rsc - Hello Poetry

He is the morning and I have turned into a walking cliché machine. The sun could sap the day out of my skin and I wouldn’t feel it, wouldn’t mind if I did. I want to crack him open and curl up in his chest cavity, exploring the dark corners with my headlamp and uncovering hidden majesties in geodes, making road maps. ~ Sometimes, I look at their hands, moving in time to the beat or engaging in some twisted alchemy, making circles out of straight lines, or coaxing the music out of guitar strings, or painting the unknown like clockwork in due time, and I wonder what they could do to me in bed. ~ And I still let him touch me when I'm drunk and he's drunk or when I'm sober and he's drunk-he doesn't want to touch me when he's not drinking-because he's like a cigarette and I've made a habit of inhaling deeply, to remind me that he’s cancer in my bones and I’m getting too old for this. He treats me like the used tissues I crumple in my purse and pull out when my nose gets runny, there when he needs me, stroking my rib cage and covering me in a viscous slime. He feels like a stubbed toe or a paper cut and mostly I'm a mouth to *** into. His hands find the parts of my body that people have always told me to keep secret, but it's been a while since I started sending them out on postcards to strangers. He can grab me with his eyes like a hand grabs the nape of a kittens neck, and I falter. ~ How can I unlove someone I used to love so much? Mother may I-help me-stop loving all of them at once.

0

Jul 14, 2015

Jul 14, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC

about men

He is the morning and I have turned into a walking cliché machine. The sun could sap the day out of my skin and I wouldn’t feel it, wouldn’t mind if I did. I want to crack him open and curl up in his chest cavity, exploring the dark corners with my headlamp and uncovering hidden majesties in geodes, making road maps. ~ Sometimes, I look at their hands, moving in time to the beat or engaging in some twisted alchemy, making circles out of straight lines, or coaxing the music out of guitar strings, or painting the unknown like clockwork in due time, and I wonder what they could do to me in bed. ~ And I still let him touch me when I'm drunk and he's drunk or when I'm sober and he's drunk-he doesn't want to touch me when he's not drinking-because he's like a cigarette and I've made a habit of inhaling deeply, to remind me that he’s cancer in my bones and I’m getting too old for this. He treats me like the used tissues I crumple in my purse and pull out when my nose gets runny, there when he needs me, stroking my rib cage and covering me in a viscous slime. He feels like a stubbed toe or a paper cut and mostly I'm a mouth to *** into. His hands find the parts of my body that people have always told me to keep secret, but it's been a while since I started sending them out on postcards to strangers. He can grab me with his eyes like a hand grabs the nape of a kittens neck, and I falter. ~ How can I unlove someone I used to love so much? Mother may I-help me-stop loving all of them at once.

22

Pressure puckers & a migraine blooms parachute leaves looming from my mind, moonscapes of bare rock. I've been waking up in a tomb again, mouth mummified & crusted over with drool as my body jolts up at 6 6:45 finally 7: I rise from the dead once more. Yeats spoke to the Beats & he speaks to me, feet creaking old floorboards in a house with no internet. "Pensive they paced along the faded leaves, While slowly he whose hand held hers replied: 'Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.'" I ate artichokes for lunch on pizza & lost a piece of my soul down the toilet of the coffee shop bathroom. I came out of the womb once & I think that was enough. I cough up brown mucus & I'm glad I quit smoking. One of my ribs pokes out & picks my lunch for me, pointing rudely, leaving blood on the gleaming glass. People around me discuss the value of places they've never lived & a homeless man sleeps with his mouth open. I drink an infinite iced tea that refills itself whenever I get thirsty & a prehistoric potted plant belches dinosaurs back into existence. I clean my teeth to become the princess of the salad greens, eating olives with the tips of my fingers the way monsters eat eyeballs in the nightmares of children. Everyone shakes, terrified to look at each other mouths bleeding confetti & glitter. A remedy to bitterness: simple syrup. I want to write love letters to the boy who broke my heart & still has all the shards. I found out yesterday that I'm a woman of hard angles, that my moon might always be fighting to whole its halves. My calves are sore & I'm glad I quit smoking. I'm afraid of empty bird cages & waking up without a tongue. My lungs do a dance under my rib cage & shake my skeleton out of my body. Hot toddy & we drink on Tuesdays. Any available body will do. Picasso's blue period never seemed more lifelike than when I try to jump head first into the nightlife. Nothing can be proven true but I think my respiratory system is at least not false. If I believe hard enough, I can feel my pulse.

