clayton-woolery - Hello Poetry

overcast life not worth the open eyes i need to rise above these clouds and lies its overgrown and overdone this way we go about with chapels and tradition rituals and true religion why do we not fear these things? tornadoes in the making tsunami waves breaking is it ever worth it all overload God wouldn't want this God would'nt want this God woul'dnt want this God wou'ldnt want this hideous mistakes and earthquakes man has made a mess blood and broken glass and crusaders in the rain overthrow the superficial revolt yourself from overlords floods in the making covenants breaking why do we not fear these things? is it ever worth it all overthought

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Dec 30, 2010

Dec 30, 2010 at 6:18 PM UTC

Overthought.

overcast life not worth the open eyes i need to rise above these clouds and lies its overgrown and overdone this way we go about with chapels and tradition rituals and true religion why do we not fear these things? tornadoes in the making tsunami waves breaking is it ever worth it all overload God wouldn't want this God would'nt want this God woul'dnt want this God wou'ldnt want this hideous mistakes and earthquakes man has made a mess blood and broken glass and crusaders in the rain overthrow the superficial revolt yourself from overlords floods in the making covenants breaking why do we not fear these things? is it ever worth it all overthought

26

Such a shame to let loose That I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing But pretending seems to work so well; You all claw at plasticine symbols The letters deplored with a swish of the ink well. Calligraphic self destructions mean something to somebody Over an ocean with eyes so slight as to shine in the darkness, Glinting in robes of black on the rooftops of rich dynastics And the rhymes of yesterday creeping to the forefront, Reminding me just of how hopeless hopelessness is-- The assonance of a retreating boxcar Is steaming into the backdrops of consciousness. Is it time to rewind somewhere? The visages of paintings only mean so much To the blind bats on cave walls in cavernous reaches Of static television snow drifts. It seems that you and I have come to the biggest of filamentous rifts: Sifting between now and then we have mind-skips Of epic proportion, a sickened distortion Of all of the children left in their contortions It's all leprosy in my eyes Since the skies are burning down as we pinpoint abortion. And we release that defeat, and try to find meaning in it all: A lie of great size Told from my lips yet it was-- You who believed me. Together we made a chimera A deception even worse than anything I've ever known I said that some god had told me all the things that that that-- I can't begin to begin an apology My mouth mummified by request next to Jeremy Bentham I only wanted what's best for you-- But look at what you've done! Oh, Crusades! Oh, Crusades! Children don't lie with your eyes on the sunset For Nietzsche is the ultimate navigator! And you finally catch sight of the top of an alligator floating in the oil, staring at you slanted eyes smiling cruel. It all makes sense now, what half believed lies That explain how the darkness will come to rise But the opposite side of our crystalline marble Has known all along, they knew all along! Facing the east, wasn't He? Then even he knew Perhaps what I said was not all untrue And in fact the fault lies with Him Not me, Not you. Sincerely, The Bible.

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Dec 30, 2010

Dec 30, 2010 at 6:09 PM UTC

Sincerely,

Such a shame to let loose That I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing But pretending seems to work so well; You all claw at plasticine symbols The letters deplored with a swish of the ink well. Calligraphic self destructions mean something to somebody Over an ocean with eyes so slight as to shine in the darkness, Glinting in robes of black on the rooftops of rich dynastics And the rhymes of yesterday creeping to the forefront, Reminding me just of how hopeless hopelessness is-- The assonance of a retreating boxcar Is steaming into the backdrops of consciousness. Is it time to rewind somewhere? The visages of paintings only mean so much To the blind bats on cave walls in cavernous reaches Of static television snow drifts. It seems that you and I have come to the biggest of filamentous rifts: Sifting between now and then we have mind-skips Of epic proportion, a sickened distortion Of all of the children left in their contortions It's all leprosy in my eyes Since the skies are burning down as we pinpoint abortion. And we release that defeat, and try to find meaning in it all: A lie of great size Told from my lips yet it was-- You who believed me. Together we made a chimera A deception even worse than anything I've ever known I said that some god had told me all the things that that that-- I can't begin to begin an apology My mouth mummified by request next to Jeremy Bentham I only wanted what's best for you-- But look at what you've done! Oh, Crusades! Oh, Crusades! Children don't lie with your eyes on the sunset For Nietzsche is the ultimate navigator! And you finally catch sight of the top of an alligator floating in the oil, staring at you slanted eyes smiling cruel. It all makes sense now, what half believed lies That explain how the darkness will come to rise But the opposite side of our crystalline marble Has known all along, they knew all along! Facing the east, wasn't He? Then even he knew Perhaps what I said was not all untrue And in fact the fault lies with Him Not me, Not you. Sincerely, The Bible.

