real love

Absolute love

In black and white

And the purest drive of passion

Love

Made for music,

Made for movies

And the greater pages of literature

 

A love of guts

And heart

And pain

Like The Ring of Fire

Chunking Express

And

Love is a Dog from Hell

 

I have met love for the ages

I really did

The stuff of legends

I swear to god

Love that drives you to madness

Insanity,

Murder

Or worse,

Love that drives you

To a life of pure

And honest labour.

 

Some men would rather die in the hell of battle

As other will lose their soul on a line.

I was the latter and still don’t know if I regret it.

 

I have met true love

Absolute love,

Yes,

But

Bitter love.

It’s true

Love stuck in the endless fights

Of ego, pride

And the trappings of ambition.

 

There really is nothing worse than ambition.

 

But I stuck with it

Sickness

Health

Hell

Or high water

I stuck with it.

 

And the best

Or perhaps

The worst

It has to be the worst

Is I still can’t say why.


It’s Been Days and I Still Can’t Name This One (poem)

It’s Been Days and I still Can’t Name This One (poem).

 

In the eve

Of crashing economies

That never seem to collapse

And dissolving political landscapes

That never seem to change

We feel like rats.

 

We truly do.

 

Rats in a maze

Or ants in the sand

We are contained

Constrained

Played with

And prayed upon,

Fed, yet controlled

By men,

Rich men

Who never seem to fall ill

Once the rations go sour

And we are eating our crumbs.

 

Keep calm and carry on

God Save the Queen,

Compound interests

And manageable inflation.

 

If anything at all,

Four hundred years of “corporation”

Have thought us

Wealth always only goes one way

 

So we retract

We retreat

And retire

 

We take shelter into small homes

That seem to be getting smaller every year.

We give in to simple pleasures of the flesh

Drink ‘til we’re numb

And fuck the pain away.

 

We indulge in the faceless idols of the world

The ever changing faces

Forced fed

Spoon fed, sure

But force fed, still

 

Through screen and paper

We receive their impossible iterations

And accept our feeble limits.

 

We feel irrelevant

We become irrelevant

Disconnected

Debaucherous

Destined to fail

With no end in sight.

We find ourselves stuck.

Trapped somewhere in the middle

Down inside the limbo

Of desensitized aggression

And sexualized despair.

 

We seek revenge on people who have done us no wrong

We wish harm on those would could do us good

Women,

“Others”

Foreigners

We take it all for fact

And to hell with the consequences.

 

We hate for the simple fact that it is easy

And natural to us

Hatred can be as natural to man

And any man,

There are no exceptions to this.

 

Hatred can be as natural to man as love can be

So why does it feel so simple

Why does it feel so seamless?

Why does it seem so fulfilling?

Maybe hunger has something to do with it.

There has to be a reason.

 

Debt and taxes and all the wars of the world?

 

The victims always sound the same.

Over 2000 years since Thucydides

And we have yet to learn a thing.

Same questions hoping for new answers?

Not a god damned thing, I tell you.


A Decade of One’s Born Days

I simply wished for a simple life

A truly simple kind of life.

Because

What could be more important than family,

Or a home at night?

Popcorn and pop

And a movie sometimes

Then the struggle with the baths

And the teeth and the pajamas

With a good night kiss and a hug

That’s just a second longer than usual

As the day fades away, solemn in the night

The safety of it all

Can hide the poverty

And the struggles and the pain

It makes you forget the warehouse job

And the endless flow of brown boxes.

It really does

It can hide the troubles and the bills

And the never-ending need for food.

And the pinch of daily grievances

A father and a husband,

Us against the world

Through a decade of one’s born days.

For a few moments

When the lights are out but the kids are peaceful,

Asleep in the nicest bed you could afford

And it seems to be enough

So you turn off the lights

And think maybe,

Just maybe,

You finally starting to win.


894784 or The Number of the Future

Unaware that we already were living in Farenheit 451.

We had suddenly stepped into the world of 1984.

And so it appeared,

894784,

The number of the future.


Over Half a Million Words and Counting – Resilience and the Creative Mind

I am about to announce my first “officially” published work, as I was lucky enough to team up with an up and coming indie of the publishing world, and I found myself thinking about the path that led me here.

Part of my intellectual process is to understand patterns very easily and part of my spiritual search is to understand the origin of such patterns (or paths) and their influence on the person I am today.

It is often said that any artist who’s “made it” had to fail time and time again in order to learn and grow. I can only say that the clichés are true as I was trying to figure out how many pages I had written and scrapped before getting to this point.

I did a pretty complete breakdown of everything I could think of between being a geek writing his own role-playing games when I was in fourth grade and looking into a chunk the huge market of mystery writing. (soon to be announced officially.)

I wrote

3 role-playing games – say 90 pages total

4 short stories in high school – say 20 pages total.

2 personal essays in junior college – 80 pages total.

5 “short” political dissertations – 200 pages total.

20 smaller college works – 8 to 12 pages – say 160 pages total.

(I’m not even gonna count all the weekly 2 to 7 pages assignments)

About 50 songs (music and/or lyrics) – 50 pages total

1 really bad script – 90 pages

1 really bad novel idea – 60 pages

2 full length plays – 120 pages total

1 short movie script – 6 pages

1 good full length movie script – 100 pages

3 novels : say 800 pages

1 self-made translation : 140 pages

2 poetry collections : 160 pages

4 years of curating texts for the MainLine Gala for Student Gala.

An unspecified amount of arts events and designs

Plus plans for a series of 5 graphic novels which I have yet to count…

2166 pages of “unsuccessful” or DIY writing to get here. At least 420 pages of which I literally scrapped. Most of it I used but have yet to pay out and some if it I actually look to make small amounts of money from.

I’m not even counting the letters, proposals and blog posts.

@250 words a page, that’s over half a million words I wrote before I got a book deal. (541 500 to be precise)

(With all the proposals, treatments, blog posts, letters, homework, submissions… I’m confident I’ve hit the million words by now… but let’s stick to manageable figures for now.)

So I guess the message is this, If you write every day, or even every week. If you started young because it felt natural to you, keep doing it. Half a million words and counting…that’s what it takes.

If that number scares you, you should probably do something else.

“Until you die or it dies in you” – Charles Bukowski.

Take care,

Ian

 

 

 


Crass – Poems of Ordinary Havoc

Crass Web Cover

Crass is the danger of stillness

Crass is the will to action

Crass are the pitfalls of hatred

And the narrow paths of love.

These poems of ordinary havok

Are a call to arms

Entrenched in dirty realism

Grounded by raconteurs

And a heartfelt dose of satire.

 

Now available on AMAZON KINDLE