Archive for the ‘R.A. Matheson’ Category

Week 17- R.A. Matheson

Posted: July 25, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 17


Week 16- R.A. Matheson

Posted: July 18, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 16


Week 15- R.A. Matheson

Posted: July 11, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 15


Week 14- R.A. Matheson

Posted: July 4, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 14


Week 13- R.A. Matheson

Posted: June 27, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 13


Week 12- R.A. Matheson

Posted: June 20, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 12


Week 11- R.A. Matheson

Posted: June 13, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 11


Week 10- R.A. Matheson

Posted: June 5, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 10

Here’s to Missing You

This house is quiet and so I fill it with sounds

but none is as calming as your simple steps

I shower to warm away the ache of not having you

but only wonder what you are doing

As I crack knuckles I wonder if you might be also doing it

Inhaled cigarette wishing you were killing yourself next to me

Wonder what if you had quiet moments staring out at trees

While my quiet moments turn me down

Was your sleep filled with candy and custard

As mine was filled with a dark wood on a cliff-side and friends lost to heroin

I am awaiting you return in the only way I know how

But it’s useless

Week 9- R.A. Matheson

Posted: May 27, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 09


I’m burning this skin 
the insects keep raping 
each other again and again on my skin, 
sprouting their wings like digestive little incidences 
apparent to no one but me and I just hold my breath, 
turning blue, until I can see you again but it doesn’t matter 
because time kills everything and I know someday you’ll 
hate me and it’s always the same and the cycles of 
periods at the end of sentences and statements cannot 
be rejoined all that is left are questioned exclamations 
repeating forever in my bloated burning belly

“Cherry Tip”

Blaze your tip

fluorescent cherry in the sundae of the night

dry leaves crackle and drop

inhale breathes of tar

watch you glow bright

pull back towards me

spring time rain wind exhales

cloud of your perusal

down to the filter

I chew fiberglass

and swallow you whole

R.A.Matheson started writing short stories at the age of five, and poetry at about the age of thirteen. He found his true voice in 2005, when three influences collided in his life to give sound to his poetic voice. The influences of Gordon Massman, The Mars Volta, and an excellent Literature professor at about the same time in his life “woke” Richard up.

Matheson values honest poetry. A writer cannot be honest if he or she is writing as if their significant other is watching over their shoulder. A poet cannot be afraid of what they might write. As David Biespiel said, “A poet’s greatest fear is that he will flinch.” R.A. believes that writers must dig deep, and expose whatever rises to the surface.

Richard writes fast, without watching the screen or thinking. Usually, he doesn’t remember what he wrote. This method provides the unique experience of reading his own pieces with the feeling as if someone else had written them.

His works can be purchased at

Week 7- R.A. Matheson

Posted: May 9, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 07

It Was All Just so Fucking Beautiful and Sad

It was there,
reading our horrorscope each morning
over a steaming hot cup of junk
all arms set an hour too early
wake to the eager hooks of relief,
although I am naked,
I can feel the allergy of wool coating across my skin,

I wish I could hide that tightness in my chest like you could,
it comes in closing throat and dripping eyes


I’ve choked it out with a straw cut in half,
a tar coating, scrape the insides with a cuticle tool
to get every last bit.

There are mountains of dye in Indian markets
I have never seen with my own eyes,
but I have felt them flood through my body in waves,
they dull the same as

bottle of ink too beautiful to remain that hue
once on paper,

bottle of pure vanilla extract that never
tastes as good as it smells.

It was all just so un-fucking-definable,
a cloud in my mind
an empty Christ we couldn’t stop praying to.

Week 6- R.A. Matheson

Posted: May 9, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 06

I Love You Too Much to Let You Live

It’s said that no feeling is worth throwing your life away over.

