Month: January 2013

Word Play

When I am old like that senior


in the Ipod video with the big,

beady-beam eyes it’ll be Beats Antique

and Ratatat keeping me youth-wise.


When I’m old and back to the chair,

the music will still be somewhere

to keep from going under,

to keep the shadow in it’s cage.


Because you can ‘Roustabout’ the ‘Wild Cat’

 of the ‘Cat Skillz’ and play the ‘Loud Pipes’

until memory and body ‘Collide’…


The only way the spirit forever lives

 is with pro-vision-all impact’s of body unto mind.


To Braille speak audio-read rights of ‘Miranda’.


End Communicatoe.

Book Cover Design: TOTNP
Full Book Title: Tale of the Nightmare Princess: An Adult Fantasy Comedy Adventure

I am in the process of prepping a novel for self-publishing on Amazon. I have a couple more books doing nothing and sitting nowhere so now that self-publishing is a valid venue for authors I feel the need to put them out before I start my next one. I currently have two that I am going to most certainly publish and afterwards will assess the quality and readability of the third as to whether it would be something that I want public with my name on it or whether it is worth the time spent in repairing it. I truly hope this is the case because it is by far my most ambitious project but at the time of writing it I was not prepared to indulge in such a venture. This is…

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Poem for the People



I used to deny I was special.

It made me feel so covert.

Like I was

emptying myself to play a role.


To be honest, I think I might have been a great actor.

Like Brando.


People though,

they are beautiful on their own or

from a distance.


The garden of tapping

Headless chickens on bus or corner or hall, though.

They make me feel I am slowly

Becoming more and more unique.

But I feel so lethargic in it… as though


I am a marionette made up of body parts,

all from varying ages in my part.

And my adult head is hung up by a hook,

Like something out of Hellraiser,

And I am directed to and from locations.

Hung up on this and that. A set of

tracks like a subway guiding me in predictability.

A stock character.

But at night I am here at this screen.

And I am fucking exceptional,


Even within a blogoshperic population of millions of ramblers.

Complainers and pitchers and blamers.

I am here.


As you age if your time

does not gain valuation over

Currencies of the world in which

you are jostled through,

then take a bow &

get off the stage.

I have something new to have destroy my chest and spawn

like a H.R. Giger alien.


And it knows your name is correlated to your economic position.

It knows you are a cheap or a high end action figure, or a sculpture.


It knows I am an original sin, an anomaly.

 A throw back Monday to Friday.

Some pastiche over the holidays for Measure.

 And you aren’t forgetting clever.


 People piss me off in large groups.

but become so interesting when left to themselves

just long enough to go a little cracked.

To leak something through

the sludge of brand and vice and mimicry.


You drown out the main soundtrack,

and make me dance a little less shifty.

But even you can’t handle my twitch.


I lifted myself through a roof once in a dream.

Inside the attic-like sky they occupied were

a dozen friends and lovers and I had yet to meet.


People are like the Dark Crystal I guess;

Skeksis are as necessary as Mystics.

Not that I ever considered myself Gelfling,

More like the Neverending Story’s  “Nothing” on my back,

That rides the mechanical bull of mu pride into

snowbanks of blow and

 dirty hobo with sketchy looks

and rusty metal pipes, being all like;

“You don’t know where I’ve been Lou! You don’t know where I’ve been!


No people here. Just the stroboscopic pentameter of

a million movie references,

balled up in a tight circumference of

freckled flesh set fire to with

a hundred binges.


Hoping to burn out the light

that burns your eyes.

Hoping to burn out the lights

before they fade.


at least break a few bulbs before

the restless natives take us apart again.




The Children of Revolution

Individual. Selfish and alone.

No sense of community. Nothing shared.

Produce and consume. Never own the means.

Expectations large, with little reward.

The failure and despair we don’t witness.

Left behind, abandoned if not consumed.

See the implosion of a falling star.

Red Star Rising, it used to be the sun.

Shining over every kingdom. Shared lands.

Traveled beyond time and space. Advancement.

No profits, but prophets who saw the way.

Release the chains of the present to see.

See the future that was supposed to be.

Not held back by prisons and devices.

