Category: Uncategorized

pork ribs

A 2
eating a meaty boi, @snapshotsteve

nobody’s special when the bomb hits
we’ll all be looking like some pork ribs

nobody knows who pressed the button
we’ll all be cooking like some mutton

who ever smelt it must have dealt it
but we’re all in this when we’re melted

nobody’s special when the world ends
we’ll all be cooking, me and your friends

maybe we’ll meet again in heaven
and we can all answer that question:

what are we?

we are me when the bomb drops
we are me when the bomb drops
we are me when the bomb drops
we are meat when the bomb drops

“pork ribs”
©Steven Cuenca

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i should have known

Apples 6
shark eyes, @snapshotsteve

i should have known
when i first met her.
i ran my fingers across her wrists
and read her scars like braille;
the story was boring,
so i put my finger on her lips
when she started explaining herself.
my mind was fixed
on maneuvering two fries to mix
my ketchup and mayo combination.
i don’t remember how the fries were
but i remember the horrified look on her face.

i should have known
when the water burned my skin
and i much preferred being covered in filth
like the monsters who live behind my eye balls and fingernails.

i should have known
when i started scheduling my love
so that i have enough energy to play the game.

i should have known
when the smiles became calculated–

i think this is the moment before i kill a man
and i stop writing because i’ll find poetry between the screams.

i should have known
when my mother told me they found
the man who killed my father, 17 years late, and i said,
“so what,” because i couldn’t relate to the pain
and didn’t know what there was to gain;
-jails need less black, papa died, he wasn’t coming back-

i think this is the moment before
the mirrored walls surrounding the planet topple down
and life stops being a reflection of self and starts being reality.

i should have known
when i spoke in front of churches
and classrooms
and made them laugh and made them cry,
and inspired the people without believing a single word.

“i should have known”
©Steven Cuenca

i’m a shit friend

birth 8
the shittiest friend @snapshotsteve

i’m a shit friend, i’m a shit friend, i’m a shit friend
i’m a shit friend, i’m a shit friend, i’m a shit friend

i’m a shit friend cuz i’m curious
i’m a shit friend cuz i’m curious
i’m a shit friend cuz i’m curious

i’m a shit friend

i’m a shit friend cuz i’m selfish
i’m a shit friend cuz i’m selfish
i’m a shit friend cuz i’m selfish

i’m a shit friend

i’m a shit friend cuz i live for the chase
i meet someone new,
then i cut and i paste
the who are yous,
what a familiar face
the how are yous,
what a familiar place
i give you my truths
my ugly, my disgrace
i give you my truths
my ugly, my disgrace
you get to choose
to leave or to embrace
just know that this chase
will come to an end
and you’ll have to deal with
a very shit friend

cuz i’m a shit friend, i’m a shit friend
i’m a shit friend, i’m a shit friend

i’m a shit friend cuz i’m curious
i’m a shit friend cuz i’m selfish
i’m a shit friend cuz i’m careless
i’m a shit friend cuz i care less
i’m a shit friend but i love you
i’m a shit friend but i love you
i’m a shit friend but i love you
i’m a shit friend cuz i love you

“i’m a shit friend”
@Steven Cuenca

 

 

there’s something about

there’s something about
walking out
of a motel
in the middle of the night
that makes people uncomfortable

there’s something about
being brown
with a full beard
and having sad eyes
that makes people uncomfortable

there’s something about
screaming loud
and they can’t hear
when things aren’t right
that makes people uncomfortable

there’s something about
being brown
in a motel
when things aren’t right
that makes people uncomfortable

“there’s something about”
©Steven Cuenca

where the birds don’t sing

DSC_0238 ps
@snapshotsteve

brooklyn-born black boy
broken boy, orphan boy
uncle’s doing crack, boy
auntie on her back, boy
why she doin’ that, boy?

it’s hard when the only hero
in the house is heroin
and you live in a part of bushwick
where the cops don’t come
and the birds don’t sing

it’s 1997 and you’re only 17
and you’re sick of being broke
and your eyes are on the green,
so you load up your gun
and you conjure up a scheme,
“i’m gonna rob somebody”

taxi, taxi
hop up in the taxi
homie in the backseat
made it to the backstreet
taxi, taxi
give me all your money
47 dollars?
hope you’re being funny
taxi, taxi
this ’bout to get bloody
picture of your children?
listen to my buddy
BLAM

17 years later,
that same part of bushwick
is littered with white folk
and coffee shops, and cops
to protect them.
and the birds are singing now,
matter a fact, they all sang
about that murder in ’97

elvin hill was sentenced to life
for the murder of my father.
mom was happy, and i love her,
but i couldn’t help but think
the only difference between
me and you at 17
is that i was living free
and you never had the chance to.

“where the birds don’t sing”

©Steven Cuenca

 

la la lia

Playing 23
@snapshotsteve

when our hands first met
and our lips connected
it felt weird, wrong, foreign
as expected,
that’s how it felt like
with the girls before you
and after her.

i know you hate
when i write about her
and you hate it even more
that i never have anything bad to say.
i’ve just never been a sore loser,
i’ve always been a great one,
and there were less bad than good days
and i don’t mind greys
when they’re followed
by rain falling on my face.
i’m hard to rattle
and even harder to impress,
but i digress,
this poem was meant for you
and just wanted to say that,

when our hands meet now,
i’m in an expensive hotel in new york city
and we’re shitty off of canned beers,
eating candied nuts,
and playing cards in our underwear.
it’s super humid,
i was stupid enough to
leave the hot shower on
in a tiny room.
we watched mtv music videos
until we died.

when our lips meet now,
we’re in a cheap motel.
you told me not to bite the tablet,
but we needed to cut it in half
and i’m not a very good listener.
i think i was too drunk to feel the high
but the future spoke through me
when it said, “i love you.”
i thought i was lying
and we thought it was funny,
but it’s lightning when you touch me.
and it’s long drives, and love, and life
and i say, “goodbye–
4gud,”
and you say “cya,”
but that’s just a song we sing,
la la lia.

“la la lia”
©Steven Cuenca

 

trains

Playing 17
@snapshotsteve

wheels grind against the steel,
sparks fly, they screech and stop.
your cheek’s pressed against the window,
tears form, warm, but cold they drop.

you see new colors moving,
new sounds, the world is changing.
you’re not half asleep, you’re half awake
lacking motivation.

get up, get up
breathe your destination.
breathe until your nose bleeds,
run until your toes bleed,
run towards whatever the fuck
you. want. to. be.

you were brave enough to mount the train
brave enough to sit and wait
brave enough to move away
from me

trains are just a yesterday
i am just a yesterday
everything was yesterday
be brave and say, “fuck yesterdays”

wheels grind against the steel,
hope that it sounds like music.
push everyone out the fuckin’ way,
it’s your life, don’t let them use it.

“trains”
©Steven Cuenca