D. B. DEVILLIERS

Poetry

Tag: alcoholism

April 28, 2023

For Niki—In Lieu of a Text

hey nik been a minute
doubt I’ll text you so I’m doing this
you never read these anyway, did you
anyway, hope you’re well.
heard you started working where I used to work
it’s not a bad job.
I’ve had worse.
I went and got sober again. going on five
months already now wow
lost the benz oops
my mind too, lost that for a while
it sucked pretty bad.
missed you, might even still
miss you, but I don’t think I’ll
text you, I doubt I’ll
text you, I shouldn’t text you, so I’m
doing this. hey nik, missed
you. might even still
miss you.
I’m glad you didn’t die. I’m glad I
didn’t die. it was cool meeting
you. sorry I went into psychosis.
sorry you went to jail. heard you’re
working where I used to work.
doubt I’ll text you so tell randy I said hi
if you meet him, he’s all right.
missed you, might even still.
wish you hadn’t gone back to jail.
wish I hadn’t gone back Out
There but hey nik.
that’s life
isn’t it.

hope you’re good. have a good night.

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December 11, 2022

Who Dares Wins

I’m terribly afraid
so very afraid all the time, see
I can throw a punch and I can
fire a pistol and I can drink
more than anyone I’ve ever known
and those are some things I’m afraid of.
I guess it takes a lot to not.

Here are some of the things I can’t do:
I unfortunately cannot catch a bullet
and if someone punched me in the gut with conviction right now I’d probably go down
and if I stop drinking right now
I might potentially seize on the ground
Dustin, maybe fifth time is the
charm, maybe, they’ll teach me a little
hope

I think I used to know
I was young once
I was eleven years old
I stepped up to the plate and I
swung as hard as I could
and the ball sailed by, a foot above the
bat, and a second after I
swung it

out
the coach said, they don’t have
umps in little league usually
I had no arm, and I had no swing
and I wasn’t going to argue

and I got the ball! this now was basketball
and I ran like hell, I’m not sure anyone
ever felt like they ran so fast
and I shot it
but I was on the wrong side of the court
and anyways I missed the layup

then I was a swimmer
and that, I could actually do
the simple repetitive motions
no team, no coordination, just
move through the water

when I finally got good I was a sprinter
I swam in high school, got my jacket and
all that
I swam the fifty and one hundred freestyle
and also the b-team relays but
the fifty was my best
junior year I meditated on a
23 point for months
and at districts I dove in
(my dive was awful, as was my streamline, and my
flipturn, but I am strong, and I am stubborn, and
I always fucking fight

I pulled a 25.5, which isn’t even too bad
I took third in the second heat or
second in the third or some shit

the guy who won swam a 20 point
which is spectacular
so I introduced myself and congratulated
“Fast Eddy,” it said on his warm-
up jacket
a freshman
skinny little lanky kid, best kinda swimmer

if I remember right, he won states
seemed like a nice guy
he was proud
as he well shoulda been

the next year, I didn’t swim

do we ever get over ourselves? Does
childhood ever really end? And I’m not
talking about decorating Christmas trees and
bike rides with friends, I mean
do we ever stop thinking about the races we lost
the swings we missed
and some things we kinda remember
kinda forget
the root of it all
things too awful to
remember, to forget, to write about,
to tell your parents, they said
not to, right
and they’re the grownup
but that’s a poem for another day
and in any case
I don’t even know if it was real

I had a sales job once, some half a
pyramid scheme sort of thing when I was
eighteen
and my close rate was damn near ninety percent and
I remember every sale I missed
but only a couple that I made

I worked at a resort too, super cool job
and I remember every single awkward inter-
action I ever had
and very few of the ones where I really helped
the guests have the wonderful
vacation they were paying
through the nose for.
But it was a cool job, that
I remember.

there were some things I was good at
as a kid:
I could take tests
I could write essays
and for whatever reason for the most part
people seemed to want to like me
but nobody really cheers for all that

my big awkward uncoordinated ass was
trying to drive some golf balls today off my
parents’ front lawn
They’re letting me crash here for a couple
days and
it’s kinda therapeutic

one I smacked really good, like I nailed it
couple hundred yard drive prolly, if the
trees weren’t in the way
but the next one
my dad had come out just to see what the
hell I was up to
he stood for a minute watching
I put the ball on the tee and I swung four times
missed completely, each one

then I went inside and we watched a
Christmas movie
and I wrote this poem.

