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	Matthew Bass
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Matthew Bass, 28 lutego 2012

I Release Me

I´m fed up with the monotony
of waking up to the same routine
everyday;
the same problems
the same worries
the same aspirations
the same goals,
roaming like a nomad
drunk on the present
in the early hours
of this city, this lifestyle.

I´m fed up with having
all the time to do everything
without enough time for
anything, to spend another minute
not holding you
not being with you,
with being love sick.

I´m fed up with wealth
my social class, prosperity,
the white picket fence,
with experts
with America
with Europe,
with all the things
I´ve ever been taught.

I´m fed up with
always being distracted
by mindless distractions,
with T.V., fast food
and no one saying
what they really think,
with apathy and society.

I´m fed up with
being a nice young man
who will graduate from a top 100 school
who will make alot of money
who will make everyone proud
who will do the right thing

I´m fed up with poetry,
with having to scream
into the coffee-stained pages
of a notebook, and listen
to your crap because
you´ve memorized all the right words.

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Matthew Bass, 24 lutego 2012

Mechanical Burn

Sometimes it becomes too much
to drag this suitcase down the assmebly line,
the same mechanical routine.

I
re-read your e-mails everyday
to soften the metal edges.

I
consume, consume, consumed by lonliness
waste, waste, wasting away slowly
and
pretend.

nudged by an unnatural clock
divided by twenty-four.

maintained by the quality control department
of an artificial deist authority.

Why is it that everyone tells me,
who do you think you are?

There are standard operating procedures
for everything for a reason.

-

The world is not a stage,
just a curtain call that breaks your back.


It hurts not to see you everyday
It hurts not to feel complete
It hurts not to kiss you

It hurts to call out
in unrequited love.

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Matthew Bass, 22 maja 2012

Cook County Juvenile detention center

The black and Brown kids locked in tiny pods
banged their fists and penises against the plexiglass
"I´m gonna get outta here
and rape yo whole family"

and the white stooges just called them animals
while they counted crisp bills to be spent
on county board meetings in Hawaii,

and those poor kids wasted
in a catch-22 without knowing
nor caring to understand
the horrible game
they´d been forced to play

pretending not to think
about their 16th birthdays.



Sometimes rumors would filter back
"so and so was raped"
"so and so is in the hospital"

"so and so is gettin off cos evidence
is circumstantial"

Most never left their blocks,
trains through other hoods
were gauntlets
and
there were 12 hour days on the corner.

They were handed pieces with promises
that a couple years in juvi
"wad´nt shit";
14 year olds don´t get tried
as adults.



Close to their 16th Birthdays
they now scream like animals
pretending not to think about
what happens to boys to young to shave,
and how many cigarettes a human being is worth.

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Matthew Bass, 4 czerwca 2012

Stagnant Water Blues

The first drag sends you to space
in the fog of cherry red light bulbs
inside large windows of the meat market.
Like a child, beckoned by the perfume
of window taps: imagining what each one
will feel like when you penetrate them
as you count your money.

After she kisses you good-bye
you´ll fall into the stagnant water
of a dirty canal that rusts
white row boats bottom up,
and for the first time you open
your eyes wide closed.

The second drag hugs you
with gabled arms. Its
so hard! to speak when
your abdomen vibrates
and your throat burns
more and more and-
more. Every breath
a waterfall.

The third drag is a tall dark bartender
who expects a pick-up line you´ll never give
as old men stop in for a morning pick-me-up.
The third drag reminds Englishmen
they once ruled the world
with their pants around their ankles
and hot dogs in their mouths,
as well as everyone else.

The fourth drag brings you back
to a cup of Morroccan tea underneath
an unknown blanket.

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Matthew Bass, 20 lutego 2012

Death To Post Modernism: A World Fractured...Not Divided

Four handsome men
sing lullabys:
security
oppurtunity
pride
defense.
Four monsters
bleed through the pores
of a dapper´s mask:
repression
nationalism
patriotism
militarism.

I have no pulpit
no personal driver
no mahogany table
to rest my gut on.
No money, no success
no consciousness.
No power, no control
no more clothes;
stolen from me at gunpoint.
The pleasure spots on my flesh
numbered and registered
for quicker manipulation,
others consume champagne
while I drink table wine
and pretend.

Panic drips from windows, the scent
of black and white talking pictures,
torture victims and their genitals
scrubbed with black colored pencil
hidden behind a bubbling white veil.
I am not alone in the streets
with my gas mask and dry heaves
as long as the mob runs
in the same direction.
But as long as the chassis
are heard in the distance
we are all on our own.

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Matthew Bass, 19 lutego 2012

I(fall)

like ashes
dripping from the cherry
of a forbidden cigarette,
on a cold morning
drunker than I intended
to be.

The bile
builds up
in the back of my throat
as I hover helplessly
over the toilet,
wishing my stomach
would make a decision.

I have never been lonelier
in this bathroom
pondering the point,
of all this!
While I try to recover
what has been redacted
from my memory,
then find the courage
to look back in the mirror,
and continue on till
tommorrow.

Sixty-Four days
since the descent
began, and the bottom
still seems like an illusion
although I know it´s there
waiting in the darkness
keeping close watch
over the other half
of my soul.

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Matthew Bass, 1 marca 2012

Blanket

STOP

   TELLING

ME HOWStructures
   are TO
   strAight jackets
   with
   can you[not] flower
   SCREAM AND YELL
   lace.
   think?

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Matthew Bass, 8 marca 2012

Poetry On A Bus: March 8th 2012 Repeated

Why do you revile!
this book of poetry
I read?

Why do your stubby
fingers shake! with
anger?

