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lemonade
five porches
three households
one and the same
fatty son
dumbass stepdad
momma tired of this shit
and 1/3 of melon each
talking grades/shopping/holidays
but car's still parked 3 months and going
with the phone bills still on hold
fuck
news be blasting from inside
dreams float murdered in the coffee cups
parfait and lemonade
sounds of fifa/beatings/summer hits
and time melting away by the sun
like a balkan miami
with the palm trees lighting up
just so husbands and housewives can see
how far it feels from sidewalk
just in case they one day slip
accidentally i guess
bad lungs
hoping off the subway with my stress
step by step by counting breaths
till i get to see you
(or till these steps add up)
and hit each other with the how are you's
oh you know's
fine and you's and all that mumble
that gets draining if i can’t speak them in person
with my mouth buried in you
but you don't vibe with kelela or yourself
and i've run out of the words worth wound licking
or my tongue must have dried out with all that
don't you start again with all that shit's
until you hit the filter
cough just once and curl upon me
telling you to cut on fucking up your lungs
you give me *kanye shrugs*
and say i worry way too much for way too little
time grows legs to catch the night train
can't afford to catch a breath
or tell you i got too afraid that i will miss you
so i sink my voice in tv
playing an artsy flick we have already seen
and only speak to say some bs i don't feel
just for you to feel a thing about me too
even disgust
that i’d still fuck this cute dead poet from the 80s
satellite
the sun bleeds into my birthmarks
mother never really saw me laughing out loud
i don't know if it gets difficult to put it into words
or the past tense that is getting too fixed
still the hand guns chill my jaw down
and i'm gassed once again
sky slipping and hitting face first on the ceiling
i swim through my neck deep tar pit sinking
so much time spent on the surface
swimming grew out of my skin
waves pull me in
i’m busting my head open bumping satellites
until the stardust pours
and my thoughts get stuck in orbit
round and round the shore
round and round so devil catches up to me
but i got too short breathed ‘bout halfway there
guess i never really grew a pair for night swimming
or at least changing the title here
just sayin'
to the impressions of a drowned man
kristina rose
another batshit day living in miami
sun's been bouncing on your back
dog's been barely walking
and you are barely sliding on the beach road
red light ‘round the corner and the tires screech
peeking over the sunglasses for cute faces
but no luck
an obese man in a honda
two mild potheads working wendy’s
and a little girl behind a window crying like hell
all the sensitives might find some allegory
but who gives a fuck about them
another batshit day living in miami
how many can recall your name today
phone now rings only for rent
the tl got filled with incels
and the days pass on the bed
catching sunbeams from the blinds
like time passing
slowly fading just a bit above the ass
with the thought of someone somewhere right now
that could still be beating off to this in private
all the sensitives might find some vulgarity
i guess nobody fucked them after all
puzzle
no cap no cap
i'm picking up my pieces
hug them tightly till they cut my veins open
like fountains on the floor
no cap no cap
my arms feel stuck together on my wrists
they don't seem they fit my body
like they caught me pocket picking or just crying
feels like same guilt to me
no cap no cap
the door's wide open for the daring
who talks the talk about the arts and culture
but all he does is sneer or putting weights on my anger
fifty fifty if he has me on a beating
hunnid zero if i turn his face puzzled
no cap no cap
rEalLy BrO rEalLy
sweet chin music hitting speakers till he stays down
mAnNeRs EvEr HeArD oF tHeM
7 years jinxing and i'm all about it
wHeRe'S tHe ArT iN aLl Of ThAt AnD aLl YoUr cUlTuRe
bitch you fucking look right at it
58Hz
sooorry my bad didn't see ya
but they're hitting me with shoulders
sierras of them stacked in queue in front of me
so i pull mine up
(contagious like)
let them pass in peace
till i'm not seen panting
stuck at the same place since yesterday
i hit head first at their peaks
cannot catch them
they still run their lives right over 60 hertz
i’m still tied to 58
cause painkillers screwed my legs
and the soreness got me running late
by carrying all this shame around like a fucking dumbass
terracotta
fancy apartments by the shore
20k sleeping quiet on the parking lot
beaches on a plate and thai food places
fancy kiosks and artsy galleries
sun filled top floors
dancing back and forth before my eyes
