Men fuck up
Women fuck up
Fuck ups beget more
Get on that bike and
Cycle through more
Skin a knee,
Break a heart raw
Cycle to you bleed out
all your fucking Up
Find a hill and
Look ma, no hands
That ER visit gonna
You Fuck up.
By Philip Wardlow 2018
mounting to minutes,
as the sun sets
and I’m left
Wasted, are the stars
Wasted, is the moon
No inspiration wrought.
a hole hides
a solid space
Why the vacancy?
Oh, if only the
of time could
grind down to
near a trickle
my soul would have
Philip Wardlow 2018
A deep brackish blue light filtered in through the curtains next to my bed crawling across my closed eyes. I let my head remain, resting on my pillow. Perhaps I could fool the world in to believing I was still yet asleep. Nudges came in thunderous pains, lightening strikes to the brain. I knew I was awake, that was enough.
In all night diner, I found my hands full of a ceramic cup filled with coffee topped with cream in the design of a mountaintop I had yet to climb. Desires awoke in me, spoke to me; whispered really. They never yelled. Never. Except to run. I hated them all. Weaklings all of them.
I slapped myself hard then. Sitting there in the crowded diner, coffee in hand with my mountain in a cup.
I yelled out loud, “I am not a ghost!”
Then I left a dollar tip and got up and left to stares and murmuring all around. I was their talk of the day.
I broke into a run down the sidewalk. If anything I was going to own the running. Fuck the illusions, fuck the dream. Fuck the quicksand of doubt. Ever forward…running.
Just find the rhythm of me. Left, right, left, right…pick them up…put them back down. Running towards it, not away…no matter the pitfalls.
“Viva la Vida” played as I ran by a outdoor bar, then I heard an old woman humming “Cest Le Vie” as she fed the pigeons in the park.
Well fuck, the Universe seemed to be noticing me. For good or bad? I guess we’ll see
As my feet suddenly left the ground to go running amongst the stars.
by Philip Wardlow 2017
The me you see, is just a pale umbra of whom I’m supposed to be.
I’ve come to a wall and I can’t make the jump,
I try and I try and just bounce the hell off.
But what I really don’t know is that I’m just a toad in the road
and it’s just a small curb on a street.
It’s a cliff so sheer and high that it’s a trick to belie the eye.
I tell myself one more jump…kerplunk!
My little toad head hurts like hell from all the bashing
against the wall.
If I can just find that perfect crack to start me on my crawl to wind my way up.
But that would require luck…fuck!
Where the hell am I going to get any of that?
So I’m a toad.
Not a frog a princess can kiss
to relieve me of this predicament.
Sorry, no frog underneath this frog-like veneer miss.
But I will be the prince of toads one day.
Fuck the frog I say!
So I look for that crack in the wall,
no matter how small,
to eventually make my way
up and over.
To that other me
that I don’t yet see,
The Prince of Toads,
in all of his bumpy
by Philip Wardlow 2017
a funny grain
that gets stuck
like a piece of
And spitting never helps, so purse
A fickle fable
held in high esteem
as you tell the story
of a wonderful what-if
while the stars loftly
laugh at you in the dark ink blot above.
Grip the grass you lay upon
as the earth tilts just ever so.
Where for art thou?
Romeo was a fool to seek
a party where all the players
knew their part while all the
while Juliet had cotton stuffed
in her ears like a silly Teddy bear,
seeing only your pretty little
mouth move without a
By Philip Wardlow 2017