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December 10, 2022

Drowned Runners

I was thinking earlier today, when I put on
a sad song to listen to
while smoking the cheapest cigarette sold
and it felt cinematic and I thought about
what my funeral might look like
and what song I would ask them to play
and then the thought occurred to me
of fifteen people or so standing around a
box of me, awkwardly, and a
hole while something I
thought would be nice plays on a
Bluetooth speaker and everyone
avoids eye contact, waiting for the
three or four minutes to end,
and I thought about this and I finished
my cigarette
and I vomited something that looked like
coffee rinds.

this is not pretty, this is not beautiful,
this is exactly what it has to be
and I’ll write until I can’t move my
fingers anymore
I have to
I’ll wake up at like two o
clock in the morning and I’ll look at the
boxes of everything I still own and I’ll
wonder about a few things, beer
in hand

will they sell these socks? They were good
socks and someone will appreciate

them, and
no
no one will appreciate them except for me
they’ll end up in whatever landfill services
my corner of this black flammable rock
and they’re pretty good socks
because who has the time

people die, people live, people make
do

my guitar, I just bought it! It’s in my car
in an impound lot
my best friend got drunk and stole my
car and I guess my guitar too ha
ha
and he got it impounded and I guess
managed not to get a dui
he’s a lucky guy
like that

and I’m not even mad
(I’m only white-hot homicidally furious)
and I can’t make it right myself because
as my one or two regular readers know
I am simply and profoundly
alcoholic
and probably would’ve wrecked my fancy
fucking car anyway on a
long enough
timeline
so fuck it
right

but I would’ve liked to have had my guitar

I want to take the keys to my car and
hold them upright against the surface of my
childhood desk and sit there for a second
work up the will
and then bring my head down, swiftly, so
the key pierces my eye far enough to hit
grey matter

probably wouldn’t kill me
nevermind then
why bother
who cares
the binary thinking of the critically ill
mentally at least, and sometimes physically
so then how the fuck do I end this poem
I have to deal with things and don’t have
time to stay up all damn night writing it,
though I would, in better circumstances
but these are the circumstances I have

this is not a cry for help
this is a screaming atomic banshee shreik
help me
please if you can
help me

a person (this poet)
cannot and has never been
able to outrun
himself and so finally I’m overtook
my race ends
they fire the starting gun again and again and they pull the runners up out of the pool
they set their bodies up for the rifle
portion of the event
the bodies don’t fire, of course, they’ve
drowned because they’re
runners you put
in a pool

you never even taught them to swim
let alone to
fire rifles

yeah god, that last one is directed at you.

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November 22, 2022

Yellow-tooth unsmile

Did you guys know I used to write poetry
a hundred thousand years ago I wrote
a poem
only one I ever wrote
I thought it was beautiful
I thought a lot of things were beautiful
once upon a time a million years
ago I thought words meant
anything, and then I drank a
lot and a lot of people had to
die and I don’t fucking know
why I wasn’t
one of them
but I wasn’t, and so what now

a long long time ago I wished to
know the unhappiness I know
quite well now
and if I had to guess I’d guess that in
ten years I’ll write another poem
talking about the fresh miseries
I couldn’t even conceive now but sure
will
ten years from now
that’s if I’m lucky

the feelings are never new, nothing is new
just the intensity
maybe if I’m lucky, sometimes I think
I won’t have hands to write with ten
years from now through the dirt
I was so many things I am so many things
what the fuck happened
what have I done
I look in the mirror and I say affirmations
that’s my shame
I look in the mirror and smile yellow and
that’s my shame

