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s u r r e a l Jul 2017
ᶦ ᵃᵐ ᵗʰᵉ ᵒⁿᵉ ʷʰᵒ ᵇᶦᵗᵉˢ ᵗᵒⁿᵍᵘᵉˢ
ᵃⁿᵈ ʷᶦˢʰᵉˢ ᵗʰᵉʸ ᵇˡᵉᵉᵈ
ˢᵒ ᴵ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ᶦᵐ ᵗʰᵉ ᵒⁿˡʸ ᵒⁿᵉ
ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵈᵒᵉˢⁿ'ᵗ

ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵖᵉᵃᵏˢ ˡᵒʳᵉ ᶦⁿᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵒᵘᵗʰˢ
ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵒˢᵉ ʷʰᵒ'ˢ
ᵉᵃʳˢ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᶠᵃˡˡᵉⁿ ᵒᵘᵗ

ᵉⁿᵛᵉˡᵒᵖᶦⁿᵍ ᶦⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᶻᵉⁿ
ᵒᶠ ⁿᵒᵗ ʳᵒᵘˢᶦⁿᵍ
ᵃⁿᵈ ⁿᵒᵗ ˢᵉᵉᶦⁿᵍ ˢᵘⁿˢ
ᵗʰᵃᵗ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ˡᵒⁿᵍ ˢᶦⁿᶜᵉ ˢᵉᵗ

ᵇʳᵒʷˢᶦⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉ ᵃʷᵃᶦᵗᵉᵈ ᵒᶜᶜᵃˢᶦᵒⁿ
ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ᵉⁿᵉᵐʸ
ᵒᶠ ʷʰᵒᵐ ᴵ ᵈᶦⁿᵉ

ᶠᵉᵃˢᵗᶦⁿᵍ ᵒⁿ ᵘⁿᶜᵒᵘᵗʰ ᵐᵘᶜᵘˢ
ᵃⁿᵈ ᵇᶦˡᵉ
ᵗᵒ ʰᵒᵖᵉ ᴵ ᶜʰᵒᵏᵉ ᵒⁿ ᶦᵗ

ᵃⁿᵈ ᵏⁿᵒʷ
ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵍʳᵃⁿᵈᶠᵃᵗʰᵉʳ ᶜˡᵒᶜᵏ
ᵃˡʷᵃʸˢ ˢᵗʳᶦᵏᵉˢ ᵗʷᵉˡᵛᵉ

ᵃⁿᵈ ʳᵉˡᶦˢʰ ᶦⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᵃᶜᵗ
ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵗʰᵒˢᵉ ʸᵉˡˡˢ ˢᵒᵘⁿᵈ ˢᵒ ᶜˡᵒˢᵉ
ᶦᵗ ᶠᵒˢᵗᵉʳˢ ᶦⁿ ᵐʸ ᵒʷⁿ ˢᵏᵘˡˡ

ᵃⁿᵈ ᵒᵍˡᵉ ᵐʸ ᶜʰᶦⁿ
ᵗᵒ ˢᵉᵉ ᵇˡᵒᵒᵈ.
for when the days seem so bland that you question wether this work is all for nothing, but you bite your tongue and continue anyway.
s u r r e a l Aug 2016
hitherto and heed.
this man with no greed.
face as mere as ants,
but heart as written so.

forthwith and in the now,
with a chest in the wrong place,
our brains midst logic and reason,
and mouths spurting mace.

for this man has trees that grow from his apple,
and lyrics that tie themselves to the oak,
simply tugging at his own branches,
and gaining strength as it broke.

for the world he laid himself atop,
does aches and curves his back,
for those hands move with grace against blank skin with ink,
and his lyrics sink and crack.

for the expensive sap,
from the alabaster jar,
glimmers quietly 'neath gasps,

and the noose and the
spill wars.

for his eyes are crusted,
miles yonder,
and his lips are chapped,
but his arms--and heart--and mind remain a never.

eager and spotless,
fearless and willing,
through trials and hot rocks,
the earth he's tilling.

trails of sound and light leading out to the world,
hold silent despite his might.
and urge and creeping yearn,
for his empty fright.

for the grass shivers at the fall of his pen,
and world cries out at the whisper,
but the man is nothing but mumble and slack,
and has everything held as a lisper.

for a man is nothing without his eyes,
and nothing without his lips,
a mere inconvenience,
to the insipid mind.

for an utterance may increase the waters it treads,
but it certainly wont sow.
and reap what it does,
without years to know.