carbon copies with the boujee grandpas on the bench
playing chess and fist fighting
with them broken lids and baked ass foreheads
made with messy terracotta
keys with gym memberships
picture perfect houses straight from ikea
soy milk inside the fridge
and relatives well put in office
heat waves hit my face while riding balconies
dropping rich kids and gold diggers
shoving refugees poor junkies and sex workers
so the grandpas finger point us from below
stop on getting their tongues messy
do the cross
thousand tabs open
world's right on my fingertips
slipping off and nowhere to be seen
stress and fomo fucks my sleep schedule
splinters in my eyelids and sawdust in my dreams
every noon i walk around in 2d
koniec
thousand tabs open in my head
either swimming in the highways
brawling trigger happy cokeheads never met
'fore i drop down semi dead with headphones on
as the roaches dance around me
every day every day every day
mixing lungs with the salt water
sad boy way to catch the wave
or i'm just way out of grip
way more than milk and honey
got fed up because the internet
way more than odyssey
got my style by the trial
way more than the dogtooth
got consumed by the fire
going round and round and round in the night
best families
you shut my eyes with wax
you rubbed my back on soap
until my insides light up
you drowned me with your milk and inner bitterness
you closed me in your arms
trying to latch me onto you
trying to get me used to you
hair turned ashy from your cigs
and you jump through threads and needles
ready just in time to sew me
from the stabs i got from birth
just in case rain gets my guts
but why even care
could be worse
i mean i used to be real nasty as a kid too
what can i really say to you
maybe that's how things should go right
even in the best of families
montreal
must be a while
cause your back got real chills by my hand
i say lean on me
you barely hid a laugh
but you can't catch up to smirk
you threw roots around and wrapped me
you say it’s not like that you need it and all that
it's just the habit of it all you know
you ain't too mad about it right
you would tell me
ain't that true
can you please speak up for once like fucking hell alex
dunno
d'accord d'accord
your dogteeth mon petite mort
got me rest in peace when i had so much more to say
eg
wish i had you in my arms every morning like the sun
run around the world with empty backpacks
fuck you on a hotel suite somewhere in montreal
because i never had a home to call home
besides you
how easily my thoughts untie with you
feels so surreal
how cutely your neck fits inside my hands
panic attacks in real time
time kicks my ass
and i melt away loony style
counting with my fingers all the days
it's gonna take to keep pretending having pulses
as i age in real time
until i see your face again
parasites crawl up my limbs
and my world's fucked upside down
like noe's climax
dutch tilt
americain
netflix and chill
and migraines that go off except on top of you
how can a poor ass sofa make room
for two bodies twist-and-turning in sweet rage
sugar scented sweat still dripping off the clothes
you're the best i've ever had
of all panic attacks left
and i'm a late bloomer
cause my sensors bloomed for real with you
alexnet
mom i'm leaving for the moma
things get lethal over here
nosy balconies and diving dreams
from the rooftops of the projects
ath or atl
life's a rodeo
all day making circles 'round the claw
and the art the only dope
(or the last resort before the black bloc)
i won't stop
till my face gets on the walls of your dystopia
like diamond in the coal
on god
i’m carrying myself just fine at last
so father stretch my hands
i feel like kanye right before the yeezus
and for that i thank my home sweet home
dusty grannies at the buses
all old classmates we don't talk no more
my city
and in case i just forgot about you
send your flowers and complains over at 127.0.0.1
about
So uhhh… “commonalex_”, “Common Alex”, “cOmMoN aLeX”..?
It’s basically the same, pick your fave, no biggie. It’s just that commonalex really blurs the line between an alias and a username, ever since people’s legal name seem more and more out of date for their purpose. A name assigned to you like that without any option back then can’t reflect the scumbag you ended up today, and people are slowly realising this. Like, how many can identify you just by your grandparents’ name generator and how many know you as that richie_tameimpala93 fuck that posts these shit ass stories everyone skips? How many know Bruce instead of Batman? How many know this kid instead of, uhhh, y’know, his actual name (yeah it’s in the title, I know, shut up)?
How did you come up with a poetry collection- you know- living and breathing in <<place current year here>>? Like, what the fuck?
