Now that you've decided to start this year like every other day of it.
You've realized treating every year like a dead line's
a good way of procrastinating your own existence.
A deadlines the point in time at which something becomes meaningless.
Catching yourself on fire,
you realized this is a decent hobby for those with skin.
Imagine you'd said, if they made houses out of skin,
I though of you.
Not one for metaphors
I'm relying on you to literally be a deadline.
This bed gave birth to you.
You're a nightmare,
This bed's the side of my face I'm fine with not coming out of for weeks.
7 days later is a week
not that anyone's counting
but I've won.
If you'd like, we'll do literally nothing forever
and just how long till I get to become that void I'm staring at?
Soon, you'll say,
or maybe you won't, either way I'm ready to believe you.
Right now you're happy about lying about being happier alone.
Soon you'll be alone, happy about lying about being happier.
Asking what you'd do with three wishes you said
"her" twice, pointing at only one person, said
"die" once, explaining how to fit the worlds ******* supply into a single room.
After reading three books by Kafka
you realized knowing what Kafkaesque means is overrated.
You once smiled at the sun like it was proud of your teeth.
Now your mouths mostly full of rain,
and you really are proud of your teeth.
My hearts beating like its blowing at a small ember in your hands.
I'm the kind who answers "What time is it?"
by turning into a clock
You're the kind to answer " It's all a construct"
before peeling yourself in public like a cold grape.
Soon we'll both perfect being bowls
full of what couldn't be scraped off us.
For now that blank book I wrote " Notes On Futility"
should be enough to sustain you.
I only hope its looking at the blank pages
that turns you blind
not the way you lick your fingers to turn them.
A falasy, I'm ready for anything.
A fact, niether are you.
A song, drag a small corpse, across your lawn
there'll be neighbors, cutting grass
and a sprinkler'll hit you, and your, cold handful.
An ice cream truck plays, and it's, warm out.
Somewhere some child cries, that hes, missed out.
His parents promise, to take him, to the store.
A Concept, me in the dirt
the warmth of the sun radiates through the loose earth
I smell only beautiful things.
A rock scratches just where I want it to
and nothing really moves.
There is no longer a need for music.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
What's really the cause of its arrival:
"it"'s questions.
"I"'m music.
I'm the part where words are said
that's to say not sung.
The context of my head's no more object than thought.
We'll take a while to talk about it.
Assuming "it", "talk", and "we" are any realer than the words within them.
If not then flesh, now you've eaten.
This is where it becomes convoluted.
uuuuhhhh
Is its own stanza
this "uuuuhhhh"'s in your voice in your head now.
In or outside,
your heads still a part of it strange enough.
Out or inside,
my hands still a part of it strange enough.
strange enough
my hands outside or in "it".
"it"'s been explained.
I want "you" to picture"me" holding a rock to the sun
asking why neither are thirsty.
"you" want "me" to be a rock in a picture of the sun,
"you" don't need to ask to be thirsty,
"i"m niether.
Water and a handful of pennies
makes a mouthful for a moment.
Last nights moment's a *** of coffee in my mouth,
told to self I really was trying to sleep.
How many "you"s in this poem's really "you" "you"'ve asked.
I'll say so much as to know the answer's the sun,
that said that still I'm not sure.
How many "I"'s in this poem's really "I" "I"'ve asked.
You'll see so much as to guess the answers: under pain of death.
That's your words, my head.
Set your things on top of me,
I'm auditioning for the part of a table made from a different table .
I've played the part of the one who built it.
Neither move.
Lines please.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
Turn signals of cars looking about
to turn to here but don’t
blink at about similar pace
to a heart doesn’t leave
any metaphor worthwhile though the
fact melted ice cream on the counter
next to food served to people I don’t
know reminds me of the first time
I masturbated successfully does though.
Me touching something that goes into you
about the opposite I want both
closeness and indifference a balance hard
to maintain as kindness and the pace
needed to get things served so
kindness isn’t needed like
by archetypal male figures who can
slap a person they love to mean it.
Saying I love you doesn’t mean I believe
it under different circumstances I don’t
mean I’m lying either. Either it’s really
that difficult to explain or it’s just
difficult in all either way here
I’m still having difficulties
with the way your lips open or
when we’re talking how I’m
hoping they’ll be licked for
decent or my own reasons.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
The question if the felt or the feeling hand feels more
is the only worth asking.
As if to say if you asked if lately I’ve felt more open
or hot as the eggs I eat in the mornings where I think
about the things above I write about
I’d say if I were to taste you it’d be by the gallon by a cup
at a time to time to that song you’ve always said
you’ve liked candle light writing by it’s
what’s made all the good men go mad.
It’s dancing’s what’s not getting laid on prom night.
Candle’s light or otherwise kills what’s a lack of
it, is it now made suicide or just loneliness,
is it now mean loneliness or just vaticide
now eyes not opening for the first time.
Bordering on morose now we look for
other words: this is where I live.
Deader words: there was once where I lived.
The goal’s in words to make things ****
even houselights like being you as temptation.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
This Is How To Be Cool:
Step 1:
Hate people.
Hating people is in.
