Dwelling in a foreign land. Time is the only familiar
tableau, last locus. Even your shadow falls aslant here,
aping you strangely, or are you really hunched and scurrying
along the sidewalk? When did you grow so much
smaller? It is easy to become nostalgic. One easy thing.
Clearly time is not a landscape to make a home in.
Your beloved, in whose beloved city you now dwell,
agrees one of you has an advantage. But which one?
Remind your beloved that dwell comes from the Old
English, meaning to lead astray, to wander. As ravel
has come to be both unravel and also its opposite, you
point out, twisting your key ring in your fingers.
Abide then, say you abide here, suggests your beloved,
remembering too late that abide also means to endure,
to tolerate, to bear. Are all the words for holding still
so fraught? You both settle on reside, free
of overtones, swinging your legs over the balcony
that overlooks the park where you go sometimes
alone to feed the little black birds that remind you
of your childhood home. Neither you nor your beloved
suggests you claim to live here. Secretly you think
you dwell here, you are raveling, you are unraveling—
becoming opposite, and opposite’s opposite. Only
your shadow lives here, still having everything
it has always had. Because your body is its roof.
Because you are its home. Its homeless home.
Monday, December 8, 2008
They're getting better
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Brain Hive
The secret hives are aligned
near the lianas of heaven,
among the luminous nests.
Gather nectar there, bees of my thoughts,
little bees winged with sound
within the pregnant cloud of silence;
laden yourself with resin
perfumed with stars and wind:
we will seal all the gaps
communicating with the tumult of life.
for the prairies of the earth;
and tomorrow, when there will be wreathed
the wild roses of my poems,
we will have celestial rose hips
and sidereal seeds.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
On my sunday
I've been thinking about what makes me want to be a writer, and what I've come to realize is, it's the other writers. So many people I read are able to establish connections with both the fictional (or fictionalized real person) characters they write about, and relate this connection with the people who read it (for me anyway). So I figured if it's the writers then they must be reflected in my writing. So I pulled out my dog eared copy of poems by blake and got to reading. He was not angry, and was not especially sad. I say this knowing almost nothing of who he was. However the fact he's so good made me angry, and thus I desecrated a bunch of my older writing is inferior. I now greatly regret this. If I've ever given you a poem, I kept a copy. I no longer have these copies. If you have a copy, and you see it's not on my site please send it over to me as I now have no back catalog, and want to vomit over my drunken destructive stupidity. That's the last fucking time I try to read and abuse drugs at the same time.
Why I write the way I do
Because I can be better than this dip shit
A Supermarket in California
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit-
man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees
with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images,
I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of
your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam-
ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives
in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you,
Garcнa Lorca, what were you doing down by the
watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old
grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator
and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed
the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my
Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of
cans following you, and followed in my imagination
by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in
our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every
frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors
close in an hour. Which way does your beard point
tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets?
The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses,
we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent
cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-
teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit
poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank
and stood watching the boat disappear on the black
waters of Lethe?
Allen Ginsberg
A Supermarket in California
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit-
man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees
with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images,
I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of
your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam-
ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives
in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you,
Garcнa Lorca, what were you doing down by the
watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old
grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator
and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed
the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my
Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of
cans following you, and followed in my imagination
by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in
our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every
frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors
close in an hour. Which way does your beard point
tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets?
The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses,
we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent
cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-
teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit
poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank
and stood watching the boat disappear on the black
waters of Lethe?
Allen Ginsberg
Why I Don't Write in any rhyming schemes
Because I'll never be as good (or close) to those who came before me
Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
William Blake
Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
William Blake
Monday, June 16, 2008
Invalidation (I don't know why this didn't post right the first time)
Invalidation
The snapping intensifiesmy senses aroused
I know she's trying to get my attention
*Slap*
Perhaps a bit more than physical
She gives in to her qualms
I give in to my idiocy
I can't help the coward within
She lashes
I wilt
Well this isn't the sort of S&M I had in mind
No leather
No whips
Just myself
Beaten red
no release
no satisfaction
(unsure if this needs more lines. Does it get the point across? I mean what it says. The expectation of one kind of give and take of pain, and the reception of something else. I'm just not sure if that gets across.)
Thursday, June 12, 2008
For Liz part Deux (written with her words)
I believe
soulmates who eat sunshine.
butterflies and babies;
finally at peace.
giggling because I've found her,
finally found her,
I found her.
alone and decrepit.
Cerebrally vacant.
Metaphysically evil,
but
Metaphysically evil,
but
vivacious in body
My perfect soul mate.