0

May 25, 2015

May 25, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC

martian chronicled

Pressure puckers & a migraine blooms parachute leaves looming from my mind, moonscapes of bare rock. I've been waking up in a tomb again, mouth mummified & crusted over with drool as my body jolts up at 6 6:45 finally 7: I rise from the dead once more. Yeats spoke to the Beats & he speaks to me, feet creaking old floorboards in a house with no internet. "Pensive they paced along the faded leaves, While slowly he whose hand held hers replied: 'Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.'" I ate artichokes for lunch on pizza & lost a piece of my soul down the toilet of the coffee shop bathroom. I came out of the womb once & I think that was enough. I cough up brown mucus & I'm glad I quit smoking. One of my ribs pokes out & picks my lunch for me, pointing rudely, leaving blood on the gleaming glass. People around me discuss the value of places they've never lived & a homeless man sleeps with his mouth open. I drink an infinite iced tea that refills itself whenever I get thirsty & a prehistoric potted plant belches dinosaurs back into existence. I clean my teeth to become the princess of the salad greens, eating olives with the tips of my fingers the way monsters eat eyeballs in the nightmares of children. Everyone shakes, terrified to look at each other mouths bleeding confetti & glitter. A remedy to bitterness: simple syrup. I want to write love letters to the boy who broke my heart & still has all the shards. I found out yesterday that I'm a woman of hard angles, that my moon might always be fighting to whole its halves. My calves are sore & I'm glad I quit smoking. I'm afraid of empty bird cages & waking up without a tongue. My lungs do a dance under my rib cage & shake my skeleton out of my body. Hot toddy & we drink on Tuesdays. Any available body will do. Picasso's blue period never seemed more lifelike than when I try to jump head first into the nightlife. Nothing can be proven true but I think my respiratory system is at least not false. If I believe hard enough, I can feel my pulse.

67

dream weaver swinging a meat cleaver sewing spells with stitches of fever pitching fast ***** and low blows to the sweating and eager set the succubi on the nonbelievers steal the dams and **** the beavers heal the toe jam nightmare with foot cream and elbow grease press lilies into every open knee joint crease call the landlord sign the lease the sole matron of the shopping mall sifts flour in a sun dress the screaming fire alarm goes off breaking dishes knocking down sprinklers wreaking havoc making a mess let me jump down your throat and swim in the abscess infect your brain with chloroform and soda pop in excess no manic pixie dream girl no damsel in distress a ferris wheel on turbo twirl a gravitron programmed to make you hurl your embarrassed lunch pick me bunches of wild flowers i'm open to sacrifice scrape the back of your throat with a screwdriver dutifully collect jars full of head lice the meek mice of the holes in the wall crawl out gleaming sweaty sheen the expectant floorboards creak out mean greetings the expectant backs preemptively remove their shirts to receive beatings students scurry by feet frantic late for their meetings through it all the crows keep bleating goddesses nestle in the clouds and predators eat their young rodents mumble songs unsung and in branches where bodies once hung dangle fruit and flower: another season, come.

0

May 14, 2015

May 14, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC

five fourteen fifteen

dream weaver swinging a meat cleaver sewing spells with stitches of fever pitching fast ***** and low blows to the sweating and eager set the succubi on the nonbelievers steal the dams and **** the beavers heal the toe jam nightmare with foot cream and elbow grease press lilies into every open knee joint crease call the landlord sign the lease the sole matron of the shopping mall sifts flour in a sun dress the screaming fire alarm goes off breaking dishes knocking down sprinklers wreaking havoc making a mess let me jump down your throat and swim in the abscess infect your brain with chloroform and soda pop in excess no manic pixie dream girl no damsel in distress a ferris wheel on turbo twirl a gravitron programmed to make you hurl your embarrassed lunch pick me bunches of wild flowers i'm open to sacrifice scrape the back of your throat with a screwdriver dutifully collect jars full of head lice the meek mice of the holes in the wall crawl out gleaming sweaty sheen the expectant floorboards creak out mean greetings the expectant backs preemptively remove their shirts to receive beatings students scurry by feet frantic late for their meetings through it all the crows keep bleating goddesses nestle in the clouds and predators eat their young rodents mumble songs unsung and in branches where bodies once hung dangle fruit and flower: another season, come.

