Tag: original poem
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turtle dove
keep me
on your
side
because my
love
will not
flip over
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No Shows
Nah that’s cool, shrugging lazily and only half joking. Several seconds pass, many long-winded metaphors, and eight god damn whiskey sours later.... Like eating grapes off the vine. It tastes less enjoyable, but overwhelmingly natural. Like a coke dealer on a netflix binge: three days with no sale, in love with the 80’s, pass the ice. I spent that time listening for someone to yell, “Stop!” Dispassionately poised for an assault on my character to my back and everything else to my face. Nothing happened, but dammit beg, for the question you already know: the fleeing happiness, asking instead for accomplishment and society’s benefit.
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h i h
Now and then? More like: all the time, everywhere, all at once. That sounds like the most British thing I've heard. The only thing, honest, and you should be honest. Tell me how to get there and I swear to you, by sould, by blood, by iron, we leave. Well, did you find a bowl or not? Have you lost your mind? Your head sloshes full of soup. Consider that, your eye half eaten by the falcon, Horus. Maggots wriggling about the lens - have you no shame? Nothing to see here, not since I lost my eye, after all.
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While In
Subverting patience one expectation at a time. I like to weaponize existentialism - it’s my kink. I don’t even like the music, I just know you like me for listening. What a ball, a beautiful wedding. So pulls the oxen on cart. Pardon me a moment while I spiral out of control here.
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Tri Cyclic
I did nothing but watch helpless as the young of my generation, the gifted and beautiful, trapped themselves in the same dead ends we hated the old for wasting their lives on. I’m sorry.
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Welcoming
From birth your time, they say, will come. Your family excited, the papers, you sign. Guns flare. The uncles, the grandads, the fathers - those left - they say, your time will come. You sign, they cheer, you fight, they boo. Your war will come.
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Requiem
It becomes a dream you share. The first to wake up leaves.
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Scribd Twofers: A poem and an essay
Art
Shapes in raw granite, a person. An unaware, apathetic block- head staring blankly in the mirror, hammered and sanded. From top to toe, mouths run - collecting minerals - dribbling away. Forward springs life, etching down the drain. Rock chips stumble over each other. Dust finds home on rough edges - inevitably the floor, cracks in my dry, clay-soaked hands, and cloth folds wherever paint doesn’t already cling. The eyes: pained, long set. A muscular beauty, the rest, one casual greeting at a time. In and out of days, nights fitting somewhere between, apparently. I work.
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The Sons of Laocoon
Please, good hatred, I crave your amnesty’s desire. I live without rent due anytime this month - seek me. On occasion, the one she missed; less often each day. Who taught her those things, yes, you like. Much obliged. Her sculpture, an idle thing to revere - an idea molded to life scrape by harrowing scrape. Her best image, a stampede alight, oh alright. Cherish her, I could not. Keep her, you could not. Try.
Scribbles 'n Bits 