My perfect soul mate.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Written right after I came back from Amsterdam with Chris Bill and Dough
Amsterdamnit
How agreeable it is to be touring Amsterdam this winter,
wandering her streets and ascending her breakneck stairs.
A pleasure to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every road sign and billboard
the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.
There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon's
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.
How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?
Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.
And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone
willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner.
I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal
what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window.
It is enough to light a joint and smile
How agreeable it is to be touring Amsterdam this winter,
wandering her streets and ascending her breakneck stairs.
A pleasure to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every road sign and billboard
the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.
There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon's
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.
How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?
Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.
And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone
willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner.
I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal
what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window.
It is enough to light a joint and smile
more fucked up shit I wrote after molly dumped me.
Suicide Note
If I die
It will be by my own hand
The rest of you will be left to wonder
why I
was trying to get away from
me.
If I die
It will be by my own hand
The rest of you will be left to wonder
why I
was trying to get away from
me.
Wow I was depressed when I wrote this (but it's pretty well constructed)
Ending
flaccid seated upon the couch,midnight, lapping cheap vodka
from a cup, Jesus, have I come
to this?
I once battled at parties
for a laugh.
now I'm not laughing.
I swallow joylessly and wonder,
How much time will be asked from me?
how many days?
my soul is empty and
a stupefying clarity rests in my brain.
things arrive; they pass
they go to nothing.
I understand the fall of cities, of
nations.
Light shimmers on the cock pit
of a large crane.
I look towards it as if it made sense to
look upward. it's true, the sky has rotted:
it won't be long for any of
us.
Another one along the same lines. This is the worst shit ever.
Do you think of me
When the music of morning
First begins to sound,
When his barks and their horns
stir your world with their singing?
Do you think of me
As the sun lengthens shadows,
Until all the world
Fades into one big shadow,
And the night music begins?
Do you think of me
As your eyes close, and the night
Folds in around you,
Like the arms of a lover,
To hold you until morning?
You are in my mind
During all of these moments.
You are the music
Of my life, but I wonder,
Do you ever think of me?
The Hunt (correction this is about a bad first date that ends in sex (possible all first dates that end this way are bad))
To cleave through the night
Like an butchers knife
Carving this very second
Exposing the bone
To sprinkle on it
That which fills my ears
The electric clink of silver on teeth
The boiling, brimming murmur between
Launching myself like a ship to sea
Through the aroma clouds
Stinging, clinging molecules
Of beer and ash
Dipping it into this glass
Ensuring my platitudes with the burn
That rolls down my throat, molasses-like,
Flesh-numbing, happy
Finally framing it with the walls
The corners of this stinking place
So it would never powder in palms
Clenched, losing
Then I would have you
Like an butchers knife
Carving this very second
Exposing the bone
To sprinkle on it
That which fills my ears
The electric clink of silver on teeth
The boiling, brimming murmur between
Launching myself like a ship to sea
Through the aroma clouds
Stinging, clinging molecules
Of beer and ash
Dipping it into this glass
Ensuring my platitudes with the burn
That rolls down my throat, molasses-like,
Flesh-numbing, happy
Finally framing it with the walls
The corners of this stinking place
So it would never powder in palms
Clenched, losing
Then I would have you
Invalidation
The snapping intensifies
my senses aroused
I know she's trying to get my attention
*Slap*
Perhaps a bit more than physical
She gives in to her qualms
I give in to my idiocy
I can't help the coward within
She lashes
I wilt
Well this isn't the sort of S&M I had in mind
No leather
No whips
Just myself
reddened, and bruised.
my senses aroused
I know she's trying to get my attention
*Slap*
Perhaps a bit more than physical
She gives in to her qualms
I give in to my idiocy
I can't help the coward within
She lashes
I wilt
Well this isn't the sort of S&M I had in mind
No leather
No whips
Just myself
reddened, and bruised.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
fucking the dog
All you have to do is walk this way
around the bend and just past the point of no return
you, simply,
open your mouth and remove all filters
say what you want
liberate your ideas.
Do not spare feelings,
Do not parse words
Do not hold your tongue
This path of openess
is mostly a route to your pettiness
revel in your inability to express
do not revile your ability to upset
Own your shit
You will make people mad
They will hate you
Or at least think you odd
You will be well on your way
to that glorious place
where you've fucked the dog.
around the bend and just past the point of no return
you, simply,
open your mouth and remove all filters
say what you want
liberate your ideas.
