I can't put my twisted finger
'Round the noxious fumes that linger
Like hungry flies around my shaggy head
When the sun arrives at seven
My funk will scrape the heavens
God will shutter at my potent stench
There's a devil in my chest
Sporting snakeskin leather vest
He's the venom in my needle teeth
We sailed the trash of Tennessee
To reach the land of winter leaves
Where life has long since shriveled in the chill
With gaze upon an iron tree
Whose leaves excreted somber steam
We hatched a scheme to steal his yellow eyes
Just inches from the solemn oak
The devil sprung out from my throat
And made off with the amber gift of sight
I stood before the blinded plant
A humbled and defeated man
And laid my weary limbs upon the ground
I climbed into my grave that night
Aided by the lonely light
Of a pair of glowing orbs on the horizon
Oct 13, 2011
Oct 13, 2011 at 9:31 PM UTC
Carbon copies
Saved to floppies
Mass production
Living zombies
Flawless Smile
Deny denial
Corporate luncheon
Stay a while
Evolution
Resolution
Final junction
Revolution
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 12:52 AM UTC
We peeled back the faces of clocks to find the gears were still like the evening, and time crept in so quaintly through our pores like a southern gentleman joining us for dinner. Sporting a shabby suit stitched together from the sheets of our youth and some questionable fabric that lay in our futures, he approached us with a sneer hung upon his obsidian face. He was well versed in the ancient rhetoric of fear and regret. A musician of sorts, he plucked at our veins with fingers that were twisted and stiff like branches of decaying oak. He rattled our bones in time with the clock, the pendulum, of which, still rocked steadily too and fro despite its stationary innards. The sound swelled within us, pounding against the eardrums as to drown out the quiet of the world beyond ourselves. In the next measures the scenes of existence, which we had strung together and thrown upon the screen, panned out, leaving nothing but we fools and time. He sat there strumming in the dark, as he certainly would have for ages, never aging and playing out his tunes until we all permanently became a work within his composition of sheet music. Surely we would be the songs that history would never touch again, the scores and old hymns that fell so short of being timeless, and sat superior a row of white keys, anxious to be played. We sat listening to the soundtrack of ourselves passing, the maestro -our old friend time- never tiring. And we would have remained, had it not been for the arrival of our next guest. He was a stranger, well, rather someone we had not met before, for he was not particularly strange. He came to each of us differently, so i cannot convey his features in a sentence, nor a thousand words, nor a volume of works, but he was beautiful. From his lips resonated such a sweet sound that, for a few moments , stifled the discord. We seized this small window and made for the mirrors, thanking the visitor in our haste. We gazed on ourselves within the deep pools of self realization that lay before us for both a lifetime and only a moment. We peeled back our faces to find that the contours of our flesh were absent beneath. The lines fell around our feet, and we danced atop them like children, for, in truth, we were. We were young and old, fact and fiction. With eyes like glass, reflecting promise and fortune, we looked to our old friend time, whose tattered garments had fallen around him. In his place, was a rustic, wooden record player spitting out the same tune we listened to for ,what seemed, a century. We gave the noise an audience, and it rested softly now on our ears.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 12:10 AM UTC
Me and all my ugly friends
Dressed for a nuclear winter
We hopped the barbed wire fence
And played in the reactor
We burned our shadows on the wall
And played baseball with atoms
God showed us his tentacles
We never knew he had ‘em
The boys in blue were strollin’ by
Their eyes burned us like lasers
Our bodies fell like broken kites
When they triggered the tasers
Long nights spent in juvy hall
Will break a mutant’s spirit
We tried to tell the guards a joke
They didn’t want to hear it
All the pretty kids at school
Had seen us on the news
Mondays are a hell of a day
For dishin’ out the blues
The teachers took their time with us
They made sure not to spoil it
They ripped the wings right off our backs
And flushed them town the toilet
They shoved their logic down our throats
They knew we couldn’t chew it
Spitting up my right to vote
We were cured before we knew it
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 12:02 AM UTC