Gatorade at the pinball machine
a moderate allergy
to most things
prompts the mouse
to stay indoors
/
the alive, the low, the excuse
*I am a Sagittarius and I flirt with
everybody* but U
listing in the centermost rhombus
of my woozy kaleidoscope
are the kind of creature
women write spells about
and then grow gardens 4
/
don't bring those
outlaws here,
to my Fabergé spacecraft.
just yourself, and that...!
my crown of moldy leaf
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
Swallow and go. Something I can do, like pace myself or ********** You ask me what I write about. I say
famous people, and discrepancies.
Simulate applying mascara. Stainless steel reflections play tennis better than I ever could. [Yesterday] I read something that intibated me,
preformed a lobotomy without a drill.
I had a dream that I forgot my work shirt at a friends house and ran through downtown bare chested to see it serve as a shroud for the most recent saginaw st ******
At the bottom of a heartbeat you explain the grandfather paradox to me. Why wouldn't I go back and shoot the man who ***** my mother? I could have been a time capsule; could have been a light saber,
could have been a different poet who wears a lot of tank tops but calls them camisoles. Late at night my
boyfriend is more treasure chest than in the afternoon, his drunk, swollen face hooked and dark like his indian mothers.
I tell him I am unfaithful every day at three, in the afternoon when he visits the crows nest to regurgitate tequila and recyclable fibers. I wear camisoles that I call tank tops; let some neighbor feel me up over a periwinkle floral pattern when I was trying to change my life. We then shared an avocado sandwich and
peddled the fattest grams on the east side.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
......
In this edge of the end
Where simplicity flows
Through the straight river
The upstream songs
As the ****** sunshine of Lost spring
There today,
Exhausted Myna drying feathers
In the wet air
Sitting on the shade of the window
Steadfast attention on the distant horizon
Slothful day in a comfort bed
With a cup of tea
A longed cigarette,
Romanticism become struck
Outside the open window
Inside out
Light clouds of August
As if the "will" cradling to and fro
Dropping the ageless poetry
Filled with the words of dance
Rain comes down on the unleash field
Essence of mystic tunes flowing
From the tearful trots of rains
Moving, Flooding
The both sides of the river
..............
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 3:43 AM UTC
All of his letters ended in goodbye
instead of to be continued
someday we're all going to die
my brother, he would say
now he's got me saying the same
words like the moon and darkness
that only we could hear
he'd listen to the blues and sip whiskey
until morning, then wake me
from my sleep, tell me to go out
and cut the weeds
growing up around the stone
angels in the field.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC
I’ve sewn together a thousand moments
of nothing (butifandorthis) Outis of
sorts and ends
depressed
enough to make your head swim
your wrist spit
to drown in your own thinking
grasp breath drench and saturate
obsequious regurgitation
prolix asphyxiation
words worlds whirled
LOGOS
spew forth and I choke on
what I can never get out
the
emptiness within
a
few
secondsleftoverstepsout line
of
curfews ensue
more or less and less is more
of the same (few cures for futures)
of late
a puddle reflecting and shallow
sole-stomped-n-splattered
I
Can not help but mis
s
the piece( is ) of me that mattered
less than the least of my worries
and the old black boot
with a hole
the one that is always waiting to.
.
.
drop.
I Am
still
here
hoping
inre
verse
It all fits the tailor-made addendum
but it doesn't the sedentary splendor
change the worn out agenda
of yet another loop of the clock
fomenting
a grand sutuREDness rending a
torque of tendencies
to ward off the
subversive inertia
of idle thoughts—cum—wishes
the edges of that
cloud grapple
with dissolution and
the shaping of my
own periphery sic
[i]magination
The interior storm
has come and gone
replaced by a wretchedly anxious calm
I then wonder if these
tempests are what is…
or just a fallway of mirrors
I pass through in a tumble
down some hole
feeling it’s too late to know
if I will ever be whole
Alas, another looking glass
I have been
cut up too
to see the half emptiness
of ours
in the hour glass
timetumbling down
the singularity of
How are we?
Relatively bleeding
Speaking of
self
shred-
ding dingbats-in-the-belfry
A f r a y e d address of questioning
covered with
s-t-i-t-c-h-e-s
in
this
fourth dimension
saves what? 9 lives? No rhyme--no reasoning
with me
…I guess
my wounds are dressed
but only it will tell
(What is real?)
(so obviously rhetorical)
it marches on
and it can’t be stopped
but it’s of the essence
and they say it will heal
All wounds
and I say when and how and isn’t now
all I have
to be?
wound up again I see...
And then be left
to the present
tense
out of it,
Up against it.
Who the **** knows?
said the Emperor I
(in third person disguise)
Wearing nothing
(He supposes)
Nothing
But being
but...
The scars
Uncovered
for the seeing
Being what scars are
Are they something...
Symbolic? Systemic? Sympathetic?
That makes seeing is believing
Real for me,
Or, for us all?
Is Being
Beingness
Or is it
Meaningless in a...life…
S
P
A
Not evolving as fast
As semiotics
Or sentient
Robotics
For the rest
Of us
To be
Sure that we are
Individual
Beings at all?
What?
Time’s up?
At least for the
Time being…
Nothing to worry about...
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
In a city
In a room
With no thing
Save a rescued
Chair
There’s
A windowpane view
Without reflection
To the streets
Below
Sits
A man without
Purpose
With Determination
Broken
By
A Notion
You see
He thought himself
Conspicuously unusable
Sentenced
To Be
Some detached observer
Surfeited with suffering
Posing
What
Could be
Apart
From the pain
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 12:21 PM UTC
this whole human race is crazy
I walk upon a ground that craves me
no one ever said that this world would please you
and no one sees you
it really isn't hard to please me
but the beginning or the end ain't easy
just a due to be paid to the ground that craves you
and no one saves you
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 12:18 PM UTC
I spend my time thinking
but all it brings is drinking
even with my eyes unblinking
I don't have an inkling
I spend my time creating
the gates of my debating
hating my own procrastinating
it's only time I'm wasting
I spend my time drinking
but all it brings is thinking
when my mentality is shrinking
I don't have an inkling
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
I'm not quite sure
when the dark thought
first came to me;
it crept up softly
and quietly, like a black cat
in the garden of night;
like a light through a crack
in a door opening slowly
and too soon; or perhaps
a drowning man in the deep
waving back at the moon;
too far over his head.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 11:41 AM UTC