45

With brain bashing into head cavity, the gelatinous mass of neurons screams out to white blood cells swimming in eyeballs to evacuate before drowning. "Quit clowning around in there and save yourselves!" The moody mistress creates her own hells: congratulations! Sleeping alone in a sweat covered bed, she spins saccharine thoughts and pollutes her head with taffy, thick like molasses, cooking sugar in the kitchen with the wrong end of a spoon in her mouth. Dried up *** stains litter her couch as she wakes up to turn the cushions and search for loose change to fill up her coin pouch. "Ouch! Ouch!" She calls out, clean sheets on a new day, his fingers firing in a frenzy and introducing the fusion of pleasure and pain. He smells of benzene and she's afraid of burning, stomach churning and using gasoline as lubricant. He hit her, she said, and it felt like a kiss. She misses him at her day job when she runs around town robbing banks and picking up handkerchiefs that grandmothers drop on the ground. He would pound his manhood into a brick wall if it moved like her, but the skin-and-bones combo woos him to coo at her as swarms of sparrows nest in her ***** hair. Spit shined shoes and riding leaves blown on the air, she dreams of him awake, listless eyes alive and pulsing behind a film of glassy, viscous mucus. She makes magic potions out of the scents left over on one of her mismatching pillow cases. He tastes like roasted red peppers and lingering mace: her eyes water as she chokes back ***** daintily, like a queen. His eyes gleam mean as he steals her breath to add it to his bursting bank account, releasing her to give her back only gasps, the 2% interest. She crafts road maps of his back bone while he sleeps, but he sees her as a phantom, creeping through the floorboards, a faceless specter with an ace up her sleeve.

0

Apr 17, 2015

Apr 17, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC

phantasmagoria

With brain bashing into head cavity, the gelatinous mass of neurons screams out to white blood cells swimming in eyeballs to evacuate before drowning. "Quit clowning around in there and save yourselves!" The moody mistress creates her own hells: congratulations! Sleeping alone in a sweat covered bed, she spins saccharine thoughts and pollutes her head with taffy, thick like molasses, cooking sugar in the kitchen with the wrong end of a spoon in her mouth. Dried up *** stains litter her couch as she wakes up to turn the cushions and search for loose change to fill up her coin pouch. "Ouch! Ouch!" She calls out, clean sheets on a new day, his fingers firing in a frenzy and introducing the fusion of pleasure and pain. He smells of benzene and she's afraid of burning, stomach churning and using gasoline as lubricant. He hit her, she said, and it felt like a kiss. She misses him at her day job when she runs around town robbing banks and picking up handkerchiefs that grandmothers drop on the ground. He would pound his manhood into a brick wall if it moved like her, but the skin-and-bones combo woos him to coo at her as swarms of sparrows nest in her ***** hair. Spit shined shoes and riding leaves blown on the air, she dreams of him awake, listless eyes alive and pulsing behind a film of glassy, viscous mucus. She makes magic potions out of the scents left over on one of her mismatching pillow cases. He tastes like roasted red peppers and lingering mace: her eyes water as she chokes back ***** daintily, like a queen. His eyes gleam mean as he steals her breath to add it to his bursting bank account, releasing her to give her back only gasps, the 2% interest. She crafts road maps of his back bone while he sleeps, but he sees her as a phantom, creeping through the floorboards, a faceless specter with an ace up her sleeve.

