1990 -   
I'm not in my own movie.
I'm not in my own movie.
John Snow
John Snow
3 days ago

Where is the soldier
who floundered in his backyard?

Amidst the windswept sawgrass,
(Which, by the way,
Cut so hard against his skin)
He felt the sensitivity of his own lost soul,
So on the surface,
that it was hurt by its own feeling.

He, who dipped and swayed,
And felt angry, perverted, and horny,
lonely, now,
He lets his mind wander,
When he's never done that before.

Now he is away,
Careening through space, time,
and pussy.

Peicing together destruction,
and how much humanity and evil,
Well up from us
as a reaction to death,
How so frail we are,
How pussy releases a man.

Where the horizon finally finds itself, he has been lifted,
Too heaven,
Among God and Gods and monkeys
and clouds.

Too where gunsmoke rises eternally,
With the heartbeat of man,
A slow, hollow drumming,
emptiest,
The emptiest.

In the brotherhood of the melting sunset,
Where molten horizon simmers overtop the edges of the pines,
And the whole world is finally pure chaos,
sadness and beauty.

He reaches the bottom of his dreams,
and still wandering,
Goes back into the house,
To masturbate so much and hard that it hurts,
To sleep.

John Snow
John Snow
Jul 18      Jul 18

We have seen
and called for misunderstanding,
But I have seen our future children,
mulatto genearation,
Ticked off,
I am at our confusion,
Foggy like the farts of war,
The bullets continue to fly
even in silence,
From my brother's gun,
Hoe can you call youreself,
When you hold tight to the chains,
We must let loose,
We must see the sun and its morning fog
As the dew of renewal,
Because I have seen you witb oure
Mulatto children, and you looked at me,
I was a father.

John Snow
John Snow
Jun 29

I know you got a lot on your mind
to tell me.

Hell love,
we fell love
in so quickly.

How feelings of shame
rattle up the game and scare the rat
in its cage.

But please,
be mad today.

Tell me what's inside, everything;
your stupid dreams,
dreams of enough, not it all,
but enough to pain the walls,
make this un-sturdy prison fall,
make me happy enough.

I don't want to change personalities
from day to day.

This letter, sent to you
over airwaves; through the gunplay,
past funerals held today;
I hope it revitalizes the feelings
we shared, over moonlight blunts, so loud,
they had us scared.

So, little miss sunshine, wake up from night,
wake up from this place of pain
holding us tight.

John Snow
John Snow
Jun 29

No one to hold my fears.
No sanctity for my tears.
When I cry, it goes deep
into my system, lays down
beside my visions; oils my dreams, powers the machine
of my body.

God
allow me the strength to survive,
to strive,
to struggle,
to climb, to love,
to live a breathless life.

Even though I feel
sadness, I know
it wells from a good place
in my soul.

Uncomfortable without my tears.

So,
I may not be a blaster,
or a boxer,
or a firefighter,
but I've learned
to control my explosions,
take my punches when they come,
and let my eyes fall
to water the fires
that lick on all sides.

John Snow
John Snow
Jun 18

Little lady,
your comforts are poison,
you never return my love
and I am constantly hurt,
wishing you were here
in the birth of my confusion.

In the midst of a moonlight fuck,
I lied to myself,
and said we were making love.

The universe unfurled,
and your body liquified
in the heat of the moment.

Just let me kiss you,
because you said hello
in the first place,
in those plaid leggings
and beautiful greens.

I didn't tell you intimate secrets,
and you didn't shed yours.

But I touched your naked skin,
and shared the same leather,
as our bodies meshed,
and the universe unfolded.

A flower grows through reeds and thickets,
and reaches for the sun,
while being eaten away by fungus.

The sun drops its dress,
and undresses until the flower is wet.

And even in their unknowing of the season,
the flower and the sun share pleasure
and reason.

And even though your mother didn't like it,
I made you wet,
and in the basement,
I regret not kissing every part of your body,
because the moonlight won't let me forget.

The candle,
That burning dispersion.
The wick prespires.
The nitro-oxygen air
eaten up with every breath,
in such commonstance as to be ordinary,
and unrevealing.
But how much do you know
about yourself,
about it?
Can you blame a flame?
Can you truly hurt a fly?
Where are you now?

In some place so stuffy,
that you can only wish
that you were something more,
something stupid enough to live,
and not feel the pangs of your billion needles,
cascading down like a waterfall
of death, disappointment, and disorder.

 
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