Tag: poetry

Down below

September 21st, 2024

Me? I’m crazy

Spinning around in here,

Webs as long as my ears

I’m just crashing into bookcases

And pissing on lawns,

I’ve got a fairly clear complexion

Just nothing behind the skin

I’ve taken a dive off the short pier

And tasting anxiety in every drop

Blood I swallow before

I hit the water. You dig.

I’m crazy. Me.

Rather be crazy than a cop.

Rather be a blighter than a fop, ain’t you, brother toby, brighten up.

Have you taken your own chances again, you old bastard, yer blood pressure’s going to drop, I can’t, I’ve had a right enough of you.

Make it stop. Can’t make it stop.

The precipice.

Body, score.

Poem. More?

You decide, you’re the reader.

I can only ever be the transcriber.

Take it from the outside, captured or creative, creature or not, they’re not going to like you.

Give it all you got.

How you think different, I want to know.

Leave a comment.
Things have been going alright with me

September 1st, 2024

My mother gave a cry in her sleep, a cry in her shower when she didn’t slip, there’s a difference in the recovery story, isn’t it?

My ears have not been working for some time I now hear on breath and memory, it’s the side of my spine that’s on the wire on the left, some trigonometry that’s

Ligamentally wrong. It throws off my facing- pacing, spelled wrong.

And when to pinpoint, or when to punish, when to pretend to have had a point, and when to have lost it in the end. when to publish, my friend?

Never, these are inside thoughts.

(Deleted: regret)
Hey Lag

August 23rd, 2024

Dreamer, five off the crystal river,

Dance, and you’re a diamond sky

Hasten for the boat, we move as one

Cough, lean beam, square shoulders

Nerve tension, rest in the unison of

The universe, fried food or kitchens,

Sliver of away, the island is off and

Here comes the catchup, I’ve got

Something to say. End of statement.

Period. Please, pass the Buck and

The skunk. Bear, crows eye hearing,

Dead on a doormat, format makes

No difference to keeper, nothing

Can touch me here. It’s a traffic jam

Because I am flowing, river of life,

Deftly showing. Bling of bride blue

Haze, Finger patterns sought where the

sauce might get you in it. I feel love and a million other things when I dance outside. Seen, sometimes, mostly good.

See me more, I’m listening and probably looking at the ground.

The ground is full of rocks and I am made of soup. What are you?

Leave it there. See yah later.
How to interpret a ghost

August 18th, 2024

Wave your hands in front of it, first. If that doesn’t get you an answer, try to pick up a corner and peek underneath. Not all of them can be dealt with this way, many will just likely slide through your two little fingers, you’ll remember, you are alone. You’re never with a ghost. The absence isn’t there any more than anything is there, it’s just nothing with a shape. You might try walking through it. 5 to 7 chance the shiver will tell you something. Hold your hand in the cold, that’s an idea, the whispers might travel clear enough through your bones to hit your ear drums, you might hear something. Ignoring it with your back is another strategy, but your back is more sensitive, gives away more, than you think it does, and then the ghost starts learning about you, better ways to conspicuously avoid you into your most vacuous state. Then you’d be a ghost, too, and then you might understand it better. Though at that point it doesn’t matter. You’re not matter anymore. Matter grips anti-matter, never goes well, always leaves a scar.
Four and one

August 6th, 2024

Can you hear how good you all are?

A list of your classifiers wouldn’t suffice, I’ve seen enough to love you twice, your smile is up, and up is down won’t you come be a rodeo clown with me, cowboy, ride the sound.

Sounders spinning algorithm ride the favorite but couldn’t fill ‘3

Eh-hem. I have not AI to say. I am a citizen of the Milky Way. Affirm me, Great Star Command, I’m grounded infinity away- give us this thanks, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, while we level those who trespass against us, but lead us never towards temptation, but for that stick of gum gum we shoot boys. For His is the Kingdom, White Power, and The Glory, in every conceivable universe, world with a nasty end, Amen.

(The scene you’re supposed to have seen there is a young person contacting astral support in mass, and when mentally interrupted by a physical Father, the turn of the most lordly prayer to what they sarcast about it.)

All of this is to say I think you’re fantastic, you makers of art. Anything you do has got my heart. Make it weird, say something too loud, show us the soul that hosts our feelings most proud, change them, I’ll follow you into the ground. Bombs away.
Laughing at Love

August 1st, 2024

I’ve been putting this off.

I’ve been putting this off because it hurts.

I’m putting this off even right at this moment because it makes my chest tight.

It’s circling my shoulder now, threatening my neck. At some point it’ll give up on the extremities and burrow instead into the deep flesh I hide in my torso.

