third-eye-candy - Hello Poetry

for every little thing i may unwind from my spores there are other things floating in the yoke of my egging. a sort of brusk helium chipping away at my lead weights elevating the intrigue of my primal thoughts from the bog of my susceptible desires. glistening like a trophy made of skeletal glitter and flesh. a sage where idiots dream of something other than the sun staring at a hole with calloused eyes- the hammer in your inkwell pounding the sun into your thumbnail like a rune you stitch into your marrow. now the word that gave you Life- has an Echo. tumbling over you and you and you

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Feb 3, 2025

Feb 3, 2025 at 7:57 PM UTC

The Hammer In Your Inkwell

for every little thing i may unwind from my spores there are other things floating in the yoke of my egging. a sort of brusk helium chipping away at my lead weights elevating the intrigue of my primal thoughts from the bog of my susceptible desires. glistening like a trophy made of skeletal glitter and flesh. a sage where idiots dream of something other than the sun staring at a hole with calloused eyes- the hammer in your inkwell pounding the sun into your thumbnail like a rune you stitch into your marrow. now the word that gave you Life- has an Echo. tumbling over you and you and you

17

i had words with a silent thing. i won the argument, needless to say. but fewer trumpets were in my bag of air too asleep to be awake with the things of you strewn about the palace of my misery I suppose a jewel is vacant spoiled by the sun and no longer a friend. the way the things of you pinch the law of my skin like a twist in a maze of love grumpy with northern lights percolating forever because love can. . .

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Mar 20, 2024

Mar 20, 2024 at 10:33 PM UTC

THE THINGS OF YOU

i had words with a silent thing. i won the argument, needless to say. but fewer trumpets were in my bag of air too asleep to be awake with the things of you strewn about the palace of my misery I suppose a jewel is vacant spoiled by the sun and no longer a friend. the way the things of you pinch the law of my skin like a twist in a maze of love grumpy with northern lights percolating forever because love can. . .

17

after 2 AM the tinnitus of a withering day has abated. the shrill un-boundaries of our servitude collapse into auguries seeping from a perforated moon like white honey. all it’s thought a dot on a creature made of holes. stumbling home from a mansion to a flat. in a yellow car.

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Sep 5, 2022

Sep 5, 2022 at 6:20 AM UTC

TAXI MELT

after 2 AM the tinnitus of a withering day has abated. the shrill un-boundaries of our servitude collapse into auguries seeping from a perforated moon like white honey. all it’s thought a dot on a creature made of holes. stumbling home from a mansion to a flat. in a yellow car.

11

With aphids and cherubs barking up the wrong tree A November with rain on its mind clicks a heel in the underbrush, where all things creep in the ether floss of our lost tendrils of Time emergent in luminous twine every stitch, a rivet in a concrete swamp. tethering a plight. II Christmas lights lockjaw hamlets with crepe frost glistening earthbound color wheels in the jagged blanket of a crisp 3 AM. a covert Decembering as such a night is want to do. then the gray weeps as window panes tell you Why?

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Sep 2, 2022

Sep 2, 2022 at 11:30 PM UTC

The November With Rain On Its Mind

With aphids and cherubs barking up the wrong tree A November with rain on its mind clicks a heel in the underbrush, where all things creep in the ether floss of our lost tendrils of Time emergent in luminous twine every stitch, a rivet in a concrete swamp. tethering a plight. II Christmas lights lockjaw hamlets with crepe frost glistening earthbound color wheels in the jagged blanket of a crisp 3 AM. a covert Decembering as such a night is want to do. then the gray weeps as window panes tell you Why?

16

some fool on a hill, tripping over jupiter spoons scooping a notion from a wishing well.. foggy and hermit with a small eye and big dreams drumming on a skintight cloud klip-sprung from a soft enamel, floating in an iron lung with too many stars to choose from. and less than that.

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Sep 2, 2022

Sep 2, 2022 at 11:27 PM UTC

fool on a hill

some fool on a hill, tripping over jupiter spoons scooping a notion from a wishing well.. foggy and hermit with a small eye and big dreams drumming on a skintight cloud klip-sprung from a soft enamel, floating in an iron lung with too many stars to choose from. and less than that.

6

with the battle joined and my intimacy jaded and clack froth i merge my pavilions with my valleys, gliding on a ragged stallion with a wreath in it’s withers… a’gallop in the arbitrary dawn of my hellscape. relentless as Hope. like juniper and venison, we intertwine in the hillocks of our faraway eyes like two marbles adjusting to the stride of an elephant hoisting the world into all charm and calamity without a care in the World On Its Back.

