My Top Facts That Sound True But Actually Aren’t.

To tell the truth, I am completely full of shit. Do not make the mistake in thinking that I am a bad person because of this, it is really on the contrary. I am one of the few people out there who is honest about how full of shit I actually am.

I understand and accept this about myself so that instead of using my inclination for deception to sell you a steal-of-a-deal 2008 Kia Sorento that, “my manager is gonna be so pissed I’m giving it away for this low”, I channel my deceitful ways into my writing. A writer is essentially just a bullshit artist on paper, after all. I have met enough writers who write bullshit and see themselves as artists, anyway.

But enough of me passing off my flaws as strengths as if I’m in a job interview at Sherwin-Williams Paints that I showed up a half hour late and visibly hungover for. I want to talk about you. You are a nice person, but honestly, you’re a little boring. You know this and all of your friends now this. Your suspicions are all correct, your friends and family definitely do talk about you behind your back and none of it is good. I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you, but we talk and they all agree with me. Your uncle has started gambling again too, by the way. Now, before you accept this and go back to watching Grey’s Anatomy and scrolling through NowThis articles like the dull, sad, creatively-bankrupt sack of shit that you are, just know that there is hope.

In the unlikely event that you get invited to a party, it’s integral to create the illusion that you are well-informed, clever, and funny. To do this, all you need to do is to tell fellow party-goers these essential facts to be rewarded with a slew of admiration and respect. Keep in mind that none of these facts are real, but the fact is it doesn’t matter. All you have to do is spit them out with conviction and you will be on your way to being the seemingly interesting person that every struggling Instagram influencer aspires to be.

Without further ado, here they are:

  • A mile is how fast a steamboat can travel in an hour.

 

  • Heineken was invented as a cheap cure to allow Dutch people to forget that they are Dutch.

 

  • The bass guitar was developed by the Christian Mentors Network as a means to allow their members to pursue music and retain sexual abstinence.

 

  • Curling is the only sport left that’s whites-only (I’m actually not sure if this one is fake or not, research it before you use it).

 

  • There is a law in Val Marie, SK that states a man can have sex with his cousin. But he can only do it once, and only if she’s, like, crazy hot.

 

  • Scientists have yet to answer whether men with mustaches develop foot fetishes or if men with foot fetishes prefer to grow mustaches.

 

  • Women evolved from birds.

 

  • Pornography started out as the first indie wrestling films during the 1920s and the genre just kind of got out of hand.

 

  • Morrisey has a part-time job as a collection agent working out of Rawlins, WY. He doesn’t need the money or anything, he just enjoys being a dick to poor people.

 

  • The Premier of Saskatchewan, Scott Moe, is a woman and she actually makes a decent broccoli casserole. Her husband, Darrin, is a pretty chill guy, too.

 

And there you have it. I doubt that you will handle these with dignity or grace, but if you can manage to sputter one of these out to another human being and not spittle Cheeto-dust and rancid breath on them, you might do OK. Until next time, always remember that it’s better to be full of shit than feel like shit.

-BD Charles.

 

 

 

Poetry Belongs

Poetry.
What is that? It is all, it is nothing,
it is deep, it is trite, it is to be cherished and preserved like a precious wedding ring,
it is an archaic, irrelevant, dainty art
it is shite, it is smart.
Poetry is a dead dream.
Poetry is alive and well, if you’d only care to see.

Poetry is the shit, poetry is ass. It depends on who you ask.
Who does poetry belong to? To whom does poetry belong?
It depends on whom you ask.
Poetry belongs to the teenage girl.
Barely older than fourteen, Heartbroken, destroyed and broken by the love of her life. She pens her tears, her fear, and her petty smears.
She is certain that she will never find love again.
The poet has had love and lost, Her voice is found in loose leaf despite rolling eyes.
They do not understand, they cannot critique,
What this boy meant to her that she dated for two weeks.
Is poetry pretentious? Does the best work only work for the best of us?
It depends on who you ask.
Poetry belongs to the spoken word poet in Vancouver or Seattle,
the mumble-rapper, the modern beatnik.
Armed with stones and sticks, legends of their own minds, ready for battle.
They provide the fuel this world needs in the energy crisis.
Refraction of self-satisfaction.
Perpetual motion of the ego drives to resolve the plagues of the earth, to be the scourge of evil.
The perpetual engine exhausts a smog of smug, echo chambers power the poet’s societal upheaval.
Is this all there is to see in poetry?
In 14-year-olds and $14 cups of coffee?
It depends on who you ask.
Poetry belongs to those who need it most.
To those who have no voice or to those who need to boast.
It belongs to the farmer, the working man, the average Joe.
It belongs to jealous, the sad, the glad and the mad.
Any poetry written is serendipitous- even if it is lame, limp, self-righteous and insipid. Any poetry written is within the collective soul, whether it is hidden or for show.
It belongs to those who are always talked over, interrupted, and never given speech. Silenced by family or by government, countless stories are never given release.
It belongs to the pure and the corrupt alike, it belongs to the straight, the gays, and it even belongs to the …
Sike!
But there is a place for that too, in this oddity that is poetry.
As is with all, poetry must end,
That is the only fact certain to be true.
Please do not jeer, please do not boo.
For I am a poet, my psyche is much too fragile to defend
this laughable cliché I pass off as insightful thoughts, my friends,
that poetry belongs to you.

