The point is the point, Boys will be boys, The noise: Serpentine, Like around me it coils. I ask my father, what he knows... His axe to grind is my axe to grind, Consequence, why my ass is fine. But who dies I'll never choose, I'll never have the chance to try. The noise, deafening, and wide. Like it surrounds me, And I planned to hide. As the waves they overtake me, I realize everyone has to die, Grandfather's axe was never mine, And nothing comes after, A modern dance to time.
Every artist has a last work, Cherry blossom fall to earth. Scary monsters have last words, Respectfully, mostly bollocks, Withdraw the sword and worth, It's nothing after all you've done.
Like swans meeting. Teneseee whiskey, Back upon a back, Cocaine and piercings, Neck upon a neck, Feelings, et al. So, I'm not enough after all, Dance halls, dogs and baseball, I guess you know it, et al.
Street drugs, steel drums, Words of the screen dumped, String fuzz. Dum de Dum Dum, Needs of people, needs of leaders, Needs of few, needs of one. Dum de Dum Dum, Steel drum, street drugs, Ideologies, belief succumb, Jesus died hearing Dum de Dum Dum. Answer the phone, I need love, Answer the phone, obscene words, Absence of hope, the ringing stops, But, after a war, It never does, Forever and ever, it goes on and on.
Calm wind after someone has died, The distance, is inner turmoil, One, it takes a lifetime to fight. That's why there is blue in the sky. The yellow and red still exists, Hidden by tricks in the mind. Like, Somewhere inside, I believe you are still mine, All I see is the thing you're like. It's like a room of three pipes, I can always stay high, But how, does one fight to stay? They pick low and live life. Despite the teal, I see the skies, What is real? Me, and all my desires, Despite the sequins, I see the light.
I wish I had just spawned in, Forget what I saw before death. In the end, I'm done with fights, Aquamarine, unto the skies. Blue after, and until midnight. I have between Ral, Tal, About what is right. God of the Sun, In the end. For you, insight. Racoons, fire, Costumes, liars. In the end, Just to win like them. I just want, to feel whole again, Like I had one hundred lives, Blue painted wall, sofa bed.
Like Sepia, Despite what I see, Also some yellow. Color the frame retro, Like scene girls, afterward, I think, where do I go? Despite what I feel, Altos bellow. Also her form, Lace, and leaves, Never ending war. Storybooks, Where are you for? Made bedrooms? Despite what I see, Euphoria. Despite the blue and orange, I see yellow. Like the whole world is sepia, And made in her form. Despite what I feel, About capitalization, ownership, I see shadows at home, Because I see by myself, alone, Despite what I feel.
Gold ochres, yellow turns to orange, But the yellow never changes in you, Does it? Thorn forest, there grows roses. Though tulips, begonia warn you, The world is full of your kin, Thoroughbred horses, Who rub their backs in shit. You are a squid that inks, then drinks it. I never was no poet, caged like a rabbit, Trapped, nor boxed with lines, unknowing. You are a skunk, stinks, and eat begonias. So, though two lips beg on, like au jus, You toot, toot toot, greasy after the booze. I've seen a world full of your kin: Fools... Whose blue oceans brown in pollution, Tulips by piss puddles, without allusion. You are a fun person, is my conclusion, Maybe red can change to an orange, Blue, though, can never be less blue, You can never really be a better person, Just accept yourself, I love you.
Was it like this all along? A bird wonders... Like gawkers, ponders what they saw... 'Would you describe me, inside of a bar?' 'Must again, you make things be so hard?' 'Wasp, like I bumble about the pollen, Following a humble belief seems wanton, When you believe in things so violent and wrong.' Bird, quickly describes in simple songs, Big cities, things it saw in the puddle, Colors of war, bees that talk. Freedom, it sings, is also simple, One really needs not drift apart. The big screen, another big scene, It was mostly a facade... Balk, talk is talk, feeling in the dark, But most of what a bird said, lived on, Proper relief is upon the soul after all... So they write less of evil on the walls, In the sky, on maps or village carts. Against nothing, see the days beyond... I suppose those concepts are behind us. Was it like this all along? A bird wonders... Is the city like a swallow, or like to swallow, and will he be the next one gone? Cause for alarm, make calls upon, Anything, but you lost the one. You love... Like a dog watching another sun set, More talk, another sun will rise again, Life for this bird is but more dogs. So like a coward, survives the storm, Shivering as they make their calls. Inevitably, to face the power lines alone.
