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Matthew Bass


Matthew Bass

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---Lethargy
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00-Zero-Punch-Clocked(Out)


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Matthew Bass

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matthew Bass, 24 lutego 2012

Mechanical Burn





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

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

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

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

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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