Acrid smell of black currant, tossing The David down an elevator shaft,

dive into murky Louisiana waters, thick as tar,

I am having an affair with Delphine LaLaurie,

sucking caterpillar bones from her skull

not even a virgin with a regenerating hymen feels as good:

the scent of flowers, coated in brown sugar and copper.

skin peeled back, a hypnosis spiral from head to left toe,

inflammation of the blood, a pig-faced lizard,

burgundy spatters on a boxing-ring mat, icon-white,

cheap whore, give her a quarter and insert your middle finger in her

as if she were a slot on a heart-rate machine in an old arcade,

vomit the water-smothered gas, serve bomb threats for breakfast,

as the eye of the storm watches you and waits to strike, I’m stupider than

a reporter in a yellow trench coat too stupid to know

when to get the fuck out,

stained tampons in a little black box cause my head to throb as if it were my cock

waiting for your twat, colour of grave-grapes,

I know the perfect woman and I wish I wasn’t with you so I could pursue her.

It’s said that no feeling is worth throwing your life away over;

but I know a feeling better than life, more terrifying than death.

Week 2- R.A. Matheson

Posted: May 9, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 02

Diving Out of a Hotel Window in Madrid

They said your footprints
were still on the windowsill
when the authorities showed up

I wonder how long my hand prints will remain

as I lean out and see the last thing you ever saw
speed towards you
like that camera trick they use where the background speeds forward
but the person stands still

I feel you in my nose here
all that remains of you is
a scent of yellowed dime-store novel pages
and I can’t help but agree
when scientists say that
our sense of smell is the one most closely tied
to our memories.

They always said you had an old soul

but I know better

You lived with the clarity of a newborn’s eyes.

Week 1- R.A. Matheson

Posted: May 9, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 01

Like the Perfect Lover, You Never Change and are Always Waiting

stuck in an olive tomb
brittled siphons
in reverse

and in the same way as the infidel husband treats his whore
I bend a part of my body
you slide into me

they say that the worst thing
about addiction
is the lack of control
but they are wrong
the worst thing about addiction
is that you are always in control
always in control

Week 5- R.A. Matheson

Posted: May 2, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 05

I Light My House on Fire

It is over…

I stare towards my feet as I watch the match drift down to the wood-paneled floor,

wet with kerosene.

I poured it like tears all over this place,

tried to wash away the stain.

I am burning this whole place to the fucking ground.

I smell the smoke of you burning like bodies in an oven at Dachau,

like the frozen remnants in snow drifts.

There is a little place in me

that wants to stop that match in its descent,

but my hatred of you is a too terrible beautiful strain I love to let live.

I am standing like Atlas under the burden of you;

I sterilize the planet,

like a thousand-million Tsar Bombs,

and you are gone.

Week 4- R.A. Matheson

Posted: April 25, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 04

Breathing Poppies

You don’t know…
(dodging empty plastic trash bags blowing across the freeway
being poured away
scratch skin off vomit off of porcelain lick the edge
break your back to fix it once, it’s gone hours later
turn all you own over to a stranger
hear it whisper in your ear like a jet engine, pulling
sweat out shaking drowning in the toilet
hypnotic “x” that stares like your eyes
bathe to relieve muscle tissue grinds stones under skin
brown beauty that sheds her amber sheen across backs of aluminum
specter of breath of tar up a straw and into your vitality
turn over, like Faust, the impetus for living)
…and you don’t want to.

Week 3- R.A. Matheson

Posted: April 18, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 03

My Child is Now Rotting in the Ground

Dreams, the shape of pornography
I lose twenty-one grams
I collected my son’s baby teeth as they fell out
calcified memories, speckled in blood.

I slide these little bits of bone around until they start to form images:

Stick figure-shape
tied with thread,
hangs from a noose
brittle twine.

headless, pumping its lover full of semen,
abdomen muscles

spreads wings full and brilliant grey,
eyes stare like buckets of ink,
edges bleed fuzzy
mold grows on gauze.

blooms and fills the head with the sweet smell of copulation,
a steady scent of lilac
grows from a pot of moist pennies as
October rains sputter through the open window.

the tears come.

the truth comes.

the pennies spill, he eats them up,
curdles them in the stomach
shits them out,
spread like a thin coat
plaster over the world.

no one can hear him.

is terror is guilt is divorce is death is divorce is guilt is terror.

My fist,
clenched in the color of red,
crashes to the table

the teeth shatter to the wind.