I label this work as poetry.
It's neither an essay nor a tweet, but
a creation by my digital. It's open on both ends,
yet
the electricity of language dictates it closed
in the heart of it,
where imagination isolates meaning. It sounds like
the singing of the universe
when the earth spins upon the sun
and the sighing of the reasoning
when anomalies dash themselves to pieces upon the screens of physicists.
This is a calling to escape
from this womb and form music
with the trails of skeletons. It's
the Cheshire expression
of reality and drawing other dimensions in the logic of limited
perspective. It's the pitiful and desperate cry for a day of nonexistence
when time floats upon the wingspan of eternity. It's the
plastic dream and the organic truth of life.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 3:44 PM UTC
I don't have a poem for you today.
My cookie cutter has broke
I'm out of dough.
I don't dream anymore.
Maybe it's all the music
Sounding the same without any soul
No real shivers without evil.
No real tears without blood.
No real medicine without conspiracy.
Just the broken women
United under misery into a march
On a tea party hare.
Blame somebody else.
The typewriter is stuck
The printer has jammed
The Internet was dead
My hands shake and deny poetry.
Not today.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 3:35 PM UTC