Home Away From Home (I Love You, Man)

Warm lights glow, warm friendships grow.

This is home.

Spent all day invisible, I spent all day on my phone.
As a nobody to everybody.

But not here.

Here, your entrance elicits a standing ovation.
Hoots, hollers, and laughter fill the room on your arrival,
Here, all of your words fall on intent ears and sincere consideration.
It’s warm lights, warm people, and chilled beer,
It makes it all worthwhile, it’s an episode of ‘Cheers’.

Here,
All pretention is gone, nothing or no one is better in another’s eyes.
You can lower your shield, shed your disguise.
Life is pretty damn good as a barfly.

Come, all ye desk jockeys, scholars, rig pigs, hillbillies, the old and the young.
Come, here we are legion, here we are one.
No one’s too good for anyone, nor is one too classless to be here.
Hell, it’s not even cliché to my fellow patrons that twice I rhymed “Beers” with “Cheers”.

You can have a seat, get away from the grand workings of the world
That you’re too tired to understand
Not that you care, as you’re not part of the plan.

But here, on elbow floors of oak, you are king, jester and knight.

In great halls, in stoic stalls,
In the land of marble, basins, and waterfalls
Friday philosophers clash wits, anecdotes, and intellect.
On all matters of utmost importance
In life, death, religion, and politics
Clear messages of heated passion battle through slurred speech, twisted tongue, hiccups
-and interruption.

But here,
It’s all in fun, it’s to stimulate the mind
To explore new ideas, or just pass the time.
We’re all speakin’ the truth, with just the right amount of uncited sources,
And just the right amount of lies.

We may not agree but respect our loud, distorted discourse.
And just love the company, love to be heard.

Advertising

Curse you, relentless salesmen
You marketers of young and old
Who hound me to buy, to consume products sold
Again, again, and again

For now, it is the way, we cannot go a day
Without one million voices telling us
We are too ugly, too fat, too grey
We have no value without a sale of value
Our only hope and dreams lie with what we buy and dare not to discuss
We want more sex, we buy more drugs
But God forbid, that we dare discuss
Sex and drugs

Don’t let it cause you stress
Chill, let us sell you a pill
Reality is overrated, reality is a mess
I’m the Dr. here. Now, get the fuck out of my office. I have plenty more Xanax to shill

Watch TV, go on Facebook and Twitter to ease your mind
Our prospects of sales
Are very close behind
Here we are again, you cannot hide
Here we are again, without fail

Be your own boss!
Work your own hours!
But you have to have profits, no room for loss
Be aggressive in sales, do not let financially weak friends cower

We will return after a message from our sponsors
Was the way of the old
Like, follow, and subscribe
For new content every week
Is the way of the new

Advertise to your children
To find inspiration within
For wherever they look
They will only see a sales pitch, a marketing hook
A deal most fair
A Toxic world that’s 50% off if they buy in bulk
A Bud Light Monster Energy Deluxe White Trash Nightmare
A pseudo-entrepreneurial snake, a sales-machine, a marketing-Hulk

They will convince our flesh and blood
As they have convinced us
That it is is better to be brand
“I AM MY OWN BRAND”
Than it is to be human
They have convinced us
It is better to define ourselves with a logo- to forget our soul, forget pride and shame
But onwards we go
Glady we advertise- we peddle cheap, placebo shit for the Instagram fame
“I AM BUILDING MY OWN BUSINESS”
We say as we give our loyal customers a 20% discount to a supplement sponsor
As we purchase retweets and answers
We have convinced ourselves it is better to live as a brand,
Than it is to define ourselves, to live on our own values
To live as a man.