Do not spare feelings,
Do not parse words
Do not hold your tongue
This path of openess
is mostly a route to your pettiness
revel in your inability to express
do not revile your ability to upset
Own your shit
You will make people mad
They will hate you
Or at least think you odd
You will be well on your way
to that glorious place
where you've fucked the dog.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
oops the for liz post was supposed to read this
Boom
My head explodes
Your face is coated.
It's strangely erotic
This look, you covered in my gunk.
Fascinating
beautiful young woman
Thoughtful and kind
Covered in me
You were the cause of the head explosion
It's your own fault you're covered in my ick
If only it weren't my big head you'd made burst
"Women exist to serve men"
Ugh
My head explodes
Your face is coated.
It's strangely erotic
This look, you covered in my gunk.
Fascinating
beautiful young woman
Thoughtful and kind
Covered in me
You were the cause of the head explosion
It's your own fault you're covered in my ick
If only it weren't my big head you'd made burst
"Women exist to serve men"
Ugh
Monday, June 2, 2008
Off the top of the dome (be kind about spelling as I had no spell check and am totally reliant)
Conversations I have with myself and others all the time. In free flow writing poetry edition
Word Vomit
If I don't spew something I might die
I will force these words
Uninspired dribble
Unintelligible, Unrelated
Worst of all unfeeling
Still, they are guided
they are forced to surface
They will not be drowned
their air was almost up.
That's it.
The build up of toxic gases killed it's reason
The nascence of a mush brained poem
I wanted to right this for so long
it would not be written.
It could not be righted.
I can't believe this is the poem I dreamt about. Fuck I'm such a loser.
I'm a liar, but this isn't a lie. I hope
Hi have we met?
My name's Max.
If we've met, I've lied to you
The compulsion propels
A viscous cycle
too sticky to escape
I tried being honest with people
it turned my interactions...
It grated my relationships.
People hated me
Narrator included.
I tried telling you. I'm dull,
I'm nervous,
I'm happiest when I'm alone,
It didn't matter.
you were only happy with me: aggressor.
I made bad jokes,
I spoke brusquely,
I was sexually aggressive with all the wrong girls.
I was emotional.
I was weird.
I was the center of attention.
This is the man I'm known as.
This is part of the man I am
I am my own actions,
I own my reality,
and yet
I am vacant.
I am lost.
I don't have a fucking clue how it ended this way. Why do I insist on making a fool of myself?
Oh yeah the pussy.
Floods and Droughts
Allow me to introduce myself
I am mustache Max
hiding something behind a thin vail
Like a gay man with... well... a mustache.
I am a creator of bad words, and a provocateur of hair brained schemes
I am the impetus behind an entire school of thought.
Maxian: Posturing is victory
Learned in the ways of savage beasts
I spit soap box philosophy Enlightening a minority
I will change your life
Or not
I'm really a self important loser with a big nose
I'm out of shape, and out of my mind
I don't know why people are impressed with me.
NOTICE to readers It's A Sham.
My confidence is so tied to others
not just their liking me,
but their agreance.
Tacit, or other. In my mythology
I am a legend, or I want to kill myself.
I just wish I had a middle speed.
I don't think anyone else does this (all assholes do this)
I am unique.
A precious, precocious snowflake.
No don't look that way,
I'm original.
My jokes? I came up with those
Oh you'd heard it before?
Shit.
Why I use drugs
Because.
They.
Make.
Me.
Cool.
no lie.
Is That Right?
Her smooth skin glistens
a light sheen of sweet sweat upon my lips
The flow from the left foot
to the left hip
along her shapely side
Enticing
Her right side buried
At peace
Her back rhythmically pumping
Up and down
Gentle reminders of her exhaustion
Lucky me.
Witness to sated beauty.
Her body tells me she wants to be held
I just want her to go
Please leave
I've got a lot of work to do tomorrow.
I really need a good nights sleep.
I stay silent.
I move to the couch.
Nice Blind Date is on.
Word Vomit
If I don't spew something I might die
I will force these words
Uninspired dribble
Unintelligible, Unrelated
Worst of all unfeeling
Still, they are guided
they are forced to surface
They will not be drowned
their air was almost up.
That's it.
The build up of toxic gases killed it's reason
The nascence of a mush brained poem
I wanted to right this for so long
it would not be written.
It could not be righted.
I can't believe this is the poem I dreamt about. Fuck I'm such a loser.
I'm a liar, but this isn't a lie. I hope
Hi have we met?
My name's Max.
If we've met, I've lied to you
The compulsion propels
A viscous cycle
too sticky to escape
I tried being honest with people
it turned my interactions...
