D. B. DEVILLIERS

Poetry

Tag: writing

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.

Clever

The world’s fucked up
never really been up for dispute
but I doubt the world’s got much to do with it
if I’m fucked up
and I’m glad for that
it really is nice not starving
but isn’t it weird the way
easy life can be so goddamned hard
and here I hate my petty problems and I hate my stillborn failures
I hate my weakness and my fear and my anger and my hate
and I really fucking hate these clever little contradictory life paradoxes about
how ease is somehow difficult
I really do
which is a shame because I think I’m pretty good at coming up with them
used to amuse me but anymore they’re mostly
kind of cruel
all cute and succinct
an ego thing, maybe, like some very mild targetless sort of bullying—
I invite you to imagine me
sitting at a desk
in a room
anno domini twenty and eighteen
slamming right the carriage return lever after that line
cold coffee, stale cigarette smoke
smug little self-satisfied smile
being clever
being really clever

I bet you can see it
it’s been an easy image to cultivate, really
I just tell everyone I meet I’m a writer and that’s that
carry around a little notebook, never use it
mispronounce the names of philosophers misquoting books I’ve never read
probably thinks he’s lost, broken, unfit, unique just like everyone else
and no shit he just did it again with the paradoxes
can’t even help himself I bet
only he didn’t come up with that one himself
got it from a movie or a TV show or something
ah plagiarism old friend glad to see you glad to
and but wait was he trying to make some kind of cogent point here?
I’m not sure
but I feel better now
paper’s cheap
and anyway
I wrote this on a screen.

Words/Futility

I am Dustin’s senseless existential rage
directed via typebar hammer blows against
this blank page
for lack of a better target.
It bleeds painlessly in ink
a delusion of something less
impotent.


 

This works better in its original typewritten form but in any case, here we are.

Or Rather, Don’t Bother—It’s Not Important

Won’t you please just
get to know me won’t you
please just tell me what
you find since I don’t
know a fucking thing
about me.

Glamorous Drunken Poem Re: Clinical Depression—Merit Badge Of Writers Since Time Immemorial

I’m almost nearly drunk enough to write
so write I shall—
it’s strange
well not really
but it’s that time of year
when I breathe smoke and the
dormant shivering skeletal trees loom
and no matter that things are
going exceedingly well for me as of late
no matter
no matter
because it’s in my blood
or so they say
I wish it weren’t so
but in any case
there’s no hope
it doesn’t matter
even if there were hope
I’d die
die die
die
it doesn’t matter
it doesn’t
matter
these things end one way
I feel nothing but anger or at least I feel it
in the way that despair manifests
as anger
never been an angry man
but here I am
becoming what I never was
and always will be
these words mean nothing
even to me
just drunken non-meaning
because maybe I’ll live
and be happy someday
right
or maybe I’ll die and
never be
and still
it won’t matter.

It always comes
in the fall
the cynicism the dark fucking
turn of my goddamned
broken mind
and all I can do is write it
or what would I do
what would
I
do.

I’ll get past it, I will
I always have but still
I wish this was good
I really do
but it isn’t
and that’s the very very
best I can
do.

Purpose

Much of what I write
has no point
which, incidentally
is the point
and a funny little paradox
I won’t begin to understand.

Prompt: Police officer must deliver bad news to a family, can only speak in rhyme

“Good evening sir, I’m Deputy Barron. I’ve come bearing bad news–that much is apparent. But before I begin, I must take some time to describe my affliction: I speak only in rhyme.

I’ve lifelong been sickened, so very much stricken by this rare condition–no chance of remission. I beg be forgiven as you sit and listen, for what I must tell you will make your cheeks glisten.

Please glance at this photo, for I simply must know. Is the little boy pictured your son, Billy Joe?

In that event, sir, I do deeply regret–he took a hard fall from the schoolyard swing-set. An ambulance drove right up onto the green, and EMTs pronounced him dead on the scene.

I don’t often do this thanks to my affliction–I’m typically found in our station’s kitchen–but when the need be, and there’s no other way, I can’t dodge my duty, no matter the day.

So with that, my friend, I’ll be on my way. My welcome is something I won’t overstay. Through these hard weeks, I pray you fare well. The department will reach out with details to tell.”