62

I play six clicks to you, like I used to look for Jesus on Wikipedia, when I find my weary fingers wandering into my healing wounds again, digging the cursor across bruises and sutures to links so you won't show up in my search bar. I can play pretend too, like all the college students haunting the streets, moving straight faced and dead eyed past the homeless people holding their heads and fighting their hunger. Your newly pierced nose sniffs out my high blood pressure, sweaty nervousness, and ***** haired demeanor; the shivering mourning dove perched atop rubble sings out shaky poems to your roommate. You've walked into a new room and I'm standing in the hallway, trying to figure out which closed door I'll find you behind, pulling each one open in turn only to hear another swing shut in some Scooby-Doo style pursuit. I keep your memory in my pocket, a tattered pin-up photograph, to pull out and glance at occasionally with glazed over eyes and a drool dripping mouth. How does the other side of your bed feel, so full and pumping blood? We both jumped in after eating, but you keep swimming and I find myself on the shoreline once more, grabbing for a towel, trying to push the water from my own lungs. A pair of tan underwear lives in my dresser, splattered with stains from the **** you keep in your backpack. I still wear them, and I can't help but think of you.

0

Apr 10, 2015

Apr 10, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC

burnt roadmaps

I play six clicks to you, like I used to look for Jesus on Wikipedia, when I find my weary fingers wandering into my healing wounds again, digging the cursor across bruises and sutures to links so you won't show up in my search bar. I can play pretend too, like all the college students haunting the streets, moving straight faced and dead eyed past the homeless people holding their heads and fighting their hunger. Your newly pierced nose sniffs out my high blood pressure, sweaty nervousness, and ***** haired demeanor; the shivering mourning dove perched atop rubble sings out shaky poems to your roommate. You've walked into a new room and I'm standing in the hallway, trying to figure out which closed door I'll find you behind, pulling each one open in turn only to hear another swing shut in some Scooby-Doo style pursuit. I keep your memory in my pocket, a tattered pin-up photograph, to pull out and glance at occasionally with glazed over eyes and a drool dripping mouth. How does the other side of your bed feel, so full and pumping blood? We both jumped in after eating, but you keep swimming and I find myself on the shoreline once more, grabbing for a towel, trying to push the water from my own lungs. A pair of tan underwear lives in my dresser, splattered with stains from the **** you keep in your backpack. I still wear them, and I can't help but think of you.

55

An uneasy knowing: Hand on the doorknob, Intuition hinting at what's Through the keyhole. Excuse me, while I Make my way back to the womb And coalesce into an egg once more. I must relearn everything I was ever taught. I must rethink everything I ever thought. "My soul shall not be bought," Is a declaration not an "Oh, I ought to." Tangled in some narrative, stuck like glue; Convention is convention Regardless of where it's acted out, Chugging a cheap beer or slinging back a stout. Let the wild eyed lemurs out! Femurs shriek ****** ****** Shin splits from sprinting to get coffee creamer. Benz, Bentley, or Beamer? Out of place in small town USA, But the monster makes itself the new normal. Wear jeans to the semi-formal, but The after party is her call. To make the future or **** it all? Is life an experiment or a free for all? Is it neither? Is it nothing at all? Squeezing the eyes out of a stress ball, Touch pleasing thighs as the curtains draw... Ka-caw! Ka-caw! I am, I am a triumphant toucan! Flapping wings flowing fluttery alchemy, Making circles out of straight lines, Crafting stories out of blank mind. It comes in time, I guess, The mess of me cleaning itself up gradually Only to regress under sea level again And again, becoming a canyon, The slow deposition, the bearer of men. Redheaded and clucking mother hen Drinking hot water, honey, and lemon, Patronizing old explorers like Magellan. Tune into the past, oh sugar sweet one, Inflicting beatings with flagellum, Stealing treats and eating them, Mountain peaks and chewing gum. Puh-bum puh-bum-bum! Our heads make good drums, And our bleating makes good melodies. Can you teach me the song of the trees? Can we at least save the bees? Nectarine mornings and small, knobby knees.. Mommy, please, put my hair in pig tails! Pick up the worms off the sidewalk, Watch out for the snails. Lay me down into a hay bale; I'll send you snail mail from My heavenly little hell. What's that smell; My baby blanket or an ex-boyfriend Lingering underneath my nose hairs? In smoking scents do memories construct their lairs. Do I have a care? Do I have to care? Is it a curse to be aware? Is it a curse to think that, to dare? Something fragile hangs in the air. Teeth grind, sweaty night mares, Water and oil, oh! What a pair. Fingers uncoil from around your neck: Slender ghostly feelers beckoning, "Come destroy yourself with me." Cast my body out to sea, Playing saccharine melodies, but Send my soul out separately.

