hey kids
it’s your old man
it’s june 12th, 2015
i’m 26 years old
almost 27

i’m writing this poem
on chateau marmont stationary
which is only 10% an affectation
          i would have used my phone
          but they’re playing music from it right now

(i know what you’re thinking
your dad wrote poems at hotel parties
          but trust me,
it’s not what you think)

i just want to tell you that
i can’t wait to meet you
one day
though that might not be for a long while
i hope you understand
          i have dreams and art in me
                    that i need to raise first
                            before you become my reasons for

i promise to love you
more than i have ever loved anything
i promise to put you first and do my best
i’m going to be strong and just and like a lion for you
i want you to inherit the best world possible
just wait and see

this place of the living is
and you’re going to like it when you get here
but it’s complicated
and there are things about it that aren’t quite fair
there is stuff i’d prefer you didn’t know or see
but i can’t protect you from it all
          i can’t protect you from any of it, really
it can be hard
it can be ruthless
it can break your heart and your spirit and your back

but then there are
like the one i’m in the middle of right now
          here at this
          corny magic hotel
that give you a feeling in your chest like
the entire world is pulverizing
your heart
with love
and you’ll find yourself writing a poem
to your unborn sons and daughters
          in the middle of a party
          on a kethcup stained couch
          as mr. tamborine man plays
and you’ll


Posted in Bad Poetry, Eddie O'KEEFE | No Comments »


I sit on my fire escape
in the void
between apartment blocks.

You are in my ear,
on the phone.
There’s nothing left to say, so you play your guitar.

It is cold and raining. Two jumpers,
shoes not quite on,
a blanket wrapped tight around my body.

You are in the hallway of your share house, between rooms.
The echo makes it better, you say.

The neighbour’s towels hang wet at their backdoors
but no one comes out
to rescue them.

No one likes to sit in this void; they only pass through
to get to the bins.

I smoke along to you and your strums
and your rhythm.
I take deep drags

as you hit the strings.

I light matches and throw them into the wet.
The rain gets heavier
as you get louder.

There are bars all around me. On the windows,
the doors,
the railings.

Wires held together with cable ties and pipes fastened to the walls.

I don’t need them to hold me together. I don’t need bars to keep me in.

I don’t need a rusted wire fence on my concrete stairs.

Take them down.
Cut the ties.
Let the pipes fall.
No one wants to break in.

I ash into the puddles
and add to the mess.
The water from the sky is clean until it hits me.

The gutters overflow
and the puddles swell
and turn into rivers, into oceans.

They pass under me
and there’s no way of going back inside.

I wrap the blanket around me, tighter still,
and stare at the bricks of the wall, wondering if they’ll fall too.

I hear the final notes of your song and I don’t want you to stop.
I want you to keep playing.
I want to keep listening.

I want to rescue the matches and help the gutter
because it’s trying so hard.

I am surrounded by bars of music,
of metal,

keeping me in,
keeping me out, keeping me in this void

between apartment blocks, between rooms,
between plumes of smoke in the wet air,

under the damp towels and the drips,
the wet wires
and the falling bricks.

We are on our way to the bins.


Posted in Bad Poetry, Katie FOUND | No Comments »


Who patrols the county line roads
         at the boundaries of your mind
Can you feel his wheels prowling your cold, hard streets
         do you get a sense of what’s beyond their reach

When he guns down intruders scaling the walls
         fighting for a plot in your lush, lavish land
Does it wake you up at night

         Do you feel their bones wilting
on your soil


Posted in Bad Poetry, Eddie O'KEEFE | No Comments »


Return To Sender

Posted in Bad Prose, Eric HEHR | No Comments »


where were you when john hughes died
in 2009
6 years ago
6 feet under
bones now
i was in my bedroom
room on fire was playing from the next room over
which was
already 6 years old by then

i remember the day it leaked
i saw lost in translation that night
and i couldn’t wait to get back home and listen
to it again
and again
and again
under control on repeat forever
now they don’t get along anymore
the strokes
they’re losing their hair and there’s no love
i saw them at a festival in 2013
they didn’t have it in them anymore
but i recall seeing them when i was 15
and when they came out on stage
i couldn’t breathe
too bad

but anyway,
john hughes
i remember feeling saddened
sadder than i really had any right to be
why, i don’t know
sometimes things hit you
and sometimes they don’t
he was just walking in central park
and then boom

in john hughes movies
everyone stays young forever
forever young
nobody dies

six years ago
feels like yesterday
in 6 years it will be 2021
time moves so fast and so slow at the same time
it’s hard to keep track

the end has no end


Posted in Bad Poetry, Eddie O'KEEFE | No Comments »


*last photo by Matt Mandarino

Posted in Eddie O'KEEFE, Original Photography | No Comments »