Sitting outside the shop on a cloudy May afternoon, my hand scrawls on the back of a receipt a list of the aspects of myself: - the moles in morse code down the side of my face ($4.99) - the scars on my leg in bumpy braille ($12.76) - the skin covering my knuckles, shining where it has split so many times over ($29.97, sale price) - the soul filled with self-loathing, boiling, bubbling over the rim ($10.19) - my spine, doubled over and bent backward ($17.22, CLEARANCE) - the effort I put into eject all but the smallest parts of myself as a collection of trinkets, an amalgamation of dust bunnies ($0.99) I must have picked these up, absentmindedly, through my time in the shop. Where can I put these back? I didn't want them. Why did I pay for them, pulling out my wallet in a daze? I never knew they existed. I must have entered a girl and left a much older woman. How long was I standing underneath the humming lights? I crumple up the scratch paper and toss it in the bin as the sun waves from the overcast.
There are chunks in that soup, and cubes, Mashed potatoes in there somewhere too. All around me, the café's chatter: The onion has a story to tell And the broth, of course, is not merely gone, It has been completely transformed. In the shadow of the dark glass, I see my friend's eyes smile at me. My sister has written this poem As a way to explain something She cannot easily say aloud. After the last stanza, She writes the line "We never lose our past selves." This poem is an Articial Intelligence re-interpretation of "Flesh, Pt 1" by Gordon Haggerty.
It was cold & the sky was too red as the sunset came too early - my brain was spinning with those letters & numbers & they were falling out of my ears. I looked at the asphalt and I saw my past and future yawning out - both in the same direction on the one-way road but my ears were too cold to listen, to learn. It was too austere in the building & too frigid outside & too glacial in the car picking its way home through the ice and old snow. It was too much too few & not enough of anything at all. & it swarmed. Threes with wings and velocities out with compound eyes buzz & sting & leave me paralyzed, there on the curb.
Estoppel, Mothers teach their daughters: Fear god like a cannon, It's about what comes after, Thanks can turn like a cavern. Characters in novels, Monuments in their honor, Buildings to hurl themselves off of, In life, it appears less often, Withering is more common. Peer down the fandom: Book like a standard, Fans buy a good lie. Banks burn like a tavern, Like a blanket in shambles By the fire that looks fine. Estoppel: The dragon sighs, Wishes a sweet prince, good night, Gone is he with the fire.
espresso bean in the espresso machine located here in the mezzanine we serve your drinks with sweetness and cream a fountain of everlasting caffeine. espresso bean in the espresso machine and not just coffee, we also serve cuisine! the chocolate brownie is a hit with the teens huddled together near the register screen. espresso bean in the espresso machine here the noise is quite serene amidst those coming and going, a calm in-between come on over! help set the scene! espresso bean in the espresso machine week after month, to form a routine yet the tasks of today remain unseen ‘tis the life of those on the library team.
A cypher for poets and authors: Simple science, titled novel, A game, decoded by tyrants, After speaking, what is laughter? A bird sings to his father: After flying, what is higher? Looks to the sky for answers.
We are stories Ideas Tales of us were told Long before we were We are stories Ghosts wandering 'n minds Tales of us passed on Long after we were We are alone Together In sadness, in joy: we become human We don't exist We're nothingness Unless we share Unless we're two or more
what sleeps in the forest beside the highway? what lays its small head on dismembered takeout boxes and curls up beneath plastic bags emblazoned with ‘thankyouthankyouthankyou’? does it give thanks for small polyurethane luxuries? for the refuse it calls its refuge? what feeds on the grease and fumes from the roaring mechanical parade? does it lick its lips afterwards? what learns to cross the glimmering cement - first timidly, then wanton and triumphant after practice? what watches? what does it notice? what emerges from the forest beside the highway, large and lumbering, to repay the generosity of its benefactors in kind?
Last living lemming, No house to live in, No Chandeliers; Next exhibit, Next exhibition, Spoke of past tense in English, Fluent in other languages; An Eccentric Mystic, Poetic Lyrics, and their beginnings; One carves caverns, Of all manner of rock, What matters of master? The afterthought.