Whatever you do don't run.
There's too many walls at the end of all the twists and turns
if you run, you'll strike one,
full in the face
and split your lip wide
opening up the middle of your head
to scrutiny by the humpty-dumpty road crew
and eggheads and horses don't really want to know whats going on
inside that brain of yours
now do they?
So don't run
walk slowly. Deliberately.
Sloppy.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 4:59 PM UTC
Bright and warm
for like, 25, 45 minutes
but maybe longer if we have
popsickles
those little miracle berries
that make sour sweet
for a while but we didn't eat enough
but the lemons and limes
were tangy
but they still burnt my lips
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 1:45 PM UTC
Write lyrics like spreadsheets with number crunching
Calculate the isotopes
numerical accuracy in the vein of vain attempts to overcome
the show off tendencies of artist who exhibit flow to illicit
concern about existence beyond what they can see of pedagogical poetry
more concerned with numbers and patterns
who gives a **** what the stress is on the vowel in the third stanza
lyrically despondent personal correspondents for a publication that says
more about what you know than what you feel
and who you are
computer says no, statistically impossible, synaptic haiku
five seven five
musical ronin
go go gadget of talent
extend-o-pole and flying nimbus as you train like son-goku
hyperbolic chamber where time is an illusion only to collapse
true Saiyans are warriors from the womb until death and after
over nine thousand and the scanner short circuits
write on the clouds with light so hot that it burns on thought
not contact
no constants, just variables, electron microscopes to try and hear the angels sing.
Large Hadrons small dreams, no love, just roman numerals
XIV, *** Blood transfusions in the realm of “O Positive” and you're just a pessimist, negative Nancy at the end of evolution
Flesh and bone as a tent in your double helix of a genome,
flesh like clay in the hands of some master
but you know no master
no nations, under no gods but Darwin
all 23 chromosome pairs making 46 parts of your brain
screaming neurons fire
WRITE
WHAT
YOU
ARE
If you should so choose as to end not with a bang but a whimper
then your memory is forfeit
contribute in some meaningful semblance of sarcasm and sinsethesia with anesthetic medications of pop remedies and voided memories
of sinthesisia
Smell the colours and taste the sounds of pen on paper
when you never own a pen or a pad
just a bright white rectangle you stare at for hours on end
No thoughts just Digg and Reddit
your only contributions a thumbs up or a red thumbs down
like buttons
but no dislike, because if you've got nothing nice to say
then say nothing
unless you're outrage and full of spite
and morose
at the state of human nature
beauty and song thrown out in an effort to leave nobody behind
and so we have a generation coming in
at the age of 5, who are told new math
new science
wrote memorization of equations
no thought process, no argument about relation
theory of relativity, the genious mind just numbers and letters on a page with squiggles and lines that don't have to mean anything more than they mean on the book
we have a generation with no lust, no hope
Do they dream in black and white?
do they dream at all?
is the consequence of IQ tests and graded paper intelligence
the thirst for knowledge and creativity?
WE HAVE TO SCREAM
at the injustice
Burn it to the bricks and ashes
we hurl through the windows
in the streets and in the parks
car radios and clock towers sold
for cheap homemade *****
dance around the fire like the wild things are
LET THE WILD RUMPUS BEGIN
but then we're still hollow
no happy medium, just excess
in the pursuit of Dionysus, trepination,
demon possession is illegal in the eyes of the police and federal law
spread your legs and lean against the car
as they frisk you and plant the seed
of doubt
in the cuffs of your jeans
You have the right to remain silent
but I hope you don't
refuse
question
resist
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 9:59 AM UTC
I found a news article about the most boring day in history.
The 11th of April
1954
Literally the only thing that happened was the birth of a Turkish Academic
Abdullah Atalar
So I looked him up
“His research interests include micromachined sensors and actuators, atomic force microscopy, analog and digital integrated circuit design and linearization of RF power amplifiers. He teaches undergraduate and graduate courses on VLSI design, analog and microwave electronics.” - Wikipedia
He was boring too.