The fat gatekeeper fed by his own greed.

Children with empty stomachs. “I want more!”

Taste their tears. One too many grains of salt.

A harvest for the fat man while they cry.

Their potential will amount to nothing.

Discarded generations, without means.

Production amassed built empires great.

Shadows cast over world without toilets.

The world’s…

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Low Art Film Snob (Shop Talk)

Poem for the 8th episode of Twilight Zone (1985)

The story turns into an anti- drinking & driving psa.

But it has Harlan Ellison as Creative Consult

so things are kept in line with the story. And you still get that

satisfied feeling that evil gets begotten.

But Rod, this is the 80’s.

In this little diddy, it’s all about Jeffrey DeMunn,

at least for me.

He played Andrei Chikatilo the notorious Russian

serial killer. With Stephen Rea.

Dude from the Crying Game and Shit?

Anyway I gotta jet.

Got this new movie to forget.

Something about how I married my favourite game,

and how I can’t even win a kiss from the golden one.

You wouldn’t like it.


Two for Me

Written On My Hand;             

 – for HJM

I have written everything on my hands again.

I have left some elegies in the basement for you.

Don’t get lost.

That wouldn’t do. Not on my watch.

Here, it happened, so it belongs with the rest.

(throws burnt Barbie doll- figuratively of course- in a pile of the rest)

 There’s something in there about you,

And that night we smashed the shit out of it all.

There’s something about Burroughs in it.

I read it in the middle of a popper high

 at a laundry mat in Halifax,

 2nd year of my scholastic ventures.

 It goes on about experience.

How each one is separate, even though

24 hours might hold them all on the tree,

so to speak…

Good things always happen to me in laundry mats.

I should really go to them more often.

Followed a French girl named

Alice home from one once. The way she walked I was like a pied piper victim.

I slipped a poem

through her mail slot.

We ran into each other once more.

She bummed a cigarette.

I wanted her to just repeat her name a dozen times more.


To peak further into the magic that poetry gives us all;

To never see anyone’s reality as a letdown, it is the only fantastical thing left.

  Poems Written on Hands pt 2.      

– for Them.

“Random Ones

I met this night-

Emily-we met at the bus stop

the morning after, she had just

come from Church and she

has a tatt behind her ear

it says HEAR NO EVIL.”

That was two days in.

Later the wrestling of memory and actuality started in.

But first I got a few lasting impressions, like lifting cracked, brittle letters from headstones by a running stream.  

I learned to paint in a few dreams that stretched through a weekend once.

Burroughs was right though, nothing is really connected. Every experience is an island.

The sound of the skipping stones thrown just right, a perfect patter of kisses. A Beethoven-choreographed Shit-kicking.

“Laura the Alien

-We Kissed. We called our future

a seasonal show, and this was our Pilot.


“Daisy Chainsaw. She was sharper than one, too.

Looks like 13 from House.

I heard she was from somewhere else. Somewhere horrific.

That and the fact I always associate the greatest things with horror.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Waxwork that terrible movie with the wax museum of killers and sadists. There was a midget. Even de Sade was there.”

“Magda- She looks like Anne Frank, I say,

and she thinks I’m racist for saying it.

Somewhere around now I kicked in

with the Guinness and Jameson’s

Nobody does Irish like me.”

“Mary Annabelle- We met through a friend. Too much stout that night.

I ended up with her scarf, nothing else but a hangover. I am pretty sure I might have had something special if I could’ve just relaxed. Relaxing is not my strong suit. I lost the card entirely in fact.


She’s German. Vegetarian.

Her voice is like the quieter

moments of

Miles Davis’

(In a Silent Way).

Her smile interjects your vision.

I love this one so much from the start it turns into shtick

before I can even make an impression.  


I’m afraid to sleep in case

I don’t dream about her.”


“Steph- The Girl Next Door meets

A Smile that Corrects Symphonies.

Not the one I would bring home

to all my predilections.

But then, I always did prefer

to be fucked up than just fuck.”

Zapatista is No Longer A Southern Issue

Broadcasting from the Center of a Balaclava-Clad Heart

This is for the talkers,

the gawkers, the baulkers.

