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Joshua Sanders Dec 2019
It's cold and the only light is a distant point
in a vast ocean of quiet dark.
I see window panes
made from hand-blown glass.
Flawed and warped to only show
a vague impression of
light, color and shifting shapes.
I can tell though, that it is warm inside.
I cough and spit.
I stagger-dance as an interpretation
of my wine-drunk idea of myself.
I want to shoot morphine
and nod to sleep reading a book
that I think might impress you.
I want you to see me as I see myself:
******* my own ****
with a faulkner novel tucked under my arm.
See how honest I am?
How self-deprecating?
Aren't I clever?
This poem is going off the rails,
so let me tie this **** up best as I can.
I'll try to do better next time.
I promise.
Joshua Sanders Dec 2019
The horns of dusk
echo dull-quiet
from somewhere bending far away
to fill me and us
with melancholic sounds
of the end
that seem so unfair
and that absence
of the most vital part
which was lost
along the river current
carrying bowls and baskets
bobbing, touching and tearing away
to roar over the edge
and into the void
so vast
that everything is too far apart
to ever touch again,
to ever spark another horn
and never another dusk
and not so much as an echo
to quiver through the air,
through that snuffing void
that offends with its utter apathy,
with its cold
that starts me trembling
and ends us
and quietly
Joshua Sanders Aug 2019
I've grown cataracts.
Sitting here, for those hours.
These years.
The world's blurred since then.
I remember the sky wasn't always so dull.
I know the wind used to stagger the trees.
I wasn't always so ******* bored.
When she smiles up at me,
it makes me sick.
It hurts to remember why.

It should be over by now.
Dusted away.
Burned out.

Let someone else watch the dumb game.
Joshua Sanders Jul 2019
You follow the telephone poles,
by their crooked way,
through the small-town rust,
and junk-yard mountains of aluminum soda cans
Past oak trees that grow green despite
the wither about them, and despite the strangling moss that saddens the wood
You follow the telephone poles,
till you come by the railroad track,
like the ones Ayn Rand wrote a thousand pages about,
Though this one is only worth seven, and a tacked-on reference,
and you'll follow it north, north, north
Till the sun sets,
and you can see the growing light,
and step in to me
Joshua Sanders Jul 2019
how come you let that coal smolder there?
there right in your chest
doesn't it hurt?
doesn't the smoke sting your eyes?
i put mine out
smothered it out
and when it tries to start again,
as it does sometimes when the leaves start to turn in autumn,
when the sharp breeze unsettles them about,
i do it again
it gets easy enough,
easier every year

so go ahead and put it out
it's not doing you any favors
burning like that
the smoke's just gonna sting
stop you from seeing straight
it just hurts and leads to nothing
it doesn't lead to anything anyway
and it stinks
and it offends everyone you pass on the street
they can smell it too, you know
and it stinks

the only way is dull-eyed and static
the only thing to be is grounded
the only thing to want is right where you are
and if you think i'm being sarcastic, i'm not
i just care, is all
i just care about you
Joshua Sanders Jun 2019
Tear to me you cold, apathetic thing
You terrible thing, crooked with deformity
You perfect thing, flawless in design

Fold me under your wing and breathe me a song
as notes of dead, whispering leaves
dance in stagger-form about us

Plant me in the rot of autumn
To grow by the rust-glow of a thousand setting suns
To bathe in the dance of rain
To dance to the rain-songs that patter against window panes and hiss from the neon glow of small-town midnights

Carry me free of self-conscious, critical thought
For to shrug off the hands of my family, and to **** my friends
is the only true form of self-expression

To look in the glazed eyes of every passing stranger,
and see myself reflected in them,
and feel nothing

Oh, you nameless, brilliant thing
I name you
And with the form of your sound filling my mouth,
burning my throat,
rotting my teeth, I summon you
From the aching void of my burnt out mind,
and by the only right not granted to me by the American God,
I summon you
Ours is the last rite of pagan history

Please, hear me
Under the miles of white-static that buzzes like flies
about the stink of my dead-meat brain
Please, hear me
Though my voice is but a gurgle of blood between coughing fits
Please, hear me
I don't want to be alone

Alone, but for the angry thrashing of my dreams
Fragments of stories that come between my twitching limbs
and dull, sweat-drenched headaches
Less than fragments
Syllables of words, strewn in the mud,
that I search out and rinse off and piece together
Only to finish and find that the word is nonsense
Guttural gibberish that offends with its meaningless

I speak in the tongues of my own ****** up cult,
to an empty room
My sermon is plagiarized
A distorted version of better work
The voice of god, twisted and made dumb.
An echo of cliche, a copy of copycats, reflections reflected
Joshua Sanders Jan 2019
the cold tastes bitter on the wind
blue cigarette smoke hangs in the air
as vague shapes,
impressions of souls
this place is ruined,
worn down and
tilted and

there were people
i think so,
at least

torn apart by
the gravity wells
of the moon,
ferried by waves,
shouting over oceans

made silent,
by the silence
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