This should build up the sense
of mystery most
people you now hate will
be attracted to.
Don't enjoy the company of people
you now know why you
hate and ask yourself why you
didn’t do this sooner and why only most things seem the same.
Step 2:
Wear shoes.
Wear shoes as
comfortable as
middle aged men that
don’t please their wives now
that well anymore.
Step 3:
Lose sense of time.
Lock yourself in a garage
with no windows that has 2
TV’s that play different things.
Have limited water. Have friends
that you tell to buy you malt and even still
cheaper *****
Listen to not stop talk
of the grade of **** in strip clubs at a $ per/for a
tall boy all day happy hour/s.
If you have or had a phone or a clock hide it.
If you have or had a sun dial or set of fingers
set it or them in front or in-between 1 or 2
of the t.v.s
so it or them always tells close to the same
2 times.
Never, not even for a moment, look at them.
Step 4:
(4a)Watch.
Watch an old man walk an ugly dog
with a bag of **** in his hand.
(4b):Come to 1 or 2 safe conclusions
about why the man has ****
in his hand/s.
(4c):Come to exactly 2 [(4ci) and (4cii)] unsafe conclusions and write them on the bottoms of separate chairs in an IKEA warehouse store.
(4ci)The man needs to theoq **** at someone nearby.
(4cii)The man has a collection. A stockpiled **** supply.
(4d) Reference and annotate your secret **** propaganda.
Step 5:
Go someplace.
Go someplace you
do not belong you
will make yourself unknown you
will develop a cult nonfollowing.
Step 6:
Write a poem.
Write a poem using useless metaphors to
end a poem that doesn’t seems to be about
women but the poem at the end and inside of this first poem is about
one anyways.
Example:
You're a book just closed,
you aren’t done yet,
Your drawing yourself out
Waiting on someone else to return.
You are a sun just
set, you can’t be seen.
All the lights you left behind
have limits in the streets they shine in.
You are a photograph of a photograph
of an unfinished drawing:
a pointlessly layered mystery about
something someone somewhere
has already finished and made
better without you.
You are a woman
the least concrete image with
the least valid explanation.
Step 7:
Lie to your audience and end the
poem in an only slightly less useless
fashion then I told you to previously plan to. This is not about a relationship, this is about being ******* cool. About remaining in a slow waiding motion through yourself the planet like spin of a fire kicking up and consuming the last of the air around it, Nothing will happen to you. You will only make things more clear around you.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
How soon words become their sounds saying themselves,
a muffled echo of a canyon packed
full with abandoned spaces.
I intend to fall over
you like the best part of a disaster,
like the thousands of things I have,
will have said to you,
only two will have been true.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
When not unlike wet fish your mouth opens almost to speak,
wet horses drag my tongue from my throat like a long coffin.
I want you for the reverend for the wake for my last words,
to say something like
" His tongue touched his words often but seldom sexually."
I want you to want to have you want into my teeth
like new knives new points in balloons' mouths.
Like new balloons' new mouths on knives points
this's the first of the last of our first times together.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
The assumption’s success is exciting
that danger too
is too and
that that again for you
there are too many of these words for suspense.
Assumptiosly,
I’m picking thorns from the lips the years
used to tell you you
have less faults than a rose.
Probably I’m a fishbone’s softened point
as red as roses aren’t without the ******
that made the same red as half the red
on your hands already.
It’s time and
again to tell you in as many and as broken
as entire houses hand blown and probably painted
like goose egg words that
I add Salt to things I like and need to keep
longer than this no understatement
I’ve made you an ocean filled full of fish bones.
I ate oceans feeling fishbones breaking;
breaking;
breaking;
breaking
me, talking to you like chopping a tree onto myself.
Even if words or not are in the right order
do or don’t you understand do or don’t you?
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 2:26 AM UTC
It’s the first time and
again to tell you
I’m as broken as an entire house hand blown and probably painted
like goose eggs.
And again, Salt’s all I add
to things I already like, it’s
no understatement I’ve
made you an ocean filled full of fish bones.
I assume success is exciting
that danger too
is too and
again that for you
there are too many words.
Peach,
bear,
broken,
syrup,
or-terse,
are not enough to get life to work like you but
are enough to get life to work for you.
When or not in the right order
you do or don’t understand don’t or do you?
Necessarily,
I’m picking thorns from the years
andagain lips used to tell you you
have less faults than a rose.
In essence and again I’m a fishbone hut
in a **** storm and again
roses aren’t as red without the ****** that
may or may not have made the same red as
half the red on your hands already, and again,
I eat/ate oceans and am fishbones
breaking me brings no wishes or good luck
or and again I’ve choked children and
again talking to you is like chopping a tree onto myself.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
If I wake up,
I make sure I
write
down my dreams I
write in perfect detail
and my not dreams I
write in perfect detial
too. A dream life is as valid as
a waking one is as valid as
an undreamed life too
every non-second
every dream-second
every now-second
is life matter in every listed nonexistent perfect detail:
polar bears,
a bug eating me from the inside out,
a blue mustard bleached rotted bone,
a sword made of cotton
that grows legs and calls itself summer wear,
and all the things
that aren't those things
either too.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC