Dust and bits and pieces of metal, water and heat
..wait...is that a soul in there as well?
does this morass perceive me at all, or do I see it only?
A robot only in the sense that it isn't emoting or intuiting or showing empathy.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC
Altruism doesn't exist.
If you disagree, you are simply
Lying to yourself.
If you examine honestly
The things you've done,
Why you did them and
What you expected to achieve by doing them,
You may, perhaps, notice that all of them
Were self serving.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC
Heresy and faith walk hand in hand
As do life, death and understanding.
Circumference is the path of our being
From one end to the other, finish to start.
Light the fire with a match of curiosity,
Send the signal to the master of destinies.
Fill to the brim a hungry belly
With all the questions that are posed.
Then, and only then, may you listen,
And listen close you must,
'Ere you miss all of the solutions
Present at the ends of extended fingertips.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
Happenstance dictates your habits,
Even as they are killing you.
Understanding this makes no difference
Like a hairbrush to an Auschwitz Jew.
Knowledge is usually power, but,
in the face of a chaotic rhyme,
It cannot be deciphered with
All clues intact in time.
And so it goes throughout the journey,
As swift we travel to our ends,
Understanding and reality pass untouched
While our dreams are left undefended.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC
Wretched, twisted, hacking and heaving
Swirling in lumens where darkness is left behind.
Unbidden cometh the sun and a new day to my door, even though they are both beautiful.
Wiping spittle from my lips and lifting myself away from the porcelain god that held me in such thrall, I go to greet said day.
But first, I reckon I'll go back to the origins of my ill-fated adventures, and make a different choice.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
Sometime never around around the corner, with Bukowski's eyes and satin skin,
She waits.
She ruminates the fierceness she will make someone endure while waiting.
Fierceness that only shows it's true nature after safety has been suggested.
Suggestions that come freely, not when asked.
Questions that lie when posed before the wrong ears.
Illumination is only the first letter of a word used falsely to spread truth.
Honesty comes at the bottom of the whiskey bottle, lonely and hurt.
Soon, the nature of her honesty will no longer wait for any other to acknowledge it, but instead, adopt a life of it's own.
Soon.
Soon.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
Testing...is this thing on?
Is it in yet?
How did I accomplish the fantastical?
Within the wearer is where the were-bats wear down the wary conventions wearily widening the pass.
Testing...is this thing on?
How do I get it out now?
Can my deeds become undone within the boundaries of all that is known?
Are there really boundaries?
Testing...is this thing on?
Not if the circuit is cut.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 11:33 AM UTC
it's the same as before
or the other time
or the time before that.
here's a ****
and here's a ****
and here's trouble.
only each time
you think
well now I've learned:
I'll let her do that
and I'll do this,
I no longer want it all,
just some comfort
and some ***
and only a minor
love.
now I'm waiting again
and the years run thin.
I have my radio
and the kitchen walls
are yellow.
I keep dumping bottles
and listening
for footsteps.
I hope that death contains
less than this.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 11:32 AM UTC
Homily in dueces, wrecked beyond comprehension.
Half starved, swelling throngs of disbelievers,
Half true eulogies eulogizing the still-living, undulating ghosts that whip to and fro between one righteous thought and one sin.
Undaunted in fear do I stand before thee.
Unheard do I scream a name that can never answer me, as the human attached to it has nothing more to give.
Haunted by my own self.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 1:29 PM UTC