You have a point there (laughs). I know well how cringey, dumb or miserable poetry slams can be, how pretentiousness creeps behind these weird haikus your aunt posts on fb and how exhausting all these rumblings without any trace of cohesion but a bunch of enters smashed here and there (cracking up). This is why I tried to not have a single line without a purpose. All that’s left is what I want to communicate as transparent and less chatterboxy possible to prove that whatever I made has a point and a place (hilariously shitting ourselves from manic laughter, a priest preaches above us at the moment and we get dirt thrown at us due to death by funny as hell humor and such).
Mmm, sounding a bit guilty. Like you were ashamed somehow to do something like this. Why’s that oh dear conventionalalexander_?
It was the most natural thing to put out as a finished work. Prose and short stories have their charm, ok, but I always have to convey what I want to say behind a cAtChY enough premise that seems worthy for someone to read it; even just for the aesthetics. With poetry I cut the middleman on one hand and on the other I get closer to the art format I prefer the most, music albums. I used this approach like I was writing my “album”, either by following some beat inside my head or planning out the structure of what I intended to capture with all this. So my collection consists of 12 “tracks”; enough to trigger an effect (or some sort of a situation) without getting tiresome. I know the attention spans I have to deal with. I don’t want to give people chores. I want to chat with someone as long as it takes to take a better peek inside my head.
That’s very woke, my man, congrats. Sensors really seem like just the right kind of thing to be put inside the literature textbooks of the future along with Rupi Kaur, Savannah Brown and this particular man over here.
I’m not delusional, Sensors ain’t getting anywhere. Not that I didn’t want it, in some sense. I planned to print 40 copies of it and push them for free to whoever would like to pity me, but the world decided to turn into a huge distributed big brother-esque shit filled people spamming 24/7 that we all are going to die. It didn’t take me much time to understand during these circumstances that my plan wouldn’t quite fit to Sensors either way. It’s a product of the internet and self-inflicted isolation, it can’t afford to lose its home court advantage. All this crushes every hidden dream of mine about seeing my bs printed, collecting dust on somebody’s bookshelf, just to boast about how much of a totally real writer I am to poor innocent people that have the misfortune to listen to me talking.
Ok look this might seem to make some sense but no one gives a flying fuck go get a actual job you moron like for fuck sake nobody asked for this why are you still talking about it go fuck yourself asshole.
I'm trying so hard to not be seen as some cynical douche playing the know-it-all schtick. I really do. However, I do understand how much can a bunch of poems worth at this very moment (spoiler alert: fewer than absolute nothing). Debord wrote that forms of expression such as poetry are doomed, something I both understand and get behind. Nevertheless I ain't planning on no such thing as a "resurrection"; nostalgia is the coward's approach towards the fear of today's uncertainty. I write about now, as a person that lives in sync and deals with the shit of the present. Anything else would be a clumsy grave-digging attempt that screams "boohoo I was born in the wrong generation", even with the best of intentions.
And why would anyone care about this, man?
Dunno.
This extremely sterile type of expression just for the sake of the expression you typically find inside boring ass museum exhibitions, bittersweet classic literature or fake deep songs always bugged me and always motivated me to find alternatives that would bypass those miserable bullshit, just so I could draw some loose gray parallels with what I was living at the moment.
But alternatives got more and more scarce, and the internal burning started making its way to my throat and hand. I couldn't feel through other hosts anymore and this "oh ok then I guess I'm gonna make it myself instead" attitude didn't quite work out. I began to censor myself based on the assumption that by this way I wouldn't get lost in pretentiousness and laziness of the "others". I was literally explaining everything I wrote while I was writing it with a stupid perfectionist complex in the back of my head, just so my works would pass the test of time by not making me cringe just as much as reading sad fanfics of a person who really needs friends (and yet to this day I can't read anything I wrote without feeling like I got kicked in the balls).
I've lost the way to talk about exactly what’s eating me from the inside because I'm afraid I might look too obvious and banal. I've lost the words needed to express myself and honestly I can't feel a thing around me anymore. But I'm in the process of fixing that, for real. I now realise how in vain all my efforts to connect back to the world were, until Sensors came to help me. To remember once again my sense of humanity and hug the shit out of it. To show the damage I caused upon myself by being disconnected all this time. To get a better look at what boasts my reaction, my blues, my sex drive and my creativity deep inside.
This is a start of something already ending.
These are the data I got this far from my new Sensors.
commonalex_
