Long Live Frank Gallagher

Poetry/Prose - Matthew Pasquarello.
Boston Bruins / Boston Red Sox / New York Rangers
New Bedford, Massachusetts
kik: mthwp

i just played the best game of my NHL15 career

even tho i will never ever know why we kept Bartkowski this year

ask me late-night things

I sat in the
middle of the
city smelling
salt air and
feeling the
cold kick in
after a
summer of
dull flowers
drooping in
community gardens
and thought

"they say this
place was built
with the blood and
tears of our fathers,
but i’ve never
seen mine cry and
this place rains
like the heavens
want to drown us.”

in a half hour
the spider finds her
meal and the
city bus goes by
for the second time,
the driver
tired and the
passengers the

another bottle breaks.
another gunshot
rings out,
singing for the
and the birds scatter
god’s throne thinking
to themselves
"fuck, we need a
new city to shit upon.”

i just think how
tired i am and how
i wrote a poem on a
park bench for a woman
i no longer love. 

crumble into the sea;
i’m simply walking,
hands in pockets.

even when your
heart is filled with
it doesn’t mean you
can’t find an
angel amongst the

—love, an hourglass / love, a forest fire

the birds
sit on the
roof and
gossip about
the angels.

slip into the
clouds and
we never see
them again,”
they say.

i sit in the dirt
smoking old
cigarettes i
drunkenly stashed
away for myself
behind the
when i was
more interested
than in
nothing at all.

now the
slowly inches
across the
sky like the
and i wait.

It is so cold outside

It is so cold outside


I really need someone to talk to.

why is going to the bar and drinking alcohol with the same 4 people the only fun thing to do anymore

and it’s not even really that fun it’s lost its charm

getting old sucks

quarter life crisis


between the cracks in the linoleum,
dropped over so many years of
filthy beauty from the
stovetop and the beer bottle and
the leaky eyes.

there’s such thing as smiling,
even if hell surrounds you like a
cheap suit left down by a
dying grandfather.

there’s such thing as breaking down,
in your bedroom late at night
sweaty bedsheets and tear-covered hands
reflecting past experiences you thought
you buried in the graveyard
deep inside of you. you visit their etched stones once in a while,
but they don’t seem to matter
so much anymore.

nothing painful should.

     She smoked filterless cigarettes. One of the soldiers from the pack would stick out from the corner of her lipstick-coated mouth or from out between her index and middle fingers, nails painted the same color as her lips. She talked philosophy, but she couldn’t quite state who she was quoting from. That was just as well; the men listened while she spoke and every once in a while flipped her dark curly hair over one shoulder. The eyes could pierce the hearts with even the strongest of armor wrapped around them. The legs went on for days, crossed over one another like mountains on the urban horizon where the florescent streetlights guided the drunk men home from their respective holes-in-the-wall of choice. Although it never came up what she specifically did for a living, one could tell she was a shark in the business. Never would you see a man (or a woman, for that matter), pay for her drink. Never would you see a man crawl droolingly behind her into a yellow cab that would cross two lanes of traffic to park in front of her and swallow her up. She was a mystery, much like the Northern Lights, much like the existence of God, but with a little more proof in the fibers of her dress than in any Good Book you could crack open.

So happy this came in

casting shadows on
your favorite kind of
insects as they
scuttle from the foot
they know is coming

like we’re all doing.

(Source: matthew-pasquarello)