0

Apr 7, 2015

Apr 7, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC

tempt

An uneasy knowing: Hand on the doorknob, Intuition hinting at what's Through the keyhole. Excuse me, while I Make my way back to the womb And coalesce into an egg once more. I must relearn everything I was ever taught. I must rethink everything I ever thought. "My soul shall not be bought," Is a declaration not an "Oh, I ought to." Tangled in some narrative, stuck like glue; Convention is convention Regardless of where it's acted out, Chugging a cheap beer or slinging back a stout. Let the wild eyed lemurs out! Femurs shriek ****** ****** Shin splits from sprinting to get coffee creamer. Benz, Bentley, or Beamer? Out of place in small town USA, But the monster makes itself the new normal. Wear jeans to the semi-formal, but The after party is her call. To make the future or **** it all? Is life an experiment or a free for all? Is it neither? Is it nothing at all? Squeezing the eyes out of a stress ball, Touch pleasing thighs as the curtains draw... Ka-caw! Ka-caw! I am, I am a triumphant toucan! Flapping wings flowing fluttery alchemy, Making circles out of straight lines, Crafting stories out of blank mind. It comes in time, I guess, The mess of me cleaning itself up gradually Only to regress under sea level again And again, becoming a canyon, The slow deposition, the bearer of men. Redheaded and clucking mother hen Drinking hot water, honey, and lemon, Patronizing old explorers like Magellan. Tune into the past, oh sugar sweet one, Inflicting beatings with flagellum, Stealing treats and eating them, Mountain peaks and chewing gum. Puh-bum puh-bum-bum! Our heads make good drums, And our bleating makes good melodies. Can you teach me the song of the trees? Can we at least save the bees? Nectarine mornings and small, knobby knees.. Mommy, please, put my hair in pig tails! Pick up the worms off the sidewalk, Watch out for the snails. Lay me down into a hay bale; I'll send you snail mail from My heavenly little hell. What's that smell; My baby blanket or an ex-boyfriend Lingering underneath my nose hairs? In smoking scents do memories construct their lairs. Do I have a care? Do I have to care? Is it a curse to be aware? Is it a curse to think that, to dare? Something fragile hangs in the air. Teeth grind, sweaty night mares, Water and oil, oh! What a pair. Fingers uncoil from around your neck: Slender ghostly feelers beckoning, "Come destroy yourself with me." Cast my body out to sea, Playing saccharine melodies, but Send my soul out separately.

77

I was only the girl of your dreams because you were dreaming of one, taking a convenience sample to find love. "I just want you to know I'm not mad." Well, I'd sure hope not, insinuating I've done something bad by knowing my soul and feeling which way the wind blows. I'll be no one's "mine," I'm not some thing to be had. You will not be a proxy, but a person to me. Let me love you correctly and set you free. I am not your dream girl, but a woman of the sea. I fear love, so I'll have daddy turn me into a laurel tree. I need to sleep alone, swaddled in a manger, patiently awaiting my frankincense and myrrh. I am an egg uncracked, leave me be

0

Mar 24, 2015

Mar 24, 2015 at 6:53 PM UTC

honey drop boys

I was only the girl of your dreams because you were dreaming of one, taking a convenience sample to find love. "I just want you to know I'm not mad." Well, I'd sure hope not, insinuating I've done something bad by knowing my soul and feeling which way the wind blows. I'll be no one's "mine," I'm not some thing to be had. You will not be a proxy, but a person to me. Let me love you correctly and set you free. I am not your dream girl, but a woman of the sea. I fear love, so I'll have daddy turn me into a laurel tree. I need to sleep alone, swaddled in a manger, patiently awaiting my frankincense and myrrh. I am an egg uncracked, leave me be

