Friday, August 21, 2015



And who will write their words?
Speak into existence
all the sentences that air heard. 

Pardon me. 

While I'm here snacking on hors d'oeuvres,
they're asking for orders.
Molotov and torch heard.
Was taking my orders
but now
the check is on the counter
and the apron on the floor.
They are kicking in the door.
They were denied something more.
Never owners of our stores.
One of many excuses
used to substantiate abuses
they have suffered in a blatant sense.
Another decrease in numbers.
No wonder we're tense
and I've been latent since
my last recollection of that run in.
Woman across from me
and I don't know her name.
Another ounce of words I can't pronounce.
Expensive champagne.
Things weren't this strange
until it felt this strange
to see how much time changed.
Their throats slit and blood stained 

and who will write their words?
Speak into existence
all the sentences that air heard
but where birds fly,
I've seldom seen a bullet. 

Could fix my fortune on portion
but I might still pursue it
in manners they don't peruse.
Their challenge is in the news.
Biased political views
from those wearing the shoes
that have yet to frequent chalk.
No walks amongst caution tape
without camera.
Handle you
by handing you preparation
like lyrics from ghostwriting.
Talk more and more about the fighting,
burning of buildings
but less about the reason why.
There is a shelf life in media.
Soon to be update on Wikipedia
when my people die. 

My people. 

I watch the hate
in their eyes when I can't relate
as if I'm trying to be down.
How I never come around.
How I never thought to visit.
Life outside of city limits.
My progress seen as a gimmick
My success washed over images
of those my age that cry
over those my age that try
but before that cage would pry,
most of those my age would die
and not nearly enough of it
was circumstantial.
That trip back to where I once was
I thought to cancel.
Found no reason to travel miles
just for rejection.
Especially over the misconception
that I wouldn't need protection.
Entourage econolodged.
Driver took a day.
Made it here with no delay.
They all have so much to say.

I know it's hard
but who truly stands to record? 

I'm still wondering:

Who will write their words?
Speak into existence
all the sentences that air heard. 

More bullets than birds. 

Blood curdles and boils.
Battering rams at doors.
The scratches of open sores.
Profusion through open pores.
They try to even the score
but no one cares to count.
The alive count five
or six a day
but that delay in the broadcast
is an attempt to watch them fall fast
under criticism.
News for the country
but something stale in journalism.
Church bells are rung
and then the time comes to negotiate
over the fate of killers
protected by those willing to deliberate.
Orchestrate some denial
and polish it up as progress.
Attend a senseless trial
and fish for some due process
to stave the reprimand.
Our blood still on his hands
A gun placed in the hand
of the young man who was unarmed.
Not charmed by their wiles
or their rhetoric.
Fight to take away our pride
but quick to call us heretics.
Selective embellishment
as long as our culture is defined
as entertainment for the times.
Pockets lined from the maligned
but the militant intimidate.
Their mandate exclusive.
All inclusive in their targets.
Strange their fruit you used to harvest.
Flung my cufflinks.
Tossed my shirt.
Parked my sedan.
Off from work.
Took this trip all by my lonesome.
Thought I came here for the wholesome
but I've walked into this war.
Cops that spar with the defenseless.
Night stick.
Gun butt.
Beat us senseless.
Place cross hairs against our brows.
Frame us later.
Kill us now. 

I know now
and I've been writing.
Witnessed riots.
Saw the fighting.
Knew what media would cover.
Social mediums discovered
ways to apply new restrictions.
Threat with sanctions.
Tease conviction.
Hide description under race.
Only show the victim's face
after the suspect is secured.
I am intrigued.
I am lured.
I invest time in the unknown.
I was silent.
I have outgrown. 

You won't like me.
I am concrete.
You cheap leather.
You will not spite me.
You don't compete.
You know better. 

