Old Gypsy Souls

travels, songs and scars along the way

4 notes

I thought of you at breakfast. goodbye.

my little loving is a distant thing
flipping coins and other boys
telling me she really can sing
but only after some drinks

morning afters are so fucking scene
you should have seen us last night
clubbed, messed up and mingling
does this guilt match my eyes?

demons, drugs and dance floors
mercifully mindless and stupid brave
making moves and coke whores
down in a fashionable depression

rave and writhe, never be alone
it’s too dark in there for thoughts
forget the boy you left at home
he won’t be there long anyway

they won’t care, not being awake
a mouth full of cheap liquor
holding handfuls of rape
welcome to the party darling

it will only hurt forever

4 notes


bleeding gums and blackened nails
caressing the garish wound
a fly alights on his eye
he doesn’t blink, doesn’t care

biting down on a staring socket
and with it the offending fly
all one mess down the gullet
for reasons beyond her

breaking her teeth on bone
going back with mindless zeal
dislocating jaws snapping sinew
her lover is now her buffet

they say it was in the water

Filed under poetry spilled ink october horror zombie

64 notes

Random 10:30 - 12:57 - 1:21


I may have an empty bed
where I clutch pillows at night;
mimicking an unknown love
I have yet to stumble on

But I am thankful for them:
the friends I surround myself
with; always in my corner
and coloring my dull days.

The gals that comfort my heart;
guys standing guard over it —
fae oracles - sage advice,
warrior poets - caution.

The ashtray piles high; smolders.
The whiskey glass empties — sigh.
The beaten brow of the man
staring off into nothing.

Even in the emptiness,
I’m finding some happiness
in knowing my wounded heart
still, sometimes, thinks it can beat.

Beat. My dad’s generation.
Coffee houses and road trips
and readings and galleries —
age romanticized by me.

Dreams of new bohemians
gathering under the stars
and rejecting this “iLife”
for hedonistic comforts

and indulging in our own
moments without sponsorship
or subscriptions to the stream
of conscious-collected trash.

No forgiveness for our sins, 
only experiences —
Praised be to the living ones
who remember how to feel.

The message ends here tonight.
Vague mumbles cease, to lay down
with arms embracing pillows
and eyes watching the night time. 

(Source: redavis101)

Filed under poetry spilled ink random thoughts late night contemplation bleeding the humors

2 notes

chewie( an ode to my bobblehead)

warbling nonsense at appropriate times
that only you and the scoundrel know
fur that glistens and crossbow that kills

will you ever know peace
behind those formidable teeth
i see a smile of secrets
what do you know, chewie

a copilot to the stars
and taking solo jabs in stride
you sir, are no nerfherder
but scruffy indeed

a smuggler.
a rebel
a general
fuck palpatine
you’re all i need

6 notes

of many a monster

must remember what reminded me
just toss and turn instead
a few shots and a smoke
to cloud my mind

little slivers of memory
drops of blood on the table
will i ever recall
what led me to the gallows

a monster
a mongrel
a man-god
a master

all rolled into a boy
who just wants to love
not too much to ask
but the world demands pain

so a mattress and mistress
that will do for the night
finding solace in claws
tracing lines on my back

a brute for the ages
but can i be blamed
for another breaking me
and reforming the pieces

does the devil ever stop
so a man can begin again
from the ashes of a boy

i could stop
i could watch
i could reverse
yeah right

for now

maybe forever

i will be

the beast
the boy
the heretic
the broken one

Filed under spilled ink poetry madness duality love lust horror doubt dreaming hurt heart sex death god anger monster