28

I want to see you sleeping after tick-tocking like a wind-up clock all day, falling like a taut of rope to the bottom of a canyon to thud down into a pensive pile, spreading your energy out as a silent spirit across the dry river bed, the wind of you whipping up sediments in the vast valleys beneath. I want to bear witness to you catching my eye from across the room cautiously, covering the communion in cadmium lemonade tape, tasty and afraid of being caught at the crime scene. I'll throw you a line and you can come up gasping, glorious and shining in the adolescent sun, pulling in air where water should come. I want to watch you write that paper you're working on. I want to spot you screaming into oblivion, washing over wonder with waxy fingers, grabbing at the truth like five year olds ****** fireflies out of a fleshy, dusk-dipped night with mothers calling out "Come inside!" in loving, eager fright. I want your eyes to glimmer something back at me, meeting me in the cosmos to make the moon, Mercury slinging stardust over his shoulder, flirting with Venus and fighting her smolder, meteorites crashing into each other, creating solar systems in their wake. I want to contemplate you on a flat plane, feeling a frenzy of agitated hands and fluctuating heart rate, fault lines moving crazy, crashing through geologic time to make earthquakes feel human. I want to stare at you saying things that would color me crimson in broad daylight as we breathe out heavy to the ancient incantations of an early umber evening. I want to see you without a pocket mirror attached to my wrist, cutting into my skin, blood purple like lavender iced tea in the summer and veins an undulating blue.

0

Mar 10, 2015

Mar 10, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC

artifacts of behavior

I want to see you sleeping after tick-tocking like a wind-up clock all day, falling like a taut of rope to the bottom of a canyon to thud down into a pensive pile, spreading your energy out as a silent spirit across the dry river bed, the wind of you whipping up sediments in the vast valleys beneath. I want to bear witness to you catching my eye from across the room cautiously, covering the communion in cadmium lemonade tape, tasty and afraid of being caught at the crime scene. I'll throw you a line and you can come up gasping, glorious and shining in the adolescent sun, pulling in air where water should come. I want to watch you write that paper you're working on. I want to spot you screaming into oblivion, washing over wonder with waxy fingers, grabbing at the truth like five year olds ****** fireflies out of a fleshy, dusk-dipped night with mothers calling out "Come inside!" in loving, eager fright. I want your eyes to glimmer something back at me, meeting me in the cosmos to make the moon, Mercury slinging stardust over his shoulder, flirting with Venus and fighting her smolder, meteorites crashing into each other, creating solar systems in their wake. I want to contemplate you on a flat plane, feeling a frenzy of agitated hands and fluctuating heart rate, fault lines moving crazy, crashing through geologic time to make earthquakes feel human. I want to stare at you saying things that would color me crimson in broad daylight as we breathe out heavy to the ancient incantations of an early umber evening. I want to see you without a pocket mirror attached to my wrist, cutting into my skin, blood purple like lavender iced tea in the summer and veins an undulating blue.

41

I like to kiss your liquid lovers lips dissolving sugar sweet majesty your highness kneeling to the queen of centuries I live in first quarter of the moon mixing tapes to match the rhythms of the maiden with the melodies of the mother I will love you in secret Of it, the state must not know Out, the fire must not blow *do not let them burn me alive* I promise to keep my commitments cataloged and separate my chastity in one drawer my sensuality in another I can be both I can be both I can live on as an empire and exist as the city in ruin I will bear the sword and wear the heavy paws in the belly of the Colosseum I will sit on the balcony bored and eating grapes calling out "Execution!"

0

Feb 8, 2015

Feb 8, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC

vestalis

I like to kiss your liquid lovers lips dissolving sugar sweet majesty your highness kneeling to the queen of centuries I live in first quarter of the moon mixing tapes to match the rhythms of the maiden with the melodies of the mother I will love you in secret Of it, the state must not know Out, the fire must not blow *do not let them burn me alive* I promise to keep my commitments cataloged and separate my chastity in one drawer my sensuality in another I can be both I can be both I can live on as an empire and exist as the city in ruin I will bear the sword and wear the heavy paws in the belly of the Colosseum I will sit on the balcony bored and eating grapes calling out "Execution!"

