Theme by Themes that you like

Ham-Handed


Quite a lot of questionable poetry, poor pictures, and degrading doodles as preformed by the delightfully mediocre and possibly deranged Maya-Roisin Slater.

Neighbors

In the morning I take out the garbage

Three doors, one corridor, and a bin on my back spilling with rotten greenery.

To the ally where the dumpster lies, myself the subject of blood shot eyes.

Some shout my name behind bright “hellos!”

Morning after morning I wave and wish well

When the load I bear looks particularly cumbersome, a stranger sitting next to the dumpster may lay down his pipe and lend a hand.

On some mornings others will mistake me for one of them “are you working?” they will croon.

Other days are darker still,
When no one even bats an eye,
My garbage cannot disturb the high.

On these Wednesdays at the end of every month I can see life in profound simplicity

Existence can be summed up in two parts

Having and not having

Back in the primal state of hunger and the hunt.

My pock marked ally companions subscribe to something more, addiction beyond reality.

When they call my name we feel the same, strange little humans on a path for connection

But this morning as I stand next to this group of lovely people now wailing and with blood pouring from their veins yelling despair in free refrain

I am guilty to find I feel we are something different.

Possessed by a poppy, some draino, a rock

These beautiful creatures roulette with the clock.

"I LOVE HIM"

"BUT I WISH I COULD KILL HIM"

"I THINK I WOULD MISS HIM"

She writhes on the cement.

In the morning, with my garbage, for my friends I lament.

Ulysses Coppard: The New John Mayer 

Ulysses Coppard: The New John Mayer 

Interior Design

Sexy Christ & other garage sale treasures.

Rock God

Sweet Zane

Cowboy spotting on Hastings and Columbia!

Out in the neighbourhood, feelin’ blue. 

Vices

Egomaniac
You’ve got a good heart. Why can’t
You love the right things?

Destroyers

Old rockstar in the front row dancing with his baby girl

 

Me in my bed alone listening to pop music

 

Making money in the mornings and memories in the evenings

 

My heart skips beats that seem vital to the soundtrack

 

But I keep singing loudly like the melody is etched to the palm of my hand.

 

You don’t drink, you don’t write poems

 

I don’t fold my clothes and see things clearly.

 

You all see yourselfs as champions

 

But you haven’t even run the race

 

You fail to realize that all the good sounds are made amidst the chace.

 

We all keep secrets and we all stop ourselves from reaching

 

For dangerous things like beautiful glass and seductive bombs

 

For fear the things will slice us wrong.

 

You tell me that I’m brilliant,

 

But never show my work.

 

Daylight don’t excite me

 

I long to see you all lurking in the shadows

 

my favourite bodies behind the strobing lights and smoke machines.

 

Last night I dreamt of you in the crowd

 

Walking in a zigzag line with my name on your lips.

 

Instead I found a couple bland faces wearing expensive t shirts

 

With nothing important to say.

 

Everybody is getting married

 

To their values at a young age

 

And in my infancy my nuptials mean nothing.

 

I think about how you would look dancing with me

 

I doubt it’s any better than you would look parked on the sofa

 

Even although you tell me everything is more romantic in my head.

 

The beat is infectious

 

But I can’t pinpoint the instrument which makes the sound

 

You tell me I’m deaf

 

I tell you my hearing is selective.

 

I feel famous

 

When the whole room is smiling in my direction

 

But I’m realizing more and more

 

That they aren’t understanding my stupid jokes.

 

Please come home and sit with me

 

In the grass near your house

 

Before I make the wrong phone calls


And book up all my Sundays.