Fuck ups


We’re perfect for each other
mutually self-destructive
I want to have your babies
shipped off to Antarctica
I’d lock us up in a room
with only a bottle of whiskey
and our mouths for shot glasses
The music you write is part country
part razor blades and heroin binges
Makes me want to live in your veins
suck my oxygen through your bubbling gasps
If this were the thirties
I’d be face first in empty pockets
and you would be fit for the cloth straps
but it’s a glorious new millennium
They say we’re rockstars and role models
I think of you when I’m too drunk to think
just fuck ups with locked vaults for hearts
Perfect for each other


[Hello Stumblers, I hope you enjoy this piece.  I’ve noticed people posting this poem on blogs and I’m happy that it resonates.  If you do post it, I’d appreciate a link back to the original.  More so, though, I’d love your comments.]

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23 thoughts on “Fuck ups

  1. I must say this poem is one of the best i’ve ever read. The last 3 lines are amazing. Keep it up!

  2. this is an amazing expression of truth, but a truth that is heart breaking… It doesn’t have to be that way

  3. I am very new to this place but this poem took my heart away.. i am in first sight love , i better look it second time too… 😀

  4. Not much going on in this. The metaphors are mixed, the conceit is cliche, and the thought doesn’t go anywhere. You have a good line break here: “I want to have your babies/
    shipped off to Antarctica”

    and that’s the core of the poem. Everything else is just twaddle.

    • I won’t argue with you whether or not the conceit is cliché… two people that are absolutely wrong for each other but can’t separate is indeed as old as time. Not sure if that means it’s a subject that cannot be done again. Obviously, the idea is to take an old theme and see if you can add something new to it. Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.
      I would argue that the metaphors are not mixed… the first half of the poem is a snapshot in their world, it is multiple images, but all within the same context, establishing the scene of their demise. The second half of the poem switches the focus to more of a cultural commentary, where we’ve been and where we are now (with a specific literary reference that I suspect you will not know). Poems are allowed to transition.

      The fact that you focused on the most obvious lines (joke) in the piece tells me you gave this a light reading. The fact that you ended a review of a poem by calling it ‘twaddle’ tells me you aren’t really so much interested in critique, but in stirring up my ire and earning yourself some views on your own webpage. Fair enough. If I was petty, I’d delete your webpage link so that you would not be rewarded for your twaddle of a ‘review’, but hey, I don’t begrudge a poet trying to get more eyes on his work.

      Just consider, I gave your review more consideration and ink than you gave my poem. I’m not saying you have to like my poem. You can abhor it. But if you want to be a critic and not just a troll (and, thus, want your own poetry to be taken seriously), your criticism should have merit, it should be both constructive and specific. Good luck convincing the world that your voice should be heard.

    • I think most of the poem is a cliche. The metaphors are a contrived attempt at being alternative. At best it sounds like a parody and at worst it sounds like an over worked and glaringly obvious drive towards being troubled and misunderstood. At a base level it made me cringe.

      • I’m not sure that you understand the definition of ‘cliche’.

        Otherwise, the review is spot on.

    • This is exactly what I was going to say, so I’m pleased to see it already said.

      I also have to say I like the idea of “suck my oxygen through your bubbling gasps” alright, but not in this poem and especially not paired with “Makes me want to live in your veins”. The two images together are disturbing at best.

  5. This is incredible. Ive read it over and over and over. 🙂 SO amazing. Like I love it so much. Haha.

  6. There is no music in this poem, no inventive language, no interesting thoughts, nothing at all except over-written, adolescent narcicissim. Lines like “suck my oxygen through your bubbling gasps” and “They say we’re rockstars and role models” are cringeworthy. What will happen when you get to that tenth city, look back at a life of glorified alcoholism, and realize that not only do you have nothing interesting to say, but that you haven’t developed any craft to say it with?

    Read more.

    • The poem is what it is. I’ve never claimed it was anything of any exceptional talent, I have no control over its popularity.

      The fact that you, the anonymous internet commentator bitter with his empty life, has picked this one poem written 4 or 5 years ago as proof of my absolute deplorable character and lack of craft is quite interesting. I’m not sure what “craft” would stand up to your high standards, John, but maybe one of the hundreds of other poems, stories and articles I’ve written on here and elsewhere would match up. I’ll let you decide, of course.

      And actually, the majority of our most prodigious artists were alcoholics or addicts of a stronger nature, so I’m not sure why that would mean I have nothing interesting to say.

      Cheers.

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