I don’t smile anymore
that’s my shame
I can’t look at the consequences
I listen to my favorite song and I want to
tell the frontman he
ruined my life
and then ask him for a cigarette
while we smoke I’ll ask him:
when you started in music was it your
intention to kill your fans and he’ll say

no
I don’t know
I never really thought about it

or one of them walked off stage
when a fan told him that her
sister killed herself to the song he
had begun to play
he left the venue and drank himself into
oblivion, is what I heard
and he still is, is what I hear

there is a burden to making art
no it ain’t digging canals or mining coal
but there is a toll
and I think about this and do I even want it
considering my usual subject matter
if I ever get a fan
will I kill them
but then I consider, it isn’t the making art
in itself that’s the problem
it’s the psychological deficiencies which
lend themselves to art-making

oh well Dustin that’s a little much isn’t it
well I don’t know if it is
life imitates art, sort of thing
ha
ha

I am too much, always been
should I change?

yeah

and when I’m happy
if anyone is
I will throw my typewriter

(I still use one; there is a satisfaction
in relatively simple mechanical objects
typewriters, pens, guns)

from the top of the highest cliff I can find
I already have one picked out
just waiting on the first part

but the more likely outcome, of course
when I’m gone someone else will
let it collect rust and stardust in their
basement or garage because no one
wants to write but
some people
seem to
have to

someone said that they’ll love him when
he’s dead
but I’m loved right now
not for my art, of which there is
none
these are the ravings of a fucked up mind
which is already
readily apparent

I wear my shame like a mirror

and I see myself in it
always

my brother hasn’t spoken to me since
July of this year
and my sister hadn’t spoken to me since
July of this year
I imagine myself writing about
how I’ve not spoken to my siblings
in fifteen years and I’m
stubborn enough to do that
if I’m lucky enough to live that long
and he was married to a nice girl
and my sister dates one too

I’m drunk enough to write a poem
my roommate is drunk enough to
burn the house down
he’s making bacon
the quotidian bullshit of life
it’s 2:40am
I am
the sum total
of very little
I’m 6’1 and I’m
cooking breakfast
my mercedes
benz sits in the driveway
and I listen for the
repo truck like my
Dad did a hundred
thousand years
ago

I sit and lately I watch the TV
and I watch the shows I’ve seen maybe
ten or fifteen times
and I talk to them
the characters
I advise them
who are often about to die
how not to
and now that I write about it I think
I never advise the killers how to kill
maybe maybe maybe
please let it be true
I’m not that bad

I don’t know what broke my heart
was it a girl in 2013
was it myself in 2012
did I die on that beach of my
own fucking volition
sometimes I think I’m already dead
I don’t know what broke my heart

are you really there
would anyone even read this
I wouldn’t
but are you there
am I going to die
I’m asking you
am I
do I have to
I don’t want to

do I have to

I don’t want to
do I
have to?
yes
well will I then and when
probably not yet
but when I’m gone maybe someone will
read this and think
damn
he was hung up on himself
and even thought he could
preempt this criticism by
mentioning it
but it doesn’t work that way
and I am what I I I I I
a common feature in my writing, the I
I I I I I am so
fucking important
aren’t I
aren’t I

and there is always an end to the poem
all things end
thank fuck
the circuit closes the liver
fails and a curtain falls and
my parents cry
no father should ever bury his son
someone once told me
is there second life, am I re-
incarnated as a toad in the middle
of a road
like someone else said
I hope so

I don’t have much hope anymore but
maybe I will again
I hope so.

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June 2, 2019

Some Things Are Important To Me And You’re One Of Them

is there any saving me
I hope so
long countdown to finding out what we are
what we always knew
which is fucked.