The people you have slain
live on further in my brain
for my heart cannot contain
it all without a call
to have knowledge applied
to supplement and reside
next to violence so consequential.
I may not condone it
but I certainly will own it
and while others phone it in,
I'll just pick up this pen

and bring to the surface what the air already knew. 

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

Tuesday, August 11, 2015



You'll kick start
from what the mountain do.
Fresh flesh quivers
before mounts of dew
that I will deliver
like the mystic river.
Giver of pain.
Never could refrain.
Ledger of pleasure.
I will not abstain
so lose your brain
while you leave some stains.
Give you piece of mind.
Take a piece of mine
Taste and take my time
Eat it from behind.
Open like wet pores.
Garments on the floor.
Wide open doors
so they hear your screams
whilst I lick you clean. 

Got me


Face still in it.
Let me finish.
Ignore grimace.
Grind through limits
as I run my laps
neck just trapped
between sensation and thrill.
Have my fill
then give you a taste.
Wet like honey.
Paste my face.
Silk and lace.
Squirm in place.
Adjust position.
You do not understand ambition
So I overstate
and I over-ate
and it's getting late
and I'm getting big
so I slob and spit
where my fingers slid 

so I can start 


Fortune favored more than luck
Fortune for no zippers stuck
Found nips you've tucked.
Round nips to suck.
Buttons you pluck.
Tip kissed then sucked.
Head well, untamed.
Head swells from games.
Head game complex.
Rhythm complicated
but you maturate it.
You saturate it.
Sides saturated.
Lips locked.
Too much excitement.
I won't fight it.
Please don't bite it.
Can't keep quiet
and won't keep still.
Mind, mouth and throat.
You take your fill.
Across tonsils
you let me spill 

as I imagine 


No hands in.
Tongue dancing.
Lips dampened.
I cast in
and then draw out.
All out
and all for it.
Call for it.
Crawl toward it.
Can't afford it.
Something priceless.
Of all my vices,
I'll never fight this
warmth surrounding intensive strength.
Strokes of girth and extensive length.
Punch the passion til purple-pink.
Hear the tears and I feel your blinks
before eye contact
where I give you some
then I take it back
and you rake my back
then you take it back
and I wring your hair
and you hold it there
and we stop and stare
and we need some air
but we ignore need
when our want is need
and we want to feed
thoughts that curse and plead 

whenever we start 

Feeling Under Crevices.
Kicking Massive Energy. 

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

Saturday, August 8, 2015



Way too dark.
Can't see the thoughts.
I'm not elated.
Just lost. 

Impressed by your precision.
Distressed by your decisions.
Obsession tossed around
and dragged across the ground.
Far from home throne
supposedly fortified with cobblestone and blacktop
until the top is black
so you can hop back
into comfort and hang up your pretentiousness.
Eyes wide open
but can't find anything in front of me.
Conveniently confronting me
on my perceived indifference.
Diligence to preserve innocence
while persecuting those
who will not join in the arms race.
Your pace cut.
Wasted on the trend of the month.
A front to mask your appearance.
Clearance for any notion
that you just might like the potion
you accuse the world of drinking. 

I stand still
but I'm thinking.
Hands in front of me.
Finger feelers
searching for the filler
in your well placed appeal.
Strategic soapbox stance.
Employing the trance
and threatening the lonesome thinkers.
Tinker with the facts
until it looks more like opinion.
Spite the masses.
Organize the minions
to serve master in malice
and carry out more of the tragic
acts that should lead to a magic solution. 

The Establishment Cannot Condemn The Institution. 

Don't know the time.
Searching for light.
You don't want a fight.
You'll be here tonight
and I know.
It can be taxing
waxing militant
about ignorance
until asked about real world news.
Paid dues in desecrated discipline.
Adrenaline laced pace
charged by selective media
you purport across selected mediums
where the keys smoke faster than the barrel.
Times that travel with the spark
behind the scenes
and in the dark.
A pool of sharks starved for chum
and here we come:
The vilified led in the late
to await the murky waters.
Found it harder to swim at night.
Can't get right
or get away.
Not again.
Not today.
Cussed at if we walk away
by activists of today
that will not buy a ticket
or picket,
or die tomorrow
for what the same sunlight suicide crusade
that they raved about two days ago. 

