Capture paper, snapshot picture, Red, red, red, All one sees is the figures. Cannot a boy grow, Irrespective of now?
Devils hand, write of ginger, Stink of gin and linger. Age over, question a gain, Family name a gander. A snake is hissing, of the land, No matter how one pounds a fist, Shaking the sand, he stands in place. Devil, how are you so ginger, Limbless with skin akimbo, No kin to speak for, Yet no wizard can seal your fate?
Storm the earth, Storm the sea, Arrive in myth, the people be, Not given bronze, not given sons, Living gaunt outside a lodge. Singing swans, singing songs, Zinc, gold, silver, iron, copper, In hefty sums, no bitten tongue. Dearth they arrive, murder at night, No allies, wyrms or fires to fight. Death they provide.
Noble steed, noble land, From ovum to the fields. One dances, never glances, Until glasses conceal. Test taker, what is fate? My eyes no longer make it. Stare into the distance, And see the same. Tomorrow is a little late.
Comments on a blog, On and on, continuous, Could this be but bots? How can hate be a ball? All along, perspicuous, Archaic in its tongue. Accompany a structured song, Another composition common, A company not lacking lustre, Just backing something wrong. I adjust warm muffins, Until the tops come off. Butter, cinnamon, I adjust my jaw, Until flavortown, I judge my ignorance, Could this be god?
Table from farm, Noodles and parm, Among eggs, bacon, It's carbonara!
A voice brittle, fawning, Lost in eyes are appearance, Yet words speak like songbirds, Though simple, like acrostics. If you can understand the point, Does also your voice hurt, from screaming? Do you need more caustic ideas, to dissolve your dreams? My meaning, yours, Our meeting curt, Can I find you feeding on lifeless birch, With food superior for a life of wood? Who fights against fascist sons, Racist daughters to which they sum? Who resolves just to be, Sits aside until the burning stops. What is beauty in a psalm? Without the son, the daughter, Is the sport lost? Where the ice is more soft, A cross stick, a want, Whistle wanton, a decision. To sit in a box, with conscious, Or a sideline life to correspond With your winnings.
Tomorrow trailing, no erasers, Maybe no stress can reach relief, Papers, their lies and keys, Power is in just eyes to see; One hand hold, one hand to reach, Narrow is escape, is this fate, Or feeling? Do arrows fly away, misguided, Awry in their aerial affairs, Fore bearer blameless in errand; For barrels makeshift of nothing, What is the price of a country?
Pier as far as the eyes can peer, Towers tall, the flowers gone, Pensioner, is this not your fear? Who appears, speaks of appearances, When death is near and cowers all? Seer, as far as I can see, Nobody writes, nobody listens, Nobody lies but nobody stares. Nobody rights are given to liars, Who speak of bridges nobody cares. Who appears, speaks of appearances, When bridges fall to the pier? Who maintains the system? I can see names of victims, Name of my liquor, But no list of gunmen, Lenders or kinsmen. If one day they name a killer, Who appears, speaks of appearances, Circles all around the seriousness. Waits for nobodies to leave, Then steals, Who babbles incoherent?
Sloganeering memetic, Lowly speaker of rhetoric, Teach us a world hate filled. He speaks of the sieve: 'It seeks to strain and divide, It sees two ways and aligns, Hands in bonds, eyes blind, Invest your money wisely, As do Gods on Friday.' Lies.
I wrote the list upon my hand, because I was wont to forget. Memory was always a weakness, since birth I assume. I had since then learnt to cope. Would it rain? I wasn't sure, but I would be ready if it did. "Ready to go?" I heard a voice. I nodded, we were probably already late. It was dark outside, raining. The blacktop shimmered with the small bit of dwindling light that escaped through the clouds. The day was early but the day already felt long, characteristic of the gloomy weather. I opened the door, however, to sunlight beaming in my front door. "Great! Looks like it cleared up outside!" but all I could hear was the ocean. The noise of waves tossing themselves on the shore was overwhelming, their loudness filling the air. "Are you alright?" I snapped back into reality. I assured myself I was fine, just lost in thought as usual. I tried to make myself more comfortable by focusing on the inviting weather, although I was visibly nervous. I felt like something bad was going to happen. My foot stepped to the concrete, bending the leather of my shoes and causing them to crease. We walk beside one another in a peaceful silence toward the bus stop, eyes trained on the puddles of the sidewalk. My foot lifted for another step and as it comes back down to reach the water, I felt a wind rush past. I looked up, and I found myself all alone. Once again, I felt the rain upon my face.
Do thickets see steeples, or are people the thickets? If writers are thick headed, Writing of Peter Pans' pigs, Who visits? Bull, riches, seer, man, Write a list upon my hand, So that my plot, it thickens. What is time spent living: Divine or perspective driven? Plate spinner, of your illusion, Place your spins upon their back. Bull, chickens, and feelings lack, Who takes from hands of other hen? Who take the hands of other hen, Who take the land of wary men, Who lost to men, More suspicious then. What is it all about: Defense, or Pence, To what extent do I extend, What is strength?
The bar too low, A life in limbo. Civil man elicit, Dance too rigid. Cancer, victim, Lance too frigid. Is life another rhyme? Saved for another time, or just a bunch of lies? Head and shoulders, Knees and hipbones. But does god see soles, Planted into the beach? How does god see souls, Managed funds and stealing? While reaching into homes, to take his piece? A plastic man, made for shelves, Laughs filling his fantastic needs.
No brittle bones, paid for sickness, For where it goes is nonsense. Undying, nobody throws spear immortal, Even if the wind vied in cordial, Simple wounds seal of licks and moans. My immortal man made of sticks and stones, Drowns in cordial, healed by cordial, Acting cordial among the crude oil.
Diablo II, Why make me wait for games? My fate lament, give it away, Give it away, give it away now. Fleas of the carpet, People of the parking lot, Can you not? Trying to make something, They stand about, puffy, Chests golden, coffers copper, Rusted in their velour valor, Failing to soil of fewer flowers.
Bones that manage to crack, A love forever lacking, What one cannot foresee comes again. Losing fights that cannot be won, outgunned, outlasted, nor outrun. A foot forced to shrubs, But what of the lungs? Lonesome, handsome fighter, What of your gloves? What of your sums? Poster person, spokesman, What of you becomes?
The toad speaks, the mind sees, The mouse squeaks of menses; Too high to sleep, ego flying, Does one write lines on sheets? Scribble perfection, or deny? Fights cannot be won, only survived. Poet, please give me writing, Forced to be, I need power to fight.
Why does the torrent travel? Where is the lively forest? Even the poorest trees flourish, Their coins worthless, Poinsettia, wide oceans. For my set list chosen, What does forum or castles have? Gravel walls, gravel flooring, People with their comfort lush, Their lives worthless, Political science, flyers, Quotients.