I try not to resent over
the failure of
unpeeling the little layers of myself
the sightly, delicate wicked ones
that you’ve kept so guarded
to salve the belongings
among all the other broken things
before you took off your skin that settles
in your room closet
sounds rather sufficing enough
than to let this almost heart slip backward
wrapped in the demon’s breath
Never act like your a writer .
Or say the things you believe others want to hear.
Art is in never being certain.
The page has no time for half ass lines .
Do not be what you think a writer is.
Writers are ego driven assholes to self absorbed to see anything in front of them.
And thats just there good quality's .
Don't pen it the way you believe that will please others take it down the road as far as it has to go .
Let it get messy let it be awkward.
If your thinking bout other people your fucked to begin with .
You the page the fucking work that is all that matters .
That is what makes you a writer .
Not people blowing smoke up your ass .
Not how many people read it.
Who publishes it and if you made a dime off it.
Make that page bleed .
And fuck those who dont get it.
Lemmings have often had to be told whats in .
They think there hip they want to hang around those who have it in hopes they can maybe find it as well.
They are like cancer you listen long enough to there bullshit and they poison the well of your imagination.
Never take advice from someone who can't do what you can.
The world is not a play.
Never act just be one with the page.
I never act.
I like my simple way of writing
It represents who I am
And who I sometimes want to be
I like the way I think, I’ve found a certain freedom in it
But that freedom exists nowhere else
Not in any organ nor sinew nor bone
Django is a free slave.
Too long I’ve been feeling like a trail gone cold
Pull me by the back of my throat, rest in the bed of my bones
And call me home
Because I’m lost, and maybe I just want to be found.
By Arcassin Burnham
They bloom when disasters take place in a matter of hours,
Do you run and hide when the shit hits the fan,
Or do you fall to mind control wearing pair of vans,
Kick back with a can of Miller watching your lady nag your face off,
Was this the life you were planning ahead for in the future when
Everything was so simple and now you got flaws,
Ah ah not me ! My future is solidified like the back of my two front teeth,
Talk is cheap , I don't really care about your criticism , don't bother me,
I'm still on my feet, I'm not six feet deep yet so thats a plus especially,
I'll do what's right for me, I'll find a new resistance out of life though
There's nothing to say, who cares if I get too personal any other day,
You're all in the way, I have no place here in this dump , I don't wanna
The sweat on my face , brings so much Shame in this existence , I can't even fly
To the place I belong , I wanna go home.
They say get a grip on life son and I'm already two steps ahead,
About to turn into the big two-o this year , glad I'm not dead,
Lead the strong into new beginnings where the promise will be as
Promised as tomorrow,
Lived your whole life being scrutinized in societies eyes bring so
Hi I'm a citizen,
That's wonders where we'll all be in ten years,
Do we get more than a mention?
Lying to you on the news , looking at a bunch of words like it's scripted,
Yeah the devils clever too , fighting this off like a muse,
They'll erase you like you never existed,
I was never the type to be weak,
I've been mostly living around women,
It's okay cause I stayed on my feet,
Now I'm more of a man than many men.
Feel The agonizing pain of being in the midst of
I was always someone that would go right to the hatred,
When it came down to it , no one would bust a grape and,
when it came down to it i was always yours and,
No folding of the hands while praying to a God That would
be busy anyway.
I saw his honesty
slowly spilling through his eyes
and for once,
I’ve never looked at him with such
burning, desirous grip
was simply throbbing away with adieu’s
that’s never been had before
and that has been
the most fidgety, reckless thing
this almost heart
could adapt to right after
Heaps of her across the deserted plains, oily fingers reaching up and over the horizon until all of the numbers fill her pockets, her father worried, and her muses covered with goat-head's thorn. Where does she start to fuse her needs with the weapons in their suburban corolla of lilacs and wanton redolence? It's the opacity in her finger nibs and the dozens of names she felt closing over her legs sideways, until she awakens in the night to take the blood dripping cotton tissues off of her face, off of her bed-side dresser table. She can't even paw forward or undress her wetness in haiku. Everyone she knows doesn't know her. Everything she's seen, doesn't seem to be there for her anymore. That's the trade they told her to barter for, the golden seals and vitamin needs she's gobbling up by the palmful every morning by seven.
Seven for the circus or the mimes, seven for the cloves hanging from the door and seven for the queries that strike back her abcesses and cost her seven by the quart and seven for the plastics. Seven dancing backwards towards a rook or a spade, seven inside her chest playing guitar with David Bowie, seven at the doggerel, and seven for the stitch and the obtuse- only a creature of seven might go for her, in a spot of doves, crank, and soda it is poison, seven is her panty line, her sexuality, her sinfulness, and her latitude over and over again. Seven makes her want for tomorrow, seven takes tomorrow and throws itself up against the wall, pledging a game in the summer, seven to a trip of caramel and dukes, seven for the prince and the painting of the two of them, seven for the winter, and for the shadows that stretch curiosity past the breath of a summons', seven for the day and seven for the evening, seven scratches her ears and pulls out her hair, seven is the ring and the blue phantom buried somewhere far, far away, green is what's left, but seven knows which way the rain comes and who is going to follow it through.
There is a numbness that radiates on the fringe, a tickly discomfort not even a narrator could let out or down to a name on the mountains near the nude plateau that conquers her nuance, and shakes the both of them to core of the fight. This is not a flag that costs us in coins or in dollars. This is the worry chiseling our shapes and our buttery hips, a stacked set of crazy in a photograph off the leash of only a few. And it calls them to the night when it's only three of us left, until every cord is untied, until every verb is set in its caste, or ringing out to the tremolos of rapture, and the musicianship of pepper-jacked sneezes in the ambers and umbers that although startling, we've all learned to convert our averages in order to swing under the storm, and baby each of us with an elixir of myriad captures, images, and violent abuse.
While the words can yield, and the festivities can hoard each of the simple new experiences against travels of women, and pictures from Mussorgsky riling up soft drinks and evocations towards the center where all of us sometimes will let ourselves, let loose. Something horrendous and cold plugging into the sugars, something quiet, nearly a friend of reminders, crustaceans and ocean making this top-down beach of faces for all to shake and roll with or set forward a cacophony of abuse. Until in a breath she calls for the infinite intuition sheltering her and our window from the pain of misuse.
That is the photograph where we have been looking to live, here is the memory we spent our minds trying desperately to relive in the shade and in the snafu, against the bark and the piano keys treating our rise. Within our skin and our pupils, our silver bookends and/or the mammals we don't use names for but for whom we've been introduced to.
wake me up when i die
and yell at me for wasting time
i'd sell my soul for all it's worth
but it still wouldn't make it right
i'd say i'd sort it out
i'd write a thousand words
but i'd waste my time
i'd waste my time
because of my mind
it traps me in a room
"You can only fit so many words in a postcard…only so many in a phone call…only so many into space before you forget that words are sometimes used for things other than filling emptiness.
"It’s hard to build a body out of words. I have tried. We have both tried.
"Instead of holding your head to my chest, I tell you about the boy who lives downstairs from me; who stays up all night long practicing his drum set. The neighbors have complained. They have busy days tomorrow but he keeps on thumping through the night convinced that practice makes perfect."
I left this almost heart
in the cab we took
the last time it fell asleep in your arms
maybe, someday it'd wake up,
a little less sullied from crumbs of leftovers
in the back seat
meet on the high streets
unshaken by the cool, biting breeze
without having little creeps over what's been
held under our fingertips
through these obvious flaws and
watch the softest parts of us