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Sep 2, 2022

Sep 2, 2022 at 11:24 PM UTC

JUNIPER AND VENISON

with the battle joined and my intimacy jaded and clack froth i merge my pavilions with my valleys, gliding on a ragged stallion with a wreath in it’s withers… a’gallop in the arbitrary dawn of my hellscape. relentless as Hope. like juniper and venison, we intertwine in the hillocks of our faraway eyes like two marbles adjusting to the stride of an elephant hoisting the world into all charm and calamity without a care in the World On Its Back.

9

A wet Spring slept on the porch Like a damp **** full of Bees From Atlantis. A smudge of bacon in the velvet air of early morn and couldn’t sleep anyway. Lightning; you know the kind that cracks the spine of your bookworm. with pendulous Thunder and Furious - Antlers. My broken robe draped over the wind Like a baritone glissando sans a piroette as i plant my hushpuppies in the other stillness beneath the breeze… like a petulant peace, ticking like a Balm. I sip my coffee to no applause

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Sep 2, 2022

Sep 2, 2022 at 11:18 PM UTC

Terminal Verbosity

A wet Spring slept on the porch Like a damp **** full of Bees From Atlantis. A smudge of bacon in the velvet air of early morn and couldn’t sleep anyway. Lightning; you know the kind that cracks the spine of your bookworm. with pendulous Thunder and Furious - Antlers. My broken robe draped over the wind Like a baritone glissando sans a piroette as i plant my hushpuppies in the other stillness beneath the breeze… like a petulant peace, ticking like a Balm. I sip my coffee to no applause

18

Harriet slept to colonize time and space with her chrysanthemums and cardamon irises tacked to a wall behind a lens in her eye rapidly moving through a slumber quest to pillage the invisible with her wisp of might to glean the terrace of lost chambers of gnostic grog in flagons of hubris, spuming at the spicet of a dervish star in a barrel. Then she makes breakfast.

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Sep 2, 2022

Sep 2, 2022 at 11:16 PM UTC

Harriet

Harriet slept to colonize time and space with her chrysanthemums and cardamon irises tacked to a wall behind a lens in her eye rapidly moving through a slumber quest to pillage the invisible with her wisp of might to glean the terrace of lost chambers of gnostic grog in flagons of hubris, spuming at the spicet of a dervish star in a barrel. Then she makes breakfast.

9

Drinking my whiskey teeth in the spiral of an unknown maw Jumbled in my cups, where the thorns parade on ice And gallons of faraway evaporate like an up close Eden… My lungs full of aire and radioactive lovesongs bejewelled in twilight… sink into me like a long groan of quiet… choking on a scream that paintbrush cannot fathom nor my prayers recite. The volume of my sphere, squaring off with my span of years. Folding space into impractical toys; my rivets, clenched in redwood And forgotten things, purged by sleepless Time On a pyre of inflammable Pitards.

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Nov 8, 2021

Nov 8, 2021 at 7:48 PM UTC

Drinking My Whiskey Teeth

Drinking my whiskey teeth in the spiral of an unknown maw Jumbled in my cups, where the thorns parade on ice And gallons of faraway evaporate like an up close Eden… My lungs full of aire and radioactive lovesongs bejewelled in twilight… sink into me like a long groan of quiet… choking on a scream that paintbrush cannot fathom nor my prayers recite. The volume of my sphere, squaring off with my span of years. Folding space into impractical toys; my rivets, clenched in redwood And forgotten things, purged by sleepless Time On a pyre of inflammable Pitards.

12

On this day, the sun is wane-weary in the mist of an offshore fog- come ashore and gumming the works. It’s a damp light all around and the foundry of heaven has come to a halt with one anvil ringing in steam as Blue retires from its perch so the Grey mayhap- and the Dawn drab. but the hawk in my eye is immune.

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Mar 3, 2021

Mar 3, 2021 at 6:37 PM UTC

THE DAMP LIGHT

On this day, the sun is wane-weary in the mist of an offshore fog- come ashore and gumming the works. It’s a damp light all around and the foundry of heaven has come to a halt with one anvil ringing in steam as Blue retires from its perch so the Grey mayhap- and the Dawn drab. but the hawk in my eye is immune.

12