Sweet nothing
There’s a dime in my mind recollecting a pain in increments too small to appreciate. There is a logical deficit and a negative balance that goes with it. There’s an abundance of heart but no soul. There’s change to be made, but never enough to trade for a token of faith. If you could afford the time to see me right now I’d probably crack your head open like a broken gumball machine and take all the red ones. I’ll write you a post-dated check... for a penny ...for your thoughts.
Sweetbread dough
You are a reaching plant wanting sun and straining for a chemical reaction. Your food is what happens on the outside and your breath gives life. You are more than just some green, you’re a sugar mamma with big apple lipstick. You’ve climbed the corporate vine and you’re throwing me a line. You’re lush like the tropics. You’re no vegetable honey, but everywhere you go you’re tossing salad. When your wheat is ripe you pluck the heads and spread your bread. No, you’re no veggie baby, but you spread through the roots. Your branches are snug like a multi-national conglomerate bear hug. Sorry about the animal reference.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Saturday, August 4, 2007
If we were equals
What’s in a name if we’re all the same and we don’t know the good from the bad? And why should we care who they fry in the chair? If everyone’s evil, should any feel sad? But if it’s really true that I’m better than you, and smarter and much better bred, then even your own validation of my superior creation would be yet another occasion for dispensing unto you my heartiest mockeries.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
2 more things...
Why I drink
Many drink to forget what they lost or what they cannot have. They drink to forget their desires. They drink to slow the mind and fool the heart. Some drink for pleasure, living life to the full. I drink for the noblest cause of all. I drink for the good of all mankind. I drink to forgive.
Mixed bag
What’s in your rhyme bag? Is it something about me? How I am the something of the something or the something to the something? I could read all day in your tear soaked ramblings, knowing you’ll be too embarrassed to show them in the future.
Many drink to forget what they lost or what they cannot have. They drink to forget their desires. They drink to slow the mind and fool the heart. Some drink for pleasure, living life to the full. I drink for the noblest cause of all. I drink for the good of all mankind. I drink to forgive.
Mixed bag
What’s in your rhyme bag? Is it something about me? How I am the something of the something or the something to the something? I could read all day in your tear soaked ramblings, knowing you’ll be too embarrassed to show them in the future.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
3 untitled things I wrote last night...
1)
Dangercaps unfold a meadowlarkingly lyrical call for arms of string to arrange patterned colors in leaflet folds. The tears of anchors that sway in glowing altitude glance seemingly at nearbaked orbs. The thickness is a sensation by the lips of wired maggots that seek a destined recombinant metaphorical lessening. Do your midnights burn with the same intensity as your rebirths? Or do you fire the wednesdays like farming a range war?
Peeling back the sounds that frighten you will exercise a tenfold lust for the warmth of radiant protection. As the flames envelope me, my eyes diffuse sound.
2)
Shaking into murk snakes with my mind, curling it into restless frames of ether. The constancy and vigilance of thought embodied by the coarse assembly of doughnuts and hair that somehow amounts to me, is a balance of wanton unwontedness.
Many delights are heralded as the fabric of the minds of passersby brushes softly across my cat-clawed mustache and the happy gaze they cast plucks the last ripe fruits from the harvest of my heart.
Weakly as ever, I will the beast of conversation into being, and as they are enraptured by it’s hideous grasping and thrusting, I hide the apple of destiny inside my own originality.
In the wake of these events, my thoughts are tightened down for a slow settling as comments are drawn from the lightest of the crowd.
The waves gently bed the unsettled tourists who misread the directions on my skull.
3)
The flight pays me by and tangles down to sudden draws that play into traction with armored wheels. The depth of breeding ropes, grapples and snuggles with a satisfied lung-fighter for lunch wielding hypocrites that tend intention to justify fraudulent sensations of genuineness in worth.
Triangle lesions are parked on the outermost surface of the new-found you. When the baking of your soul has been thoughtlessly performed you stand up and at the ready, but are either never quite finished or worse, overdone.
Dangercaps unfold a meadowlarkingly lyrical call for arms of string to arrange patterned colors in leaflet folds. The tears of anchors that sway in glowing altitude glance seemingly at nearbaked orbs. The thickness is a sensation by the lips of wired maggots that seek a destined recombinant metaphorical lessening. Do your midnights burn with the same intensity as your rebirths? Or do you fire the wednesdays like farming a range war?
Peeling back the sounds that frighten you will exercise a tenfold lust for the warmth of radiant protection. As the flames envelope me, my eyes diffuse sound.
2)
Shaking into murk snakes with my mind, curling it into restless frames of ether. The constancy and vigilance of thought embodied by the coarse assembly of doughnuts and hair that somehow amounts to me, is a balance of wanton unwontedness.
Many delights are heralded as the fabric of the minds of passersby brushes softly across my cat-clawed mustache and the happy gaze they cast plucks the last ripe fruits from the harvest of my heart.
Weakly as ever, I will the beast of conversation into being, and as they are enraptured by it’s hideous grasping and thrusting, I hide the apple of destiny inside my own originality.
In the wake of these events, my thoughts are tightened down for a slow settling as comments are drawn from the lightest of the crowd.
The waves gently bed the unsettled tourists who misread the directions on my skull.
3)
The flight pays me by and tangles down to sudden draws that play into traction with armored wheels. The depth of breeding ropes, grapples and snuggles with a satisfied lung-fighter for lunch wielding hypocrites that tend intention to justify fraudulent sensations of genuineness in worth.
Triangle lesions are parked on the outermost surface of the new-found you. When the baking of your soul has been thoughtlessly performed you stand up and at the ready, but are either never quite finished or worse, overdone.
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