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May 28, 2019

How To Go To Work/The Security Standards In Heaven Are Pretty Lax

you get drunk pass out you suffer from
menial problems you become
enraged at the broken dryer and
now you don’t have clothes to wear to work
you wear them anyway gotta have a job
your hands and feet tingle from a lack of
circulation this is a new development you
wonder from which poor decision this has most
probably stemmed
you drive in anyway
your shaky fingers stumble to punch in but you do and
you know from which poor decision exactly this
problem has stemmed
condition upgraded to functional
or downgraded as the case may be
you stand there and you have nothing to say
and hello good morning how are you
you say hello and good morning anyway and I am uh
good thanks how about you
it’s one of those days isn’t it
why yes it is except no one says it and you never say it can’t
show weakness now and even though you don’t know why and
even though you always are
and this was gonna be a happy poem but I guess
life isn’t that
but hell I ain’t dead yet
and when I am I’m gonna
stand up tall
take a good pull
draw down on Saint Peter
right there outside of paradise and
kick the fucking door in.

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March 12, 2019

Let’s Go Swimming Together Forever

And I’ll run run run away quit my job not
even quit go on break drive off again never call I’ll
do it again and again why doesn’t this all fit
together why can’t I make it fit why doesn’t
it fit what the fuck is wrong with me does it
fit anyone or do we all just kind of go
on unfitting and some people either stop
noticing or always or sometimes notice and just deal with
it but why can’t I just do that why am I always
thinking about it the unfitting maladjustment guess
given my decision making I’m not doing myself any
favors and but I can’t help but think somewhere there
must be some individual specimen of primitive
organism recently evolved to breathe air that gets
tired of breathing air and walks back into the ocean
and that’s more me than I am but here I am
still breathing air.

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February 4, 2019

Transit/Stasis

Right time wrong place write it why not
it’s only ink paper and time you’re the
only one who has to know if that’s how you want it
but no that’s not in your nature you crave the
attention much as you hate that
you need it as much as you hate the
very notion of a need for attention in
anyone but write it write it out parse it learn something
about yourself this is how you do it you
introverted exhibitionist you’re a
curious piece of work aren’t you
curious enough you hope but enough for what
for money? recognition? to escape death?
to understand? to understand what
to finally understand what the fuck it is you want?
or rather to finally just hurry up and want anything more than
one more drink to want anything
more than mere escape
because you can’t do that no one can and your efforts
will kill you and that’s not escape
because time time time it passes it
runs out that’s what it does it’s
cirrhosis a bad wreck a short rope the end of time
but wasn’t faulkner a drunk too yeah but wasn’t he also a
miserable son of a bitch and if all you had to do to
create great work was suffer and be miserable
would you do it if you could make that choice
but it doesn’t work that way the work comes second and
you suffer anyway and most of us aren’t lucky enough
good enough whatever to create much of anything
so now you’ve got something written down to
remember it by but it’s transient transitory transit
transition into another sentence what’s the word thought phrase page
word thought thought word salad this long forgetting o fallibility
of memory of all things but maybe if you really write it you’ll
know yourself a little better afterwards but out of ink paper and time you’re
running out of one and you need all three to do the thing
or four if you count actually having something to
say but who has that dostoyevsky? kant? probably they did but
who knows after all what the fuck did socrates know about himself anyway
did alexander know himself well enough to know that the
typhus would kill him does god know he’s a kid holding a
magnifying glass to an anthill on a sunny day do you figure
pol pot knew himself or bin laden or the
buildings or the planes or the murdered
millions and all the time ravels
out and you into it and
it into you and the
page too.

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August 17, 2018

Apologies Without Apologies

How many times how many
ways can I say
I can’t do it
how much more emphatically should I have insisted
and I never meant to hurt you
I really didn’t
but I guess that doesn’t mean I didn’t do it
does it.

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August 4, 2018

Alleviative Measures, Primarily Liquor

I guess then I’m going to
drink until I can’t stand or
at least drink until I
can’t stand it anymore
or more likely both
and then I’ll get there
and then I’ll get there again and
again and again and
I’ll have gotten somewhere and then
I won’t really remember where so
why not do it again maybe
next time I’ll remember where
it was I got to last time or
next time or whenever I guess
when doesn’t matter much I think
I’m gonna go ahead and
have another
drink.

I think I might even write a poem about it.

 

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