54

Empty humans echo when tapped Ceramic heartbeats crunch through riverside air BETWEEN IGNORANCE AND WORTHLESSNESS TRAPPED Their senses vaporous, impaired. Those which melancholy cannot reach Across the Styx with curling hands DO NOT EXIST; THEIR WALLS WERE BREACHED With icy fingers, buzzing bland. Empty humans echo when tapped With icy fingers, buzzing bland FROM THE NIGHT BREEZE WHICH LAPPED Across the Styx with curling hands. Those which melancholy cannot reach, Their senses vaporous, impaired ARE A MIASMA ON THE BEACH Ceramic heartbeats crunch through riverside air. *Pottery people are all appearance And their hollows are touched rarely By their own sentience While waiting for the ferry--*

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Dec 26, 2010

Dec 26, 2010 at 12:47 PM UTC

Those Who Wait for the Ferry; Or, Death's Pottery Shipment.

Empty humans echo when tapped Ceramic heartbeats crunch through riverside air BETWEEN IGNORANCE AND WORTHLESSNESS TRAPPED Their senses vaporous, impaired. Those which melancholy cannot reach Across the Styx with curling hands DO NOT EXIST; THEIR WALLS WERE BREACHED With icy fingers, buzzing bland. Empty humans echo when tapped With icy fingers, buzzing bland FROM THE NIGHT BREEZE WHICH LAPPED Across the Styx with curling hands. Those which melancholy cannot reach, Their senses vaporous, impaired ARE A MIASMA ON THE BEACH Ceramic heartbeats crunch through riverside air. *Pottery people are all appearance And their hollows are touched rarely By their own sentience While waiting for the ferry--*

20

I am contemplating all my faults Arranging them in rows and columns And then in wind storm decision Promptly forgetting them Slept since then and never more do I Call upon the kings and queens to tell me I could really do better. I run on sentences and letters quickly Escape the fact that full stops matter Avoiding rhymes and clear cut patterns Three point one four one five nine Two six five three five eight nine Seven nine three two three eight four six. I was never worth the time I spent Defining myself and my clear cut corners I want to spread out and have no name And be enigmatic with charisma But I can't in this city town village house room chair So I'll spend more time waiting for the future crosshairs.

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Dec 25, 2010

Dec 25, 2010 at 7:46 PM UTC

To Spread Out and Have No Name.

I am contemplating all my faults Arranging them in rows and columns And then in wind storm decision Promptly forgetting them Slept since then and never more do I Call upon the kings and queens to tell me I could really do better. I run on sentences and letters quickly Escape the fact that full stops matter Avoiding rhymes and clear cut patterns Three point one four one five nine Two six five three five eight nine Seven nine three two three eight four six. I was never worth the time I spent Defining myself and my clear cut corners I want to spread out and have no name And be enigmatic with charisma But I can't in this city town village house room chair So I'll spend more time waiting for the future crosshairs.

18

Infallible were the nights we spent alone on rocky shorelines I never gave all those pent-up emotions I had to the king of the stop signs Like you did I never counted on your instances You do kid About counting lost images oh, oh Dishonorable were the things we stashed when we were in Oklahoma Counting our chickens before they've hatched and saying your freckles were melanoma Like we did I could always count on you being morbid You may kid But your eyes don't lie when you are sordid Containable were our dark white lies we told each other in confidence Playing the double agent just like a cave filled with resonant Echo-o-o-o-o-o-os

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Dec 25, 2010

Dec 25, 2010 at 7:37 PM UTC

You Do Kid.

Infallible were the nights we spent alone on rocky shorelines I never gave all those pent-up emotions I had to the king of the stop signs Like you did I never counted on your instances You do kid About counting lost images oh, oh Dishonorable were the things we stashed when we were in Oklahoma Counting our chickens before they've hatched and saying your freckles were melanoma Like we did I could always count on you being morbid You may kid But your eyes don't lie when you are sordid Containable were our dark white lies we told each other in confidence Playing the double agent just like a cave filled with resonant Echo-o-o-o-o-o-os

15

All the min-u-ets you played danced in my head Cut-ting through all my brain's synapses Now I find myself staying up at night Fruit flies dip-and-diving on my Porch light All the con-cus-sions I suf-fered in the dark Helped in the day when I re-invented art Keep-ing up with all the verbal trends Words I say in private are all Open ends Open ends (There's nothing living, don't know Why, I don't know why, My brain is numbing and it's weird) All the mas-ter-pieces kept on hanging up When the doctors said they "had to pull the plug" Awake enough to hear those daylight words My night-light eyes ate the bugs like Little birds Just like little birds (No longer buzzing in my head) All the con-vo-lud-ed pains at Midnight! All the bugs in-side me ate My light! All the dead have died in Sick-ly fa-shion Dropping like flies with blinks of God's eye Never forgetting it all All the things you said were dead had really died All the things you said were dead had really died All the times I thought you had, you never lied

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Dec 25, 2010

Dec 25, 2010 at 7:33 PM UTC

Bug Zapper Eyes.

