D. B. DEVILLIERS

Poetry

Tag: tags

A Computer Curated Several Advertisements Just For Me

Season’s greetings I’m a content creator I create content and
I influence that’s right I’m
an influencer too
For bookings, contact: …
I create content
I influence
that’s right my influence is grown on a
server farm in another hemisphere
it’s fake influence but pretend pretend pretend with me
that’s where the content’s used as a fertilizer
its sole productive purpose
the waste products excreted by my mind, like this here
writing as a psychic eliminatory process
piped around in fiber optics
internet as a sewage pipe that flows really really fast
works better fertilizing than cow shit and yes it’s vegan it’s
gluten free it’s non gmo one
hundred percent certified content
potentially useful in the hobbyist manufacture of
high explosives been done before but
see now that’s off label use
shouldn’t do that, and well anyway let’s get to it
I’d like you to eat my content
now look here it’s real tasty got some zest to it don’t you
want to eat my content I’ll nuke a box of frozen
content for dinner tonight yeah
yeah why don’t we do that and while it
spins and machine whirs science heating
we can argue for instance about what words don’t
mean over dinner too why not why don’t we
argue have a nice topical argument good English manners
talk the weather argue the climate over some unevenly
heated content fresh from the microwave it’ll be
so very politic how terribly clever we are we can
split the brick cleaner it’s a stellar pairing why don’t we
trade swigs back and forth no need for glasses til we
choke in blood each of us trying to say
you’re not drowning I am
only producing pained spluttering monosyllables
interspersed frequently with hindbrain gurgling, indecipherable
but that’s a rather different manner of argument isn’t it because before
I didn’t believe in what I was saying anyway and
you didn’t believe in what you were saying and anyway
I didn’t think it really mattered you didn’t either and anyway
neither of us managed to change the other’s mind, unsurprising
and we were both wrong all along but at first at least we
sort of knew that but then we wound up accidentally
convincing ourselves we wanted to talk about
it and believe things and we wanted to
eat my content don’t you
don’t you.

Shouting

I don’t know if you can hear me but I’m shouting
I don’t know if you know this but
I’m trying this is a
new town a new place a new outlook a new
poem new eyes new this is a new car
this is new
this is an attempt
this is effort
this is killing me
this is slow death
this is me subverting a stereotype
this is where I do that
this is where I actively show weakness to people I don’t know
these are the problems of a man you wouldn’t like
this is how you ink a fountain pen
this is killing me
this is how you finish a liter of liquor in one short sitting
this is how you lose your mind
this is how
you can trust me I ought to know
this is how you think you’re worth it
this is how you write stilted verses on your
phone at three thirty in the
morning this is how many
milligrams you take and this
is how much you drink afterwards to
feel like at least tonight your
blood pressure probably won’t
rupture your eyes this is how you
take a deep breath and come back into
lower orbit this is how you think you’re
not batshit for a fleeting fucking
instant this is how you meet
new people this is how you
embarrass yourself this is
how you justify it this is how you
become unconscious
this is how you derive hope
this is how you lose your mind
this is how
this is killing me
I don’t know if you
can hear me but I’m
shouting.


It’s not so bad as it sounds.

Letter To Myself/Ravings

Years ago
I remember
I wrote myself a letter
to be opened at some distant point in time
one long since passed by;
funny how the future seems to become
the past without ever really
being the present at all
it just barrels along too fast for anyone to keep up
and that’s why I never opened that letter
which I’d fully intended to read on the date
the date I’d arbitrarily chosen for reading that letter
but we’re two different people
my past and present selves
and not two people who’d get along
no, if I could speak to myself in the past
or pose a question to myself in the future
I wouldn’t
I wouldn’t say a fucking thing
because what I’d say to me at seventeen
if I could think of anything to say
would fall on deaf ears that
don’t know that
they can’t hear
and anything I could ask the future
couldn’t be answered—
not in any way I’d understand.

Maybe this is what people talk about
when they talk about living in
the moment
and taking it day by day
and those sorts of cliches
but I always figured it’d bring about some zen-like calm
serenity state of self-secure sangfroid.
No, another concern just slides up to take its place
like hydra heads springing from severed stumps.

There’s no winning since
all the players die first
the game beats itself
when no one’s left alive to play
and then it ceases to exist
for a game is no more than the people who play it.
I guess that’s why life itself is one game I don’t play
to win.
It’s rigged every which way
and it always wins
I don’t.
I guess the reason I play at all is that I’ve always done it
I can’t remember any different
and I often think about how I can jump to my feet, overturn
the table
draw down on the dealer
contact range, base of skull
crack
turn, level the pistol
toward the door, crack
crack crack round the deadbolt
bring my boot-heel to bear upon the mechanism and
run off into the night
but where would I go?
and what would I do?
I’ve got a sinking feeling that there’s
nothing past that door except nothing
so I’ll keep quiet and I’ll keep playing
keep losing, keep losing, keep the piece in its holster
dealers dealing, doors barring
medullae and lock cylinders intact.
I have a vague, sinking sense that there’s
nothing, nothing better out there.

Besides, the room is warm
the company’s not bad
the drinks are cold
and I’m losing with
utterly impeccable style
which in my experience is
much more memorable than merely
winning.

I haven’t read the letter, don’t intend to.
I’m too busy keeping busy
for
that.