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	Matthew Bass
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Matthew Bass, 1 marca 2012

Cubicle

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Smoke Break
Light
Lift Arm
Inhale
Savour
Exhale
-------moment of slinece
Lift Arm
Inhale
Savour
Exhale
Sip Stale Coffee
Inhale
Exhale
Time Is Money
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-Lunch-
Bite
Chew
Swallow
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Swallow
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Chew
Swallow
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Swallow---Lethargy
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00-Zero-Punch-Clocked(Out)

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Matthew Bass, 1 marca 2012

?

4
3
2
1
from a release
of muscle contracting tension
the rest of life begins
on a spring afternoon
strolling along the river...

...and it reverberates
through-not-so-very-old-bones.

"Not going it alone this time"
says the invisible sidekick
as she unseats the seat of my pants
from the rocket hurdling over yonder blue;
jet fuelled by vodka.

"No more gardens of grandeur"
or invisible walls to crush
the great spirit, because
it´s smooth boating from here
and perspective is spoken best
from a distant mountain
where solemn ommmms
sing with the peace
of liberty.

The safety net is unstitched
(more like a bit ripped)
so look forward falling.

No, sorry, I´m lying
on a hammock about everything.
It was never there,
it was to teach you
to not look down

and

be careful! with the mirages
the real treasure´s tripping
with the thrash on the side of the road.

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Matthew Bass, 28 lutego 2012

Stranded In The Hopeless Middle

Beloved,

There was an empty space
blocking your imprint on the bed.
The warmth of your skin
and the contours of your silhouette
buzzed through the nerve endings
on my fingertips,
I missed you so much.

All night, an abnormal growth
festered in my lungs
because the old man
has begun to die.
I struggled for my breath
as fate´s sucker punch
finally broke his back.

My father,

The man I waited for at the door
with my coat and
peanut buttter and jelly lunch
to go for a ride in the mustang
that I could not see
over the dashboard
(he knew the way)
now, finds comfort
in the same old westerns
he can recite
with his eyes closed.

You like to think you don´t cry
but I´ve seen it too many times
in your own distant way;
something we pretend
to not acknowledge.
I see you decompose
while watching T.V on the couch,
a place you once perched to
like an eagle.

I had a dream about
walking Jayden to school
on the sidewalks I traversed
in an old life.

How do I tell him?
"Papa is going to die"
while he emphatically
shakes his head "no!"
How do I tell him?
that the men in his life
are not suppost to leave him
though they keep doing it.

Beloved,

Spain moves in circles
while I stand helplessly
in the middle, paralyzed;
waiting for my turn to move on.

The passing of the sun
merely marks the time
of a means to an end
till the day
I can fall like a rock
onto the contours
of your warm skin
in the bosom
of the east coast.

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Matthew Bass, 28 lutego 2012

Ground Zero

A web of vericose cracks
tip-toe across the concrete
on the walk way behind my home
I come to from time to time.

Here, I can always breathe easily
under the artificial light
and Februrary chill, then
feel my worries float away
into the cloudless night
under the eternal song
of flourescent lamps.

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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

Broken

Darkness doesn´t scare me;
isolation does.
The cold wind
blowing soft needles
between the thinning threads
of an unwashed blue hoodie does.

Prosperity is sickness.
Courtesy is blind
on an evening stroll
through urban-planned beauty,
and you are broken
like me.

Torture:
   is the way you put faith
   in something that will never
   love you back.

   is the way you drool over
   the prose of half-naked half-wits
   because their juices
   dribble
   on the tip
   of your tongue.

   to wake up
   and play the same piano scales
   without ever listening
   every morning.

   to fall asleep
   in the warm bosom
   of archaic tradition
   without ever caring
   every night.

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Matthew Bass, 24 lutego 2012

The Ink Of An Unknown Poem

I think aloud about
the direction fate
will take us, my love,
because this world
hurts me far too much.

The response of fight
gives way to flight
as the farce of my dream state
comes to a sudden crashing halt.

I crumple like a piece of paper
with the ink of an unknown poem
face to face with a thin line
where old friends and brothers
look back, but do not flinch.

How long till I´m deleted?
Each entry of my name
meticulously erased
until, not even I
can recognize
my own thousand yard stare.

-

Run!
The voice biting at the back of my neck
beckons, in desperation

   to the mountains
   where conquistadors
   stand frozen in time

   to the deep heart of Africa
   where silence resonates
   in the empty savannah

   to the tip of the old world
   where I jump into an ocean
   with no water

with you, the one I love.

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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, 20 lutego 2012

Free Thought For Food On Foot

"Look at your feet when you walk"
not up, cuss words unspoken
"personal space asshole", broken
cement, jackhammer, hemorrhaging money
smog, green smog, the spector of
defeatist chattering mindlessly
endless status symbols.

To win, not lose
to not be successful,
unhappy, not enough time
take a breath, not enough
time, time is money
Wide awake wet dreams
with the dream whore
on the billboard alone
licking her lips
alone alone alone
by ourselves in a crowd

tripping over garbage
and piss on the sidewalks
beware, defecating on the street
is a €500 fine
and a state funded
neutering, spent,
exhausted, all the wealth
in a glass bonfire
half-full of oil.

An ice breaker, a joke
a funny anecdote to pass
the intervals between
the cherry and the filter
and a dry martini ritual
one after the other
in a little black dress
or fine Italian suit
to end the day in the dark,
a minute a flash, a bend
in space time matter, a
self-fulfilling hangover.

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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.