Do oranges have soul? Does it make the juice taste more? When I eat them, do they know? Sparkling orange meat oceans Hope to hold Could I, myself, become a bowl? Alas, to be Mimosa Mix Can Oranges feel regrets and woes? Drink my blood straight from my chest Pop a bottle Drink some more My heart's behest
Winter seemed to never end, I was standing in the rain. What is dead will rise again, to be lost to another raw cycle. We were dreamt up bare in the frigid cold, with only tears to shed. We were pale bodied lips tinted red, patiently standing by for seasons end.
Write your life, line by line, From post to post, time in finite, Decide. Vibration is not entirety, Leave flying to the pilot, Masons, vocational thieves. Applause, Songs written of concepts, Concert to the rest, nonsense. Only to soothe the soul, One forgives and consoles, Otherwise the wise have but knowledge, Lies are all but college, Which behold, Yet deny all the garbage they bestow. Take your hits, pipe by pipe, From fist to fist, time is final, Less vital due to all your fighting.
Horns, voice of the poor, Holy, vision is only. Rather, than coroner's noise, Throw the dice of paradise your holding. Father, can corners point? How can a leader lead, Scared of people peeping, Their knowledge growing. To plough after planting seeds, Scared of people leaving, Father, am I to join? I feel my collage is nothing, My college is nodding, Politicians are nodding, Should I be hoar myself, Before myself? Should I embrace my life, Before death? Should I allow imbibing, Am I building a shelf, Or finding myself?
Look at the trees, All sweet with honey bees, Kids falling skinning there knees, Moms are running with all there might, Screaming I told you ,don't leave My sight, Now were do we fly our kite, Then they start to fight, Bees are buzzing, Oh so load, under over the huge Big crowd.
Courage at last, my heart be closed, Would a tap of emotion be more apropos? Cold alack in a world of clothes, Told: Dress myself more appropriate, My moment is now and I'm blowing it. Could it be at last, my heartbeat thuds, One claps along, misunderstands the words, I'm told I owe an explanation, for those, For they were written bitter and old. So? that's how they turned out, spoiled, Characters, write their life in whole, Much like something serpentine coiled.
Seeking resurrection, I long to burn my hands, Incense smoke, friends. I tire of drawing nonagon, ocatgons, heptagons, hexagons. I have drawn triangles, circles, squares and beyond, I have longed for more irregular shapes. Older days, forgotten, songs, Lyrics erased, dreams decayed, Vocals crack on air, The priest is watching alone. I stare the beast in his eyes, and keep yelling despite.
Sidewalks broken on my boulevard, Auburn hair where I used to walk, Talk, and think of her dialogue. I'd thought greenery would fall, Replaced with concrete barriers, Perhaps I'd talked too freely, Told one too many tale too tall To still be taken seriously. Discreet forever, words picky, Discrete for ever, world sticky, Disformity for even worms licking. Take me away from this place, For even screaming and kicking, Seeing worse, feeling indignant. Not to curse the growing infant, But the plants must go. No handlebars rusted, To bikes comprised of broken dreams, No van full of children hopeful, Just a van to the hospital, please, My heart is about to explode to pieces.
My life a water, cold, Too cool to be absorbed; Endeavours foolish.
Reading of lives I enjoy deceit, My letter bold, italic and neat: "Please hear me, Greek, leek, I sometimes write nonsense, Lest hope you would hear it." Leading my lines, Foreseeing poetically, Receiving a liar guilty. He says: "For stanzas today, teacher, I stand like bread features, My brother filet beside me." For once he doesn't lie, Looks for the sky, sees ceiling. Nothing aground marks his feeling, Seeing the concrete, He remarks of life: "To tryst so wildly, again, Would Vivaldi paint so vividly? Probably, and with champagne, because his name has dignity." So seeing his window, He thinks of rain.
Whatever they do find With whomever I don't mind Though I don't believe They must be alien I lost time Swear I'm not blind I look and see Words in the breeze Tongue-tied They oft-lie Telling tales of talking trees Ghosts will moan Beg and plead Selling rhymes But not this guy Not Today I don't got time Not for pizza Not for pie Not for holding others up Just to drop them when I die Today I built a shelf So they can sit there when I'm gone Thinking about nothing While they listen to my songs
As poet, aspire, assume desire, I wrote for poets, declining, Prose for poetry, I grew designer. More spoke, iron, strewn aside, Cycle heroic for biking true, Though as porch, her mire I knew. To sit in snow, still forever, cold, Gladly to mix into a sill window home. Lover's letter, one pens from notes, To end on soles, or in bags of herion, And never spoken, lovely, but phoned in, In drunken speech, early in the morning. As men, we aspire, and assume desires, I wrote for Odin, always refining, Notes for nobody, I grew aside, Man of the world, I knew her ire.
This morning's protocols Beginning pondering What to do with people on the web. Thus with a deep resolve Maintaining promising Again untrue We will meet again This time she has evolved Now loving squandering Dreams anew Then dreaming to forget Sometimes I can recall Accepting sombering Time wasted In following a trend This time he feels involved Now loving squandering Has a few Then lives in the regret You ever feel withdrawal Oncoming vomiting Bid adieu To all of your old friends I can't say I'm appalled Forgetting honoring Lives wasted Unfollow them in death
Friends spoken to be millionaires paid, Mind hopeful, experience bar full, I'm hoping to get a millionaires pay, Friends along with, interiors vague. Though rhymes alone do not denote caste, They are like paste, or a paper, Clinging to the things we wish to frame. Like metal rods with a magnet lace, I walk back to my original place. Pens broken and arms folded in front, Mind hopelessly lost of useless knots. Life like a lark, but come too soon, So hopelessly lost, inside of dark, Heart fought and hard fought, And eventually the daybreak comes.
Just getting laughs from the old guard now Epitaph in town for an old sound It's jokes, man How much we fuck around This place This time Joy that I have found Do a flip Throw a lock Knock 'em down
Angels sings Remember The glory The old flame The old days Time again Daydreamer New glory A new song Angels dreams Sing glory
Poster of an omen, toking, Dreaming by a plastic ocean, Most fast forward, hopeful; King of post, tasks chosen, Still lives Midas, hands golden. Lapland where they dig holes, Smoke weed and dance poles, Kings of the foal, antsy, cold. The older they grow, though, He loses his power, cowers, Curses feeling, eats pantry. Banishes his people of necessity, Carelessly manages feeble himself, Paddles the plastic ocean, relieved; Departs common and flowers nothing.
Nickname earning: flight to nursing. Pursuing blind rhymes eyes dictate, Spouse filate, being bed-ridden, Fed paste, lies told too tasteless. The self irate, then ergo inflated, A burrowed snake safely slithers, Within a borough named Richard, Who lives past the poison sword, Ego position lord, nails fingerless. No one wants to die a virgin, but some are doomed to that fate. It's a cruel world, I know. Lates.