The other thing I’ve heard is that in the past two years I would have to go back to each to break this.

You would definitely be able to tell, but you probably can’t tell, you would definitely be able to tell that I-

No, I can’t say it.

It hurts too much.

I was raised to believe that sharing my feelings for someone with concerned is bold, forward, female perverse, so wrong I’m eleven and being screamed at. That’s a story for another day.

I’m fighting the same battle. It’s never worked. The city is bankrupt. I have perspective and low funding. For two years I’ve changed my own hands. You’re not selling what I’m not buying. I’m only one flavor option, there’s no use picking my chalk up off the menu and throwing it in your face. Water districts know exactly what I mean.

It’s actually just charming. It goes beyond a fascinating life. It goes beyond charming. It’s a greeting but your teeth are yellow. Mine. I don’t think they are but they might as well be. I just don’t sell well here.

I haven’t said it yet. It’s ridiculous.

I have a hard time sticking around to write for very long because god don’t I know the side of the fence with all the writers for love has, right, filled up. There’s no space left for me.

I can’t believe I said that.

You didn’t hear this from me. I can tell you that way, if you didn’t hear this from me.

I’m lonely.

There. It’s out. Isn’t that ridiculous. I saw the zeroing each other out, I put it in two other directions through the dust. Isn’t that ridiculous. I’m selling myself through these white line stand-ins for my chattering teeth. I’d love you to think about what they’re hiding behind.

I can’t stand in my words, but I could stand in your room and sing some to you. They might not be mine, then, unless you put your two hands in and pull them out.

Who are you talking to, me?

This is silly. Ha. Ha ha ha.

Lonely lovesick limerick builder boulders through thick lonely love lines.

What? No poetic, just earwax.

I love you.

What? Who are you? We haven’t had dinner yet, I don’t know what you taste like with coffee.

Love is stupid. Ha.
Where waiting springs

July 23rd, 2024

It collects in the high corners first never stopping so slow it’s like dust on your fingers but you’ve stopped moving you’re not dead you’ve just stopped moving and anything like it is like that it starts in the ceiling corners and then it melts the walls brown and drippy like that time you had pneumonia and they put you in the hospital for tuberculosis of the grandfather and you read Bukowski and thought about entrapment, it’s sort of like that what you coughed up but it’s closer to the feeling between when they came for the cup and it’s sort of like when you haven’t quite pulled on the string that turns on the light, you’re just hanging there just hanging just hanging just look at what’s on the walls, be amused, be satisfied with what’s on the walls, wear your clothes inside you, outside in, it’s like that but it’s purple and it’s outside and it’s times no one is scheduled for when the hell is 6:24 is anything going to come of those songs no one hears me singing to myself halloooo I’m alone. It’s like that.
You can’t take the future with you

July 21st, 2024

On the path, you take the tools. Tools take you? No. Your journey.

Oh but is it yours? What is yours? Are you on the ownership trip or the skipaway ship across the bay?

The difference is subtle, the difference is suffering. Which do you want? Doesn’t matter. Want and need are different beasts, far cousins of greed.

The bush is orange flowers, the vehicle is the wheel. Do you control either? Does the bush control the wither?

Do you take a bath in your body odor? How far out is that, what was I saying?

Make plans for Thursday, is that day yours, is that future where you got to Thursday something you can keep, is that scum on your teeth going to stay there until then? If not now, when?

I know I’m asking you a lot of questions, I know there’s something I’m getting around to, I just haven’t found it yet, it just hasn’t stumbled onto my path, it just isn’t here yet, I’m here.

I’ve found that the longer I keep writing the farther from nothing am I, I’m always here, present, checked out, in the soup, part of the group, part of the swamp. It’s warm, the sun is so big. It’s there, will it be there? How about that green sign of the congressman, will that be there? Immortality is only the monuments, after all, metal rusts, stones fall. Ships are sinking. This is everything now.
The Crow Answers

November 19th, 2023

“What do you see up there, brother?”

“No more than you.”

Perception is an illusion, and we are the aggregate. Is there more to say?
What Are Tears For?

November 18th, 2023

I shed them often, I shed them long, I shed them for anger, grief, joy, suffering, anything I can get my tear ducts going for.

And I don’t understand them.

If I shed them for the slaughter of children whose families I will never know, do the buds regrow?

If I shed them for my own deep inside hurts, did time turn back on itself?

I know they are a primordial vent but I don’t know what they’re for. They don’t do anything.

Except everything.

They cry to that oldest force, “I’m here, damn you, I’m here!” They are stronger than the rain and softer than a shower of petals.

I could not do without them.