eric-yellowleaf - Hello Poetry

there are words to describe a planet, yeah but the muscle behind the muscle is covered in deep black grease. When I say "you" I don't mean anyone at all and there is no "I" unless there are three people in a group staring at each other and the thing in the middle shakes and wiggles like a dying snake and they laugh fraternerity giggles. the end is near, the near is ending, I can see her now or no the magnet is there and I AM NOT STRONG ENOUGH to push it through. the paint behind the paint, the tension behind the tension this is how I truly move you only the ways that you can be moved.

0

Mar 29, 2014

Mar 29, 2014 at 9:31 PM UTC

eric-yellowleaf

takeoff

there are words to describe a planet, yeah but the muscle behind the muscle is covered in deep black grease. When I say "you" I don't mean anyone at all and there is no "I" unless there are three people in a group staring at each other and the thing in the middle shakes and wiggles like a dying snake and they laugh fraternerity giggles. the end is near, the near is ending, I can see her now or no the magnet is there and I AM NOT STRONG ENOUGH to push it through. the paint behind the paint, the tension behind the tension this is how I truly move you only the ways that you can be moved.

17

burnt morning. the breakfast was gone so I had coffee. The details of dolphins were the bathroom mantra; turning the eyes inside out. Refolding the socks I realized a smell I hadn't in "years". The gas must have been avoiding me. A smell of butterscotch. Why I haven't been able to smell butterscotch is unknown to me. I remember a turquoise flame when the bonfire burnt the old tire. No one was around so the fire was for me and me alone. Me and me alone. I used to force the ***** down my throat and it seeped out my eyes in paint thinner tears. A faraway howl of a wolf--how bad ass. I was like the very-peak of a glacier come to reclaim me stomachspot in the Wild. Fortunes came and went and I began to melt. Ice cream in the hand of a toddler. Pink icecream in the hand of a giant who wouldn't take care of the courage when it looked so mediocre and small. It's about time the dark ghosts come to reclaim their nest, so come on, I'm waiting.

0

Apr 29, 2013

Apr 29, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC

eric-yellowleaf

fortitude

burnt morning. the breakfast was gone so I had coffee. The details of dolphins were the bathroom mantra; turning the eyes inside out. Refolding the socks I realized a smell I hadn't in "years". The gas must have been avoiding me. A smell of butterscotch. Why I haven't been able to smell butterscotch is unknown to me. I remember a turquoise flame when the bonfire burnt the old tire. No one was around so the fire was for me and me alone. Me and me alone. I used to force the ***** down my throat and it seeped out my eyes in paint thinner tears. A faraway howl of a wolf--how bad ass. I was like the very-peak of a glacier come to reclaim me stomachspot in the Wild. Fortunes came and went and I began to melt. Ice cream in the hand of a toddler. Pink icecream in the hand of a giant who wouldn't take care of the courage when it looked so mediocre and small. It's about time the dark ghosts come to reclaim their nest, so come on, I'm waiting.

4

There were still little words grated in the brush, ourself riding around, a great black horse, the eyeliner, and an iris forest escapes. I am the flowering fire, a sunset westcoast in the twinkling airwaves, or radiowaves, and so we can breathe the literal mass of wind. The green carressed and aerially blessed, deepness and depth; what is truly grey. The powerlines stretch hungrily for days, we see the purple glow and thus it exists-- we graze like ghosts or bugs and try to find the blessed. We wind up and clear the smoke, and blindness is only black until death peers through, and calls the bird call, a shrilling through the spiritual silence. I can see you on maps, you reoccur the same, giant and all. You are the same story and dwell in roles through my brain.

0

Apr 16, 2013

Apr 16, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC

eric-yellowleaf

newbright

There were still little words grated in the brush, ourself riding around, a great black horse, the eyeliner, and an iris forest escapes. I am the flowering fire, a sunset westcoast in the twinkling airwaves, or radiowaves, and so we can breathe the literal mass of wind. The green carressed and aerially blessed, deepness and depth; what is truly grey. The powerlines stretch hungrily for days, we see the purple glow and thus it exists-- we graze like ghosts or bugs and try to find the blessed. We wind up and clear the smoke, and blindness is only black until death peers through, and calls the bird call, a shrilling through the spiritual silence. I can see you on maps, you reoccur the same, giant and all. You are the same story and dwell in roles through my brain.

9