It grated my relationships.
People hated me
Narrator included.
I tried telling you. I'm dull,
I'm nervous,
I'm happiest when I'm alone,
It didn't matter.
you were only happy with me: aggressor.
I made bad jokes,
I spoke brusquely,
I was sexually aggressive with all the wrong girls.
I was emotional.
I was weird.
I was the center of attention.
This is the man I'm known as.
This is part of the man I am
I am my own actions,
I own my reality,
and yet
I am vacant.
I am lost.
I don't have a fucking clue how it ended this way. Why do I insist on making a fool of myself?
Oh yeah the pussy.
Floods and Droughts
Allow me to introduce myself
I am mustache Max
hiding something behind a thin vail
Like a gay man with... well... a mustache.
I am a creator of bad words, and a provocateur of hair brained schemes
I am the impetus behind an entire school of thought.
Maxian: Posturing is victory
Learned in the ways of savage beasts
I spit soap box philosophy Enlightening a minority
I will change your life
Or not
I'm really a self important loser with a big nose
I'm out of shape, and out of my mind
I don't know why people are impressed with me.
NOTICE to readers It's A Sham.
My confidence is so tied to others
not just their liking me,
but their agreance.
Tacit, or other. In my mythology
I am a legend, or I want to kill myself.
I just wish I had a middle speed.
I don't think anyone else does this (all assholes do this)
I am unique.
A precious, precocious snowflake.
No don't look that way,
I'm original.
My jokes? I came up with those
Oh you'd heard it before?
Shit.
Why I use drugs
Because.
They.
Make.
Me.
Cool.
no lie.
Is That Right?
Her smooth skin glistens
a light sheen of sweet sweat upon my lips
The flow from the left foot
to the left hip
along her shapely side
Enticing
Her right side buried
At peace
Her back rhythmically pumping
Up and down
Gentle reminders of her exhaustion
Lucky me.
Witness to sated beauty.
Her body tells me she wants to be held
I just want her to go
Please leave
I've got a lot of work to do tomorrow.
I really need a good nights sleep.
I stay silent.
I move to the couch.
Nice Blind Date is on.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Things I Think While Depressed
I wish I wasn't me,
But I don't want to be anyone else.
How can you appreciate when
The only thing you dislike more than yourself
is everyone else.
But I don't want to be anyone else.
How can you appreciate when
The only thing you dislike more than yourself
is everyone else.
Lonesome Thompson Gunner
Warren Zevon
The soundtrack to my travels
my travails
have a much less poignant ambience.
The soundtrack to my travels
my travails
have a much less poignant ambience.
Monday, May 26, 2008
On reading poetry
I'm posting this mostly as a reminder to myself (well only erik actually looks at this site)
1. Read with the grammar not the structure
2. Finish the poem if you can, and if you can't either it's garbage, or you're an idiot
3. They don't have to make sense to touch on reality. So don't dodge the topic because it's a big fucking quagmire.
1. Read with the grammar not the structure
2. Finish the poem if you can, and if you can't either it's garbage, or you're an idiot
3. They don't have to make sense to touch on reality. So don't dodge the topic because it's a big fucking quagmire.
Lemon(lime)/LSD (poem found written in highschool while tripping)
The acid spews delicious
It's flavor jump from the pallet
Absorbed in paper and citrus
They hue my life
Flavors and realities
One an altered state.
The other alters taste.
The effect is striking,
Only in its similarity.
Cerebral changes emerge,
They are beaten back.
Only to renew its nascence.
So easy to forget,
Tastes and sensations.
This feeling,
Pleasurable, Indescribable.
Is it from a good meal, or the six tabs I swallowed?
It's flavor jump from the pallet
Absorbed in paper and citrus
They hue my life
Flavors and realities
One an altered state.
The other alters taste.
The effect is striking,
Only in its similarity.
Cerebral changes emerge,
They are beaten back.
Only to renew its nascence.
So easy to forget,
Tastes and sensations.
This feeling,
Pleasurable, Indescribable.
Is it from a good meal, or the six tabs I swallowed?
Thursday, May 22, 2008
On intimacy and other ununderstandables
Intimate moments
The light touches the skin pressed,
the words unleashed...
Spewed un-edited un-filtered full of life
Most of life you live behind a shield
A spiked wall ready to bash.
Turning your friends and family to tikka
Your words unsaid metal skewers bisecting your relationships
These moments of intimacy.
Brief glimpses into my own humanity.
glances into what I think I am.
Isn't it odd.
Strange. Weird. Or at least somewhat unusual.