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 2:06 PM UTC
If "we" All Write Poems
Then Who
Is Left
To
Read.
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 1:46 PM UTC
When I eat apples, pears, I eat the cores,
I know the pips have cyanide
when I was a kid I planted an apple seed
expecting it to grow
in the hard red acid of my island
only leave the stem
**** on the pits of cherries,
peaches,
plums, for hours.
These I planted too
I know the pips have cyanide
Kiwi fruit don't get peeled.
Bitten in half, fur and all.
I don't have the time
or the patience
I read that bananas
are guilt free
because their carbon footprint is minuscule
these things
consumables
aren't from here
can't grow here
all better traveled
than I am.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 5:37 PM UTC
I've seen the sky turn orange.
Last Christmas.
Going to a party
(that's all Christmas is, a party)
it was grey and purple
and all of a sudden
orange.
Brent was in the car with me
I don't remember who was driving
or if we were coming from
or going too.
But we both remember
orange.
We talk about it
its one of those odd things that we both remember and we don't know why
but every few months
I'll mention the orange fog
or he will
we were drunk
(that's what Christmas is at home)
The sky in town is always orange.
Every night
Orange sky at home.
That was special.
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 7:01 AM UTC
Regret becomes me.
I look at your photos, online galleries.
dailybooth, facebook.
what will you join next I wonder?
I feel creepy. Sick. Something is wrong with me.
I feel like a stalker, white van, tying girls up and wiping their tears.
I'm not though.
I miss you. You hurt me.
You hurt me.
So much...
I can't forgive you
but that doesn't mean I don't miss you.
I was there when you needed me, or so I thought.
And when I needed you... Where did you go?
I made a mistake, and my world fell apart.
So here I am,
twenty past three
watching downloaded films
half drunk on bad beer
on a floral print couch
and writing bad poetry.
I've lost weight,
I stopped eating meat
I don't sleep anymore
I erased you from my internet connections
I tore the pages from my journal
all the things I wrote about you
all the things you wrote for me
I burned.
I'll edit this a thousand times
stop capitalizing
add lines
delete more
lose my mind
hate my work
hate myself
but you won't ever talk to me anymore.
which is mostly my fault
I'm sure
I'm sorry.
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 9:54 PM UTC
I've been writing poems all evening.
They all come of age in my head in the span of a minute.
It all seems to easy. Are they any good?
Was Bukowski right? Should I not even try?
If I don't give it my all, my undivided attention
does it even count?
Terrible movies on a too-expensive big screen TV, sitting on a love seat like everyone's grandmother had.
This can't be a place where I can make something real.
Can I make art here?
or is it wrong?
Shouldn't I be sitting under a single lightbulb,
at a typewriter
wearing a collared shirt bought second hand?
Shouldn't I cheat on my girlfriends
and drink too much
and gamble,
Shouldn't I owe money in three different provinces to twelve different people?
Shouldn't this be torn from me? Ripped from the darkest reaches of my proverbial soul?
I don't know if I have soul. Or If I'd even want one.
What I do know I have is bills to pay tomorrow.
And a long walk to the bank.
Its half past two in the morning, and i don't have any beer worth drinking.
I've got to work on Tuesday, and I don't get enough hours.
I have nobody to talk too, and I just fought with my girlfriend.
I don't feel terrible, but I don't feel well.
My throat hurts from bad cigars
and cheap wine.
If I wasn't supposed to try
I guess this was the time.
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 9:00 PM UTC
If you're ever part of secret government testing
or your irradiated with cosmic power
or you fall into a vat of mysteriously glowing chemicals
you don't get superpowers
you're not bulletproof
your spidey senses won't tingle
you won't be nine feet tall and made of stone
you won't move things with your mind
or tear your shirt when you get mad
no blades to snikt from your knuckles
no eye lasers
no supersonic screams
you'll get sick
lose all your hair
cough up blood
liver will fail
yellow skin
sunken eyes
Eventually you won't wake up
and maybe your girlfriend will cry.
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 8:46 PM UTC