Why does your upper lip quiver?
as your blood pressure
rises! Spatially imprisoned,
conditioned to beleive
beauty is useless and unproductive.

Can´t you understand! Your
ugliness is as beautiful as
this book of poetry I read
you so revile.

I am, you are
citizens of a black mass
on Gray´s gray line
from infinity to infinity
Like Bus Stops on the circular
getting on at one stop
getting off at another,
while the bus travels on
full of Abuelas yelling:
Puerta! Puerta! Puerta!
when the driver refuses
to move slow enough
for their bones.

History has gotten over you.
The next generation has gotten over you.
Someday, I will get over you.
But, will you one day get over you.
Idolatry comes in subtle forms
and consumerism is not the engine,
but you, you alone, are stupid enough
to believe the Bus Stops begin and end
with tri-corner mythology.

I was once your Marine-Hero
burning, raping, pillaging,
killing; feeding the grass
the blood that makes it grow.
Carried those stereotypes
proudly upon my chest
above and left of my heart
you lap up like a dog
in those thoughtless
box-movie theaters.

Like all good Marines I
called myself a christian,
though I probably wasn´t.
And all good christians
called me christian
because
a scourge called Islam was upon us,
burning, raping, pillaging
killing; not so different
from us.
And God would forgive me
for the seventeen-year old asian Girls
I wore through like second-hand clothes,
though they fall in love and feel
their hearts break much like us.
I could drink a case of beer, run
up recon ridge then tell you to
"Shut The Fuck" with the best,

but
tonight I´d rather drink tea
and read the book of poetry
you so revile! The endless
rounds of cheap beer become
harder to recover from the
closer I push thirty, and
Wednesday´s are for Yoga.
You will always be welcome
on my property, after all
we are a society and communism
has been dead for twenty years.
I´ve seen it´s obituary!
I´ve seen it´s headstone!
I´ve seen it´s occupied
burial plot. You can stop
and take a punjabi breath

alone, together, indifferent
with one another on the same gray line.

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Matthew Bass, 10 marca 2012

Hurt Feelings Aside,

stupid audiences are no worse than
boring poets,boring musicians, boring artists
boring philosophers.

If the world is a stage,
the audience: (you) amoral nymphs
gorging off the sangría
pouring out of my wrists.
I am a prostitiute.

We´ll clank our glasses together
and taste smooth full-bodied delusion,
lay the cornerstone the next eleven steps
are bulit upon.

Eternal life Moral enlightenmnet
all crocks one in the same,
but you will still fade away
like blood thirsty citizens
swayed to and fro with the prose
of sweet idiots like me.

I am no vanguard
nor should you pat yourselves on the back

but digress
I,
   because

that cute guy in the corner checking you out
is really saying
   "She have wide hips, she give many babies".

that cute girl smiliing and tussling her hair
is really saying
   "He have broad shoulders, he hunt many antelope".

and

all I really want is a spear to kill things with,
marking my territory on the walls with out
getting arrested, scratch my balls in public,
naked like pre-historic man.

and

six months from now you will love this poem
on a different night, in a different bar, no different from this
swathing into another more pretentious than the next

cursed by sirens singing on the rocks
about cusps, futures, selfish revolutions
taking vacations to the margins
with that so typical
Wicker Park mentality.

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Matthew Bass, 10 marca 2012

Flash Flood

The muscles tighten
The chest protrudes
The shoulders broaden
   The endorphins
   fly
   spin
   race
   absorb
   shake
   blow-up
   r i p a p a r t
   stream
   run
   absorb:
brighter, higher, amplified
   like the 4th of July

moving to one heartbeat increasing, Increasing, Increasing!

to
a climax

choking happily on drunk-red fleshy spots

steady drumbeats moving with steam whistles
pushed down a mountain like a free falling object

momentum
   momentum
   momentum
   momentum
   momentum

quicker
quicker quicker
quicker quicker quicker
quicker quicker quicker quicker
quicker quicker quicker quicker quicker

making toes curl in the imagination
ruptured by the blink-

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10 - 30 - 100

Pozostałe wiersze: Chicago In Dreams, Reflections In Muses, Shadow Of A Tornado, The Death Of Poetry, The Death Of Me, Linger On, Is It Too Much To Ask, I am (not) Alone Today, Drunk On A Park Bench, Only To You, I Promise I won´t Call You, Alone In A Train Station, Machine Gun Victims, Jorge´s Machete: Revisited, Stagnant Water Blues, Farewell Spain: Preamble To The Exit, Cook County Juvenile detention center, What No Longer Haunts Me, Inventing New Ways To Dance, Thoughts On Nothing(Important) April 29 12:35 A:M, On America, 11:20 P.M, Thoughts On Love : March 21 2012, Nomad, Thoughts On Awareness March 26 2012 6:34 P.M, Flash Flood, La Arcángela, Hurt Feelings Aside,, Poetry On A Bus: March 8th 2012 Repeated, Prose: Madness Personified, Blanket, Cubicle, ?, Stranded In The Hopeless Middle, Ground Zero, I Release Me, Broken, The Ink Of An Unknown Poem, Mechanical Burn, Free Thought For Food On Foot, Death To Post Modernism: A World Fractured...Not Divided, Drift, Written Februrary 17, 2012; Three days After Vaelntine´s Day, I(am), I(fall),

Najnowsze prace:

Poezja

I Release Me

Mechanical Burn

Cook County Juvenile detention center

Stagnant Water Blues

Death To Post Modernism: A World Fractured...Not Divided

I(fall)

Blanket

Poetry On A Bus: March 8th 2012 Repeated

Hurt Feelings Aside,

Flash Flood

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