That all my most intimate moments are with strangers?
The light touches the skin pressed,
the words unleashed...
Spewed un-edited un-filtered full of life
Most of life you live behind a shield
A spiked wall ready to bash.
Turning your friends and family to tikka
Your words unsaid metal skewers bisecting your relationships
These moments of intimacy.
Brief glimpses into my own humanity.
glances into what I think I am.
Isn't it odd.
Strange. Weird. Or at least somewhat unusual.
That all my most intimate moments are with strangers?
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Starting a Fist Fight with an Oncoming Train
These tides they are a same-in.
A new day dawns to reach the old sunset
nature´s turns are circles
spinning endless.
Elitism, A pox on your house
A feckless insult landing squarely on all shoulders.
A faultless man could never reach these heights
Elitist all, decent none
Stop telling me what to do.
I hear the beast a dancin',
It's screams and wails reverberating
Ah yes he says just like Ghengis,
Just like Caesar,
Just like Bush.
I want to scream
"It's all falsehood"
"Every word drips lies"
"just look at the trail. That goo is unmistakable"
I swing my fists
Landing air
laughter erupts.
"Can't he see? We're fixing the world."
Maybe they are, but only for them.
Fuck your world.
Fuck your petty causes.
Fuck health care.
Fuck Social Security.
Their endless eating has stripped my bones.
They see, They know
They can't help themselves.
They can't stop themselves from laughing,
"What could be funnier than a boxing Skeleton?"
A new day dawns to reach the old sunset
nature´s turns are circles
spinning endless.
Elitism, A pox on your house
A feckless insult landing squarely on all shoulders.
A faultless man could never reach these heights
Elitist all, decent none
Stop telling me what to do.
I hear the beast a dancin',
It's screams and wails reverberating
Ah yes he says just like Ghengis,
Just like Caesar,
Just like Bush.
I want to scream
"It's all falsehood"
"Every word drips lies"
"just look at the trail. That goo is unmistakable"
I swing my fists
Landing air
laughter erupts.
"Can't he see? We're fixing the world."
Maybe they are, but only for them.
Fuck your world.
Fuck your petty causes.
Fuck health care.
Fuck Social Security.
Their endless eating has stripped my bones.
They see, They know
They can't help themselves.
They can't stop themselves from laughing,
"What could be funnier than a boxing Skeleton?"
Monday, April 7, 2008
Three ditties from the airplane
Three Chimes on the Hour
Ding, Ding, Dong
Rough acoustics startle
Dreary eyes widen
A day like all others
Singular as part of the infinitum
Three more hours
Nine more chimes
A day alike,
But for one last thing
Today the songs are inaudible
The crescent of an orchid
Vulvic jutting
a flower grown wild
Hanging from the wall
Its openness pornographic
No shame, no fear
Is this the way we should live?
adrift in sensuality?
Its earthy aroma calls
Sweet, and yet tinged with naivety
Does it know how easily it could be crushed?
does it matter?
A flower, a woman the questions are the same.
Music Defines my Relationships
The stones ripple across blown speakers
her mouth moves, but her words evasive
a serpentine nature.
They sound of meaning that I cannot grasp
Curling around I want to ask
"what is the point?"
"Why are we waiting?"
Instead I nod.
My agreance is preordained
My cowardice is a learned habit
I tell myself there is strength in this.
That my passivity is grease
These rails need lubrication
If only
If only
If only
Each held word is itself an ends.
The warble now stronger.
More distinct
Less able to understand
never able to interpret
Ding, Ding, Dong
Rough acoustics startle
Dreary eyes widen
A day like all others
Singular as part of the infinitum
Three more hours
Nine more chimes
A day alike,
But for one last thing
Today the songs are inaudible
The crescent of an orchid
Vulvic jutting
a flower grown wild
Hanging from the wall
Its openness pornographic
No shame, no fear
Is this the way we should live?
adrift in sensuality?
Its earthy aroma calls
Sweet, and yet tinged with naivety
Does it know how easily it could be crushed?
does it matter?
A flower, a woman the questions are the same.
Music Defines my Relationships
The stones ripple across blown speakers
her mouth moves, but her words evasive
a serpentine nature.
They sound of meaning that I cannot grasp
Curling around I want to ask
"what is the point?"
"Why are we waiting?"
Instead I nod.
My agreance is preordained
My cowardice is a learned habit
I tell myself there is strength in this.
That my passivity is grease
These rails need lubrication
If only
If only
If only
Each held word is itself an ends.
The warble now stronger.
More distinct
Less able to understand
never able to interpret
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