Stanley Mathews is back: Occupy Your Own Fucking Street

So screw this. If you want an introduction, go back a couple dozen of these wussy haiku posts and unfinished fiction, otherwise, enjoy my offering, or don't.

While reading, please listen to this:




Occupy Your Own Fucking Street
by Stanley Mathews


This is a poem for the real world,
A big motherfucking dream you might say.
Motherfucking utopia in an Easter basket
With those little fucking tootsie rolls that
Aren’t chocolate and no one knows
Where the shit they come from…

That’s kind of what this is like,
A wish on a star through pipe smoke
On a rainy night, midwinter,
While standing in a pile of shit,
Moist junk mail and hopeless beer vomit.

That’s all the good wishes are, but still.
Fuck you.
I want a world where everybody takes their couches,
And moves them out to the curb,
And then, facing said curb couches,
So as to make a conversation place to fucking
Talk, put their lazy boys in the street parking area.

Fuck your living room, sit on the floor.
I want a world where all up and down the street,
I can hear radios blaring songs about important shit,
Like politics, and fucking, and fucking the man,
And growing up, and drinking beers, and breaking up,
And getting back together, and breaking your tv,
And covers of awful pop songs to be funny, since everyone knows
I don’t really like those fucking songs.

But we all really do, somewhere deep in our regurgitated,
Already been chewed bubble gum hearts.

I don’t want to have to go to a bar to talk accidently meet some guy,
Totally fucking belly up,
Start a fumbling conversation, then realize,
Oh shit, you’ve been my neighbor for 3 years.

I want to make it so no matter how bad our modern
Peripheral vision is, we can’t just walk straight ahead
Ignoring each other.

Oh, I’m guilty too.

I have the softest piece of shit white vinyl chair in my
Living room.
I sit in it, all by myself,
Sometimes not wearing pants,
And watch Star Trek reruns on my only friend,
Netflix…and even she keeps getting more expensive.
Raising her fucking hourly rates,
Till it may not be worth me watching,
Even for the journeys of the USS Enterprise.

So today, I give you a fucking commitment,
I am bringing my ancient chair that I stole from my parents
To the curb.
Not as garbage, or in some hope that a random stranger,
Will take that shit off of my hands,
But as neighborhood furniture.

I’m sitting on it. I’m going to read a book out there,
Or watch movies on my old MacBook thanks to zombie Steve fucking Jobs.
Maybe I’ll inspire you to pull that red flowered couch I’ve seen you
Masturbating in in front of your picture window,
While your wife’s away and your kids are at school,
in front of your house.

Then the tweekers across the street will bring beers,
And people will stop fucking driving, abandoning their cars
In the wasteland of the middle of the road,
And we’ll have a traffic jam of empty vehicles,
Not like that wussy REM video,
Like the goddamn zombie apocalypse.
But with a fucking block party,
And fiesta lights,
Piñatas,
Big ass speakers.
Operation Ivy,
Bad Religion,
The Misfits,
The Beastie Boys,
Run DMC,
Billy Bragg,
Neil Young,
The Gin Blossoms,
Hootie and the Blowfish,
Lady Gaga.
Cardboard open spaces,
For those coordinated douche bags to break dance,
As an excuse to listen to those

Bad
Pop
Songs.

Fuck occupying Wall Street.
Get out and Occupy Your Own Street.
Bring your neighbor a beer,
Invite the local bartender over for a drink,
Hand out coffee
And nachos
In your sweatpants.
Everybody pitches in and nobody’s out a dime,
And 3 days later,
It’s raining, washing the sweat
Off our euphoric bodies,
Soaking our rock and roll or
College athletics hoodies,
We’ll smile.
Cause we just changed the mother fucking world.

That’s my dream at least.
Fuck you,
Want a beer?

Chase Scene (part 3)

Part 3 (a short chapter)

“Stomp”
I wake up in a dark room.
All I can remember is the blotted out sun,
Terror,
And wondering if the crowd would even react,
I know I’m awake usually due to
The pain.
I am even more acutely aware of my waking state,
Because I feel nothing.
It’s not hot.
It’s not cold,
There’s no pain at all.
Nothing.
No feeling of a bed,
Steel table under my back.
Too dark to know if I’m moving my.
Proprioception is shit.
I hear a click.
Nothing.

Chase Scene (part 2)

Chase Scene Part 2 (Started in last post)

Part 2
I should have stayed still.
Damn fight or flight reflex.
The second I break into the open
The bird of paradise swoops over the crowd.
It catches me quickly, as flying creatures usually can do.
It’s beautiful tail feathers flowing behind.
It makes it to my ear and whispers
In the voice of my father,
“you know you can’t run,
you know you can’t hide,
She’ll find you.
We can guess where you go,
And watch you from the sky,
From the roots,
From the eyes of marching elephants.”
With an odd cackle it returns skyward.
I never stop running,
And slam directly into the parade route
Through a break in the crowd.
Directly in front of me towers a cyborg
Elephant, marching in loose ranks with the parade,
“Stomp,” I hear him whisper.
The giant head swung towards me,
As I attempted to change directions,
But lose my footing.

Staring skyward,
A foot the size of my chest
Seems to hover above me.
Gravity.
“stomp”