All the min-u-ets you played danced in my head Cut-ting through all my brain's synapses Now I find myself staying up at night Fruit flies dip-and-diving on my Porch light All the con-cus-sions I suf-fered in the dark Helped in the day when I re-invented art Keep-ing up with all the verbal trends Words I say in private are all Open ends Open ends (There's nothing living, don't know Why, I don't know why, My brain is numbing and it's weird) All the mas-ter-pieces kept on hanging up When the doctors said they "had to pull the plug" Awake enough to hear those daylight words My night-light eyes ate the bugs like Little birds Just like little birds (No longer buzzing in my head) All the con-vo-lud-ed pains at Midnight! All the bugs in-side me ate My light! All the dead have died in Sick-ly fa-shion Dropping like flies with blinks of God's eye Never forgetting it all All the things you said were dead had really died All the things you said were dead had really died All the times I thought you had, you never lied

33

Let's go out tonight and in the cold, we'll Spirit ourselves away until The sun appears, in little Nooks and hollowed tree middles. Let's go out in the dark moonlight And take these clothes off right As soon as we step off the edge Into cold wetness and nearly freeze to death. The precipice will smudge When we walk down the sloping blur To where the water is photoshopped so nicely. Our throats will no longer be sore So we will shout some more, So we will shout some more. Hopping spritely across the river on rocks With our hoods on and our knee high socks We shall transmute into the smallest flock Of Canada geese.

0

Dec 25, 2010

Dec 25, 2010 at 7:28 PM UTC

Summer is Dead Again.

Let's go out tonight and in the cold, we'll Spirit ourselves away until The sun appears, in little Nooks and hollowed tree middles. Let's go out in the dark moonlight And take these clothes off right As soon as we step off the edge Into cold wetness and nearly freeze to death. The precipice will smudge When we walk down the sloping blur To where the water is photoshopped so nicely. Our throats will no longer be sore So we will shout some more, So we will shout some more. Hopping spritely across the river on rocks With our hoods on and our knee high socks We shall transmute into the smallest flock Of Canada geese.

18

Solemnity. Can you feel the nothing? Dignified castle silhouette. All the bullets are gone with the stale wind. Their wings are broken in the magnetic field. Curse this inhibition. Are you getting enough sleep these days? Have you felt the symptoms of loneliness? Carpal tunnels. All our lives we've been snapped in halves and fourths. Our brains are memory movements, twitching and hollowed. The medieval depiction left you two years older and a box of prismacolors poorer. Buzzing in your tendons. We were fighting a hormone war, wet and ***** And now we're too old for the stomach flu. Your skin tone still slides into my color palette, and your image through my wrists. Now we both suffer, like always. Strange enough that we never see each other anymore. And I wouldn't call this love, it's more like an echo. Can I ask you a question? Photos, paintings, boys, girls, lying, telling the truth: it's all art. But words, they're just soul and slices of mind, pure torture. When do you cry nowadays? It's all been solar flares. And we are emerging from our illnesses. Artists.

0

Dec 25, 2010

Dec 25, 2010 at 7:24 PM UTC

Matching Carpal Tunnels.

Solemnity. Can you feel the nothing? Dignified castle silhouette. All the bullets are gone with the stale wind. Their wings are broken in the magnetic field. Curse this inhibition. Are you getting enough sleep these days? Have you felt the symptoms of loneliness? Carpal tunnels. All our lives we've been snapped in halves and fourths. Our brains are memory movements, twitching and hollowed. The medieval depiction left you two years older and a box of prismacolors poorer. Buzzing in your tendons. We were fighting a hormone war, wet and ***** And now we're too old for the stomach flu. Your skin tone still slides into my color palette, and your image through my wrists. Now we both suffer, like always. Strange enough that we never see each other anymore. And I wouldn't call this love, it's more like an echo. Can I ask you a question? Photos, paintings, boys, girls, lying, telling the truth: it's all art. But words, they're just soul and slices of mind, pure torture. When do you cry nowadays? It's all been solar flares. And we are emerging from our illnesses. Artists.

26