44

It's the end Of the world As we know It, so how Do you know it? Did you gather all Your knowledge from Radio broadcasts or Did you spend time Devouring the Pamphlets of Paine And Hamilton and Adams or Did you sell your Soul to the world Wide web in exchange for Little finger pin ****** of Dopamine every few Clicks and whistles? How is brunch treating you? Do you know How to eat an apple or That they exist? What finish did you pick For your gold toilet seat? Do you have enough money To buy food to eat? The cats growl at each other outside, Fighting off the heat. Spoonfuls of honey exist Within the heat death apocalypse but My mouth still tastes like The lingering scent of quarters Leaving sweaty palms After swallowing the sweet Sugar down, as Distracting as it is. I distract myself from Something(s) in my use of Metaphor, but what? The answer lies beneath the Underbelly of some suburban Monster with concrete teeth and A camouflage of fleshy forest, Frying like a hot egg in the sun Behind corporate warehouses and A strip mall where all of the shops Are owned by the same person. To see or not to, to be or not to? Humanity could not collectively Know all of the history we Ourselves have constructed, Let alone the dynamics of the Cell mother planet or the Secrets of the whispering cosmos. We tipped the point a long time ago, And we now sit back and enjoy Our euphoric hallucinations before Death by drowning. It could be death by ********** asphyxiation, but Who's to say until We see the autopsy report? Maybe we should have another Done by an outside source... Outside solo flyer questioning The ubiquitous while existing As an insider in trench coat and Fake moustache feels faulty for Not yelling from the fringe in. I would like to factory reset my phone. The internet lets us know what We know that Others know about us While blocking us from ourselves. Balance and moderation, Sure yes just fine, But please define those Words in the language Of the twenty first century. Shall we fail to mention daily that Our rivers, oceans, and streams Bubble with reminders of Our own mundane mediocrity? Shall we continue to pretend We don't see that we can see? To see or not to, to be or not to? To breathe in hot glue, Death by acrid smoke and A broken bottle, Or a slow decline Into madness by The hands of a Pixelated Nosferatu Coming out of the screen To haunt you, Vibrating under your pillow, Strangling your lucid dreams?

0

Feb 4, 2015

Feb 4, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC

three til midnight

It's the end Of the world As we know It, so how Do you know it? Did you gather all Your knowledge from Radio broadcasts or Did you spend time Devouring the Pamphlets of Paine And Hamilton and Adams or Did you sell your Soul to the world Wide web in exchange for Little finger pin ****** of Dopamine every few Clicks and whistles? How is brunch treating you? Do you know How to eat an apple or That they exist? What finish did you pick For your gold toilet seat? Do you have enough money To buy food to eat? The cats growl at each other outside, Fighting off the heat. Spoonfuls of honey exist Within the heat death apocalypse but My mouth still tastes like The lingering scent of quarters Leaving sweaty palms After swallowing the sweet Sugar down, as Distracting as it is. I distract myself from Something(s) in my use of Metaphor, but what? The answer lies beneath the Underbelly of some suburban Monster with concrete teeth and A camouflage of fleshy forest, Frying like a hot egg in the sun Behind corporate warehouses and A strip mall where all of the shops Are owned by the same person. To see or not to, to be or not to? Humanity could not collectively Know all of the history we Ourselves have constructed, Let alone the dynamics of the Cell mother planet or the Secrets of the whispering cosmos. We tipped the point a long time ago, And we now sit back and enjoy Our euphoric hallucinations before Death by drowning. It could be death by ********** asphyxiation, but Who's to say until We see the autopsy report? Maybe we should have another Done by an outside source... Outside solo flyer questioning The ubiquitous while existing As an insider in trench coat and Fake moustache feels faulty for Not yelling from the fringe in. I would like to factory reset my phone. The internet lets us know what We know that Others know about us While blocking us from ourselves. Balance and moderation, Sure yes just fine, But please define those Words in the language Of the twenty first century. Shall we fail to mention daily that Our rivers, oceans, and streams Bubble with reminders of Our own mundane mediocrity? Shall we continue to pretend We don't see that we can see? To see or not to, to be or not to? To breathe in hot glue, Death by acrid smoke and A broken bottle, Or a slow decline Into madness by The hands of a Pixelated Nosferatu Coming out of the screen To haunt you, Vibrating under your pillow, Strangling your lucid dreams?

97