 

The Meter Maid

This is the day of the meter maid
Onward you endure, onward underpaid
What you do is completely thankless
No child aspires to clean a public street mess
Not to mention your boss nor the public gives a piss
About you
Onward you endure everyday, with a neon yellow vest
To give high visibility, to a life so blue

“I’ve already started writing the ticket.”
You mumble with a sigh
And prepare yourself for the screaming, swearing, and death threats
Your daily replies
You take it all in
You don’t power trip
You politely say,
“I’m sorry sir.”
And wipe your face of all the spit

You take it all in stride
But you kind of hate your life
You have no room for pride
You need to feed your children
You do it for your wife
So you sleep, rise, and face the day again
Onward you endure, onward underpaid
The simple life of a humble meter maid

The Life of An Adult-Baby Daddy

I took the last drag of my cigarette and exhaled the cancerous, delicious tar slowly. The poisonous mist danced gracefully away and disappeared into the hot summer air. My eyes gazed up towards the stars wistfully. I wanted to light another one to prolong the peace of the summer night and the beautiful sky. I knew deep down that I had to go back inside.

Back to her.

I entered my house slowly, with the caution of an experienced burglar. I slunk over to fridge to grab a beer, then plopped down on the couch and opened my Miller High Life, opening it ever-so delicatley as to make as little noise as possible. A pop and a small hiss escaped the cylinder. I turned on the hockey game and watched mindlessly. It’s all I wanted to do after my 10-hour shift, I needed this. Maybe tonight I could finally get some normality.

“Honey. We need to talk.”

Maybe not.

“Ok. What is it?” I asked. Although I didn’t need to, knew exactly what was coming. I knew I had to choose my words carefully. I knew that my life will never know peace.

“I’ve had a rough day today, and my anxiety is really bad. I’m going to revert tonight. Probably in five minutes or so. I need a diapy change.” Those words pierced the core of my soul.

“Alright- well- look, this is a playoff game. The Jets haven’t been this close to the Cup in a long time and there’s only 10 minutes left in the third period. Just let me watch it and-”

“No! ” She shrieked. “Baby need diapy change and stowy-time now!”

I sighed deeply, but not loud enough for her to hear, and turned off the TV. I held her hand and walked her to our bedroom. I sleep in a bedroom with over 200 stuffed animals.

I thought back to when Melissa had told me she was into some weird roleplaying when we first met at a La Dispute show in 2015. I just assumed that meant she liked to pretend she was a school teacher or a cop or something during sex. I never imagined it would be anything like this. She was cute, fun, and seemingly cool when I met her. I was a young, desperate fool who just had to have a girlfriend. Too desperate. Now here I am, reading “Green Eggs and Ham” to a 22-year-old with a septum piercing, a pacifier, and sparrow tattoos.

My life is a cruel joke. I drive to work and back every day in complete silence. No radio, no podcasts. Nothing. It’s the only solitude I get in a day and I cherish it dearly. My friends belittle me mercilessly, and my family does not take me seriously. I have to adhere to all of her rules and follow Melissa’s vegan diet, I haven’t had friends over for a BBQ or even grilled a steak in years, I’m not even sure I can anymore. I’m not sure I can do any of this anymore.

I snapped out of my cruel past and back into my cruel present. It was her “beddy-time”. I carefully played my part in her routine of singing “Mary Had A Little Lamb” to her, putting on her jammies, and tucking her into her crib. The crib that I had spent my Christmas bonus on last year.

“I wuv you, daddy.” She said in her faux sleepy voice. It’s a good thing I had died inside long ago, or else that would have sent me into a furious rage.

“I- I wuv you too.”

I sat back down on the sofa, I downed my Miller in one thirsty swallow and immediately cracked another. In total tranquillity and darkness I stayed, staring into the void. The late-night infomercial salesmen were far more comforting than they could ever imagine. I had thought that I could finally be free for the night. That was the case until Melissa’s piercing cry molested the moment over the baby monitor. In one long and efficient numb-seeking slurp I finish my second beer- It’s time to be “Daddy” again.

My mother always wanted me to have a baby, and now I do. Do not live like me, for I am dead.