The ones who can only commit chaff,

kick dirt and disturb nothing.

Know: no peace- no word it it-

Until, Ya Basta !

becomes household.

Until it takes hold

and picks its own pile,

Will the hand reopen.

We will be the wagers, the stagers

The actors (the players),

we will let you keep the halo’s

but the wait for miracles

is officially over.

End Communication.Image

The Rant Doctor is Here. (& all outta bubblegum…)

I decided to clean up my proclivities again, got off the Book of the Faces and determined to curb that loveliest of liquor and other fun’s stuff and maybe be the sober mean cunt I always knew I was destined to be at 83, now.
This is a mediocre response to two AMAZING new flicks; “The Promised Land” (Damon, 2013) and “The Atomic States of America” (2012).

Welcome to Thunderdome (aka, Vickers’ Blog)




If you ever think you are alone know you have music.

If you are like me? You have film also.

But the soundtracks, oh the fucking soundtracks of our lives

How I would never have danced without a drink

how kissing would have likely been comatose too,

how my life rolled a hundred joints to the one on the dazed soundtrack

and the one for Gattaca

the pillow practices kisses of Last of the Mohicans

Should we tell her about Steel Magnolia?


That’s 6 month shit. Leave it. Bust out the Boyz N da Hood or something

Maybe something horror based.

Hell, tell her about Milo & Otis

how its essentially a snuff film

87 dead animals for one japanese live action cat and dog movie.

jesus christ.


Dont like the television genius that was Cheers? Go Fuck Yourself!

Questions for the Mob (while waiting for a bus)


Have you ever seen cheers?


Have you ever done psychedelics?


Have you taken a bus, on a few tabs?


considered each character

as the bus driver?

Like whether Norm could

would cause an accident,

or Sam would hit on all the girls

so the bus would always be late?

Carla might make a half day before killing someone.

Pennies in her silver slot. Something would set her off.

Cliffs would be empty. He would drive away the

text-(day)-walkers and old women would sit maybe

with hearing aid turned off.  Think about church, cat or

something they love. Tea.


I don’t think you have.

So shut the fuck up, and listen.

And turn off that god-dammed Tele-prison,

I want to educate you on the finer points of high

And low art.


Low art is when you make it.

(For corporate cock flock-herders who have fat and smoke and street corner eyes.)


High Art can be something else entirely.

You can leave the coliseum

walk down the street

and find a tree.

While the rest rock out to something Cool.

Maybe Tool!

And you can manage a Hilroy army or two between when

(You’re kissing fantasy dreams again, again, again[1]).

Lost to the flicker of no more video game screams!

I bet you have nothing on that, O. Henry!

Second Line of Questioning

(Just like the First line of Questioning, only worse)

Have you ever wasted your youth on a screen?

Have you ever been an easy mark?

I bet you have.

I Bet.

“I am art that’s


All shots!

All highs!

All hung!



I bet.”

I get High as your last three

hundred Rimbaud kites,

I dig the Kubla Kahn and an occasional (non athletically themed) diary or two.

Wrote about small impossibly unnecessary scams,

calling them poet cons.

Wrote hard drug literature but only

on weed and a few hits

From the fifth,



Oh, I bet you Have.

Have you ever made it in a church? On a bus? With some friends?

To the brink of light?  Further still?

Oh I doubt it, but let’s try it still…

The Third (the 3rds like the word and the word aren’t no birds)-

In fact they flock in herds

They shame you with a few flicks of their “frail”

Finger tip feather bound form.

So have you ever wished they were you, when you were born?

“Have you seen the newest episode?”

“The system adapts as quickly as the operator now.”

“I wonder where it’s going”

“I bet they end it soon. Season 8 tops.”

“Yeah in my opinion anything that’s not Cheers or Mash or something like that? Anything past 8 is death of story for the purpose of cashing an extra few bucks.”

“Fucking writers.”

“Let’s Kill Shit”

“Black Ops?”

“Zombies or Nuke?”

“Zombies. Always Nazi Zombies”


[1] See The Kids in the Hall scene where the dude has a fist of dollars and a weird looking stripper. Classic.Image