I’ll never forget finding it there on the barn floor. It wasn’t but a month old, so young that you couldn’t hear it scream unless you held it up close to your ear. I guess you could call it a scream. It took me a little while to figure out why it couldn’t move. How did it get up there? I guess they don’t always land on their feet when they are that small. That tiny. I didn’t get help right away, I just stared in its panicky little eyes and soaked it in my tears like I was doing it a favor. I wanted it to see me mourn, to know that someone cared I guess. I wanted to connect. I wanted to love it, but felt guilty because I couldn’t figure out how to make myself. I didnt understand why we couldn’t help, why he never even tried. Straight for the shovel. Just like that. The first one didn’t work, I could see a little piece of its brain and its screams became audible even from a few feet away. So did my weeping. He looked at me, expressionless, but I knew what he was thinking. I felt guilty again. The second one did the trick. No more screams. One scoop was all it took to make the hole. We went inside and made grilled cheese and I watched the Rocky movie that had Mr. T in it and cried ocassionaly until I fell asleep. 
I ran over an armadillo on accident last week. The girl I was with put her hands over her mouth and shrieked. I made a joke about armadillo heaven to calm her down and she giggled a little. I wish I liked her more. 


Posted in Bad Prose, Luke GRIMES | No Comments »


i hope you found freedom

the hungry, lonesome, cold kind

joe buck had it in time square

google image search: joe buck time square midnight cowboy

that’s freedom

or the other image i think of is

cindy sherman with her suitcase on the shoulder of a highway

looking to hitch a ride

google image search: cindy sherman film stills suitcase

see now that freedom looks scary

like something is stalking the edge of the frame

just waiting to pounce

i hope you’re safe if nothing else

i hope you’re joni mitchell blue free


i just thought about picasso

alive today

painting to podcasts


i didn’t know picasso was a wife beater

what’s with your heroes always being assholes


i can’t concentrate with this goddamned computer in front of my face all the time

photos of you pop up as i wait for things to render

your face

along with the succulents and naked ladies and western landscapes and old motel interiors

i’ve become so predictable

and you’re just beginning

i’ve come to realize that you are

the union of all my life’s textures

the pink desert sky

the old babe

the cactus

the artist

the motorcycle

the wind

the georgia o’keeffe buffalo skull

the rilke poem


i hope you’re joni mitchell blue free somewhere

and i hope you think of me kindly

google image search: steve mcqueen and ali macgraw

i hope you think of us like that


jesus christ i’m delusional



Posted in Bad Poetry, Eddie O'KEEFE | No Comments »


Judy Garland was the most beautiful girl I knew
              James Earl Chaney, Andrew Goodman, & Mikey Schwerner are cool too
Robert Sandifer
                   Hard to talk about that
James K Vardaman can read my boss’s lips
Like I can feel Greta Garbo’s hips
             Shake to The Extension Trip
                                                                   By Stereolab – Fab, 5 Freddy & Jean-Micheal
Basquiat are Ferlin Husky in Madonna’s white wedding dress
                                                           Touched for the very first time Mackenzie Phillips
                  Momma & Poppa sing with me, De Do Do Do. De Da Da Da
The Police are coming, Michael Brown
De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da

The Police are coming
                 Summer, a decade older than the rhythm                     Don’t Freak Out!
We’ll all be in a Moon Unit. Dweezil, Ahmet, and Diva the Divine
                                                                                  In Pink Flamingos
With John
                                             Waters of the sea are not the only things the move,
Swing Edward Hopper
                                              Sing Dennis Hopper
                                                                                                              Die Big Bopper

Posted in Nick MATSAS, Original Photography | No Comments »


two rivers meet
in a quiet grove
where buckshot light
forms patterns
on the earth
where elms whisper riddles to the wind
and a hammock gently sways
we made camp there on the shore
we drank from the water
do you remember?
do you recall the silence there?
and the shape of my lips?
I traced the lines of your body while you slept

you dreamt the rivers had dried
and the sky had turned black
that our home on the strand was no more
the lavender and lilac
and wild fern faded
and the stars had ceased to show

I held you close
I wiped your tears away
and spoke softly these words:

should the rivers run dry
should our land by leveled
paved over
scorched by the sun
our home there
where the two waters meet
                 (finding each other against such impossible odds)
would endure but forever
we could taste its fruit for all time

if only in our minds

and then you were sleeping once more
and i tried to meet you there in that place without words
but I couldn’t find rest
so I watched my love for you burn
in the boundless
of the back of my eyes
for all of time.


Posted in Bad Poetry, Eddie O'KEEFE | No Comments »

© 2015 The Teenage Head | Powered by WordPress | Design by Maria Tzeka