Way too dark
Can't see your fist
but graze my chin
and say I tripped
if asked how the stagnant tumbled.
Bastards to the belligerent bastion.
Factions cloaked concealing daggers.
Belting out the boisterous chatter.
Swinging rifles after trial.
Burning buildings after verdict.
Lord knows something serves a purpose.
Lord knows you're less angry than nervous.
Under pressure self implied.
Switch maneuvers. Exercise.
Pressed for diamonds. Futile goals
when pressed for time to crack the coals
and over time, it should've changed
but after hours look the same. 

Certain hours.
Curtain powers.
Inbox then inside the space.
Square pegs between the legs.
Liquor and kegs.
Before that?
Skim through the facts,
plan to react
and stab us when we trim the fat.
Toss reason in the vat and boil it brown.
Add revolution. Tear it down.
Make sure it drowns in each batch.
Whenever we break the latch
or find a way to break the seal,
your soul reveals no tolerance.
Common sense the rarest deal.
Anarchy on eighty proof.
So many sips.
You puke the truth.
Extend recollection.
Examine direction.
Don't question my digestion
while seated in the crowded section
where the nose bleeds
and they throw seeds
at passersby who won't watch the game.
Claimed and you don't know my name.
Assumption the sharpened blade.
You will swing and slice in light
but will you vex under the shade? 

Way too dark.
That's why I stand still.
Way too much.
That's why I chill
and just because I'm drifting,
don't think your anger is uplifting.
You are not the rise of man.
You are warm milk and ceiling fan. 

Say your prayers.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Pink & Peach & Photographs"

"Pink & Peach & Photographs" 

Our colors are a little cloudy.
Very dusty.
Somewhat faded.
Not much luster mustered
from the same sunlight
that once bounced off of your hair
before washing over your fairer hue. 

We don't talk much anymore
but I feel your tone
like that of a daily conversing.
Unnerving how concerning I become
when we do interact
I'm sure
but I feel the need to ensure
that you are better than okay. 

Been away for years.
Had our share of tears.
Things we have yet find some humor in,
Promised we our daughters
the richest portion of our rainbow
but as far as rain goes,
we've no clouds left to offer. 

From sought to fought,
the thought that only one lost
is a lie the heart cannot profess.
Bright red over stress and tension.
Not to mention
what it looks like
when you look right
and I see no wrong in admiration. 

Consistent fascination
even to this day.
Words hidden in stanzas
I'll likely never say
even if the chance was earned.
Dedicated pages of phrases
to my fume and fancy of you
from our large umbrella
to polka dots, jeans and boots
to pink passion fruit
as sweet in memory
as it was that night in November. 

Wrote to remember the touch.
Recall the blush.
Relive the rush.
Moments we'd frequent
before it all was hushed.
The longest lasting thrill
before the moistened chill
of black that spilled like ink
with streaks of grey across my kitchen sink. 

I think
and it all returns.
Every twist and turn.
Every lesson learned
and every roundabout
but well without solution
like pollution to my better wishes. 

Your hips and tone in switches.
All of your favorite dishes.
Salt and Pepper tomato business
and allergies to certain fishes. 

Hell this must be. 

Left so much we on the table
that the world must wonder
what would've transpired. 

Before scratches and rust,
Gloss replaced the dust
and we would shimmer with every kiss. 

Once heard that
with every glimmer of something new,
there will be a shade or two
on which the mind will rotate
to that which only ever lasts
in the past. 

Now that time has passed,
the best of our colors serve
to display our mixture in a fixture
as permanent as that picture. 

Handle my colors with care
and I will remain there. 

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz