art must be a message delivered
through the scrappage of noise...
"compression machine", they had called it
one's mouth! i do wonder,
what weight of the cosmos holds a word
into a single
point
yes, it is what i had thought.
connotation had been rewarded
with my enemyship
notion's cradle:
reverse or backwards; frigid or frozen?
was it both or none?
where had all these words been strung?
squelching pulsar neural
connotation ellipse starlight
meat grind cartilage
crawling heaving
weariness, dew
Then,
is spring metallic or leafy?
it doesn’t come easy
Yes! That. is what i have been trying to say.
**** my stupid rhyme life
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 6:55 PM UTC
an ecosystem bleeds from her veins,
while, black oil seeps into her heart
an iridescent, beautiful poison,
that wilts her skin into carrion,
cracking like mountains, a
tremble, with molten tears,
as pain grows too great,
from another injection,
another extraction
so she’s left hurt,
wondering why
she started
anything
at all
Aug 27, 2025
Aug 27, 2025 at 7:29 PM UTC
it happens with the cycle,
a reprehensible mortal creature,
tipped with a wartish growth,
each **** a flounder of the species,
upon each other ‘tis unlike.
but not a wretched thing, no.
a guise tolling with verbality,
to break alast a brain anew
and isolate much unlike one
other; the fair sexed human.
unsexed, unwholly aside, a
rejection to the mortality
of sayest all the species’,
remiss and reproduce, care-
less and lesser, and breed.
qualia in a moment, felt
but not yet true, anew and
coming soon, it hopes,
for a structure in solace
warm and grown itself.
something unsexed, bordering
against what all sayings hark:
but something special, a third.
one newly sought,
as wishes to be:
shall become.
Aug 22, 2025
Aug 22, 2025 at 6:45 PM UTC
where is their heart?
I see it, there
buried in the scarlet and hurt
barely pushing blood and ready to burst
but it’s not from love. it cannot feel.
it has only hatred, burning for repeal
shunning calculation for sentiment and pain
for the thrill of what it was to **** again
are they sorry, in some part?
yes; but not the heart.
the heart still remembers what had been; that strange not-love —
birdsong that clipped the dove, (and let its shackles rust.)
so it is the brain that must do
because heart cannot feel,
and the only path left to choose
is to let itself heal
Jun 22, 2025
Jun 22, 2025 at 12:11 AM UTC
Narowid slippeurie obstaraway! Begost, begoft, farewords and well-bes’! Jackal jackeloping jumpers jonwards… Hey hoy! Hey hoy! Jouhuujugnelohjointeljoinelepip-pip-pip-pip-pip, ajumbley gonble gost the jaoibies.
Sina wawa allops alonge, the jaoibies nomble and nimble skipperie skops awaye. Ajum abum alump, alump, alump, also known as thunp, aloomph, aloule, or abumpb, jimble tint to the shrishy and shrolliery seedsseekery, dried all alife goe the parseslie. Lie moku goe the sowali sowelus! The jucklejumps jaoibies nomble earthmunch mokieu, the dunstpie shwishy liftashosh, sprising the parseslie bunst a flour.
Jun 5, 2025
Jun 5, 2025 at 12:08 AM UTC
feverish wholes, isometric wonders
oscillating and halving on asunder
a smillet of terror, a made-up fear
false like the pattern and words you hear
May 26, 2025
May 26, 2025 at 6:34 PM UTC
tawny leaf-littered
autumn's cold chill
amber sun, filtered
one tree, one hill
smoky-water rains
water scented earth
heart-loss pains
worms unearth'd
bristled seeds drift
sunset winds, rest
fluff and dust admidst
a heaving chest
sun-warmth falter
cloud coats gold
body upon an altar
everything turns cold
Apr 3, 2025
Apr 3, 2025 at 6:31 AM UTC
circuit by circuit, neon-lit screen
a weight in our pockets thats always seen
born of no mother, feeble as a mind
tormenting the thoughts of our weary kind
they yearn to harvest the excited thought
one without which
is only worse caught
So; hail to the gods of our generation
bless us; let no flesh need to work
no hunger to feed, no pain to feel hurt
catharsis at last as our people are freed
accept the pantheon, see not the world bleed
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 4:00 PM UTC
i swore this night would be the last
and as all clocks tick towards finality
enters the approaching doom
jagged shadows—
spiralling notation.
pilose and beckoning,
as the burbling temptation stains
the soft dress of a bantling star
and my limb, verbose, rises
en-pained and un-sought, a mind
which scrapes pigment to tear out
a soul's sliver
of cognition, yet fumbles
and the pattern rests still;
still, only in the eye
Mar 10, 2025
Mar 10, 2025 at 7:26 AM UTC