                                           and grows...
                                      and grows
                               and grows
                         and grows
for the green tree grows
                                                                ­    merely to sink into silence, you say...

the man wags a finger,
and chapped lips ache a smirk.

quill to mouth--connected by heart to mind--line by line
against skin,
is an endearment,
and engraving of passion...

as speech may serve nothing to mind...                                                          ­   if it goes through one ear...

  and spills out the next...

it's the words concocted and stirred up by man--singing by lyre...


and the purple eyes that open
                                            new minds
                                                              to­ the mirror ether.
For the wordless man...
s u r r e a l Aug 2016
hark near!
speak knives upon ears...
make them plea,
and beg upon swollen knees.

for we are truly so,
the ones in which we sow
coagulated clots into a beaded necklace,
blood berries--blood berries
of an aching vocabulary's.

pleading for one swipe.
aching for someone to hurt,
and hope they fully bleed at night.

we merely want to help,
aide the eulogies and add a scissor kiss,
to the concoction of labor,
and amalgamation of agony,
in order to spice,
and to cease.

nothing but a sweet disease
for the white blood cells,
and wish you deep luck,
on a tall grass journey.

we simply wish for ****
after ****,
and smile when you still go up running,
blood stained grin after blood stained grin,
and spitting saucers of cut lips upon your hurt cheeks.

spit teacups
and an half full glass
have nothing to do with a child
or years of class.

you may think we're nothing but a nuance,
and don't mean anything but to watch you cook your own brain,
but we are simply here,
to help you on the chair,
and tighten your own noose.

save the ache of being petty,
and moans of disgrace,
we're here to swallow your pity,
and make you drink your own ****.

simply--surely--simply and surely so,
but we don't mean anything but to guide you to the ditch,
with slices of paper from rusted scissors,
and help you die with your pitch.

you're one of those, are you not? a ******* and nothing more?
you'd best be reminded,
that what is a song,
without its poem?

you have nothing to fear but your own tongue,
and your own blood,
and your own tears,
and make you think you're nothing but clod.

but you'd best be sweating salver if you really are what you say you are.

a place with no shelter?

no story to show?

no roof and no halter?

no place to know?

for the earth mirrors the heavens
and you place what lays between.

you are truly pathetic--but you scribble that.
you are truly meaningless--but you bleed that.
you are truly wordless--but you speak them.

and no one--not even us--can tell you what you really are.

and if you really are what you say you are--then show us.

but don't prove it.

remember, you have a noose that is tight.

all you need is a chair to kick over...

and paper--and pencil--and keyboard--and mind.

now, go ahead and tell me what you are...

the naive scholar for all mankind.
For the critiques and the wordless man.
s u r r e a l Jul 2016
but fools only relish!
the psyche in which we perish!
hatred buried so!
and burned within merry lore!

for are they not,
the sane within the in?
and the in amongst the sane?
and the in of the sane--
which in here will truly reign!

like this, there, and, that?
and which, where, and what?
and spit, spat, and sput,
through here, hear, and hat?

brothers and sisters of spitting scholars!
we sing in two, to, and too!
with be, bee, and bat!
to this, there, and that!

easy to know--surely so, surely so!
the sane within the in--in the inn iconoclast's igloo!
"for what if the in shared the inn amongst the sane?"
"and the sane melted and blurred tongues within the in?"

what troubles your mind? what minds your troubles?
did you not know we live in the inn within this, there, and that?
and the which, where, and what all share one lobe!
for this is for the truly sane within the in,
and in inn of sane!

it shakes us!
like nails bitten in two, to, and too!
and mends us!
like dresses, treading thru, threw, and through!

might, in greatness, we rest, in base
eating bass--knocking bass!
for it is one-- nice and tight!
as the sane dances with--within the in!
in the inn of linen and tin,
for there is nothing greater, than the knowing labor!

and the world spins,
in and of the inn,
of the sane within the my,
and the in of the sane,
in which noose you and I tie,
and lie,
and die,
to again yearn for the sane within the I.
For we are truly the inn of the sane.
s u r r e a l Jul 2016
one--two--covered streams,
staining palms of the undiscovered,
they have holes in ears--for you--their mouths are wide--wide--open--!
yet they hide 'neath tender shield.

peekaboo, I don't see you.
for the flowers cry not for the see-ers,
but for the cut and tears.

bite into your wrist,
and watch the ache and finished work flow,
into ******* and tired vocab,
as it is merely zilch you're destined to grow.

wide--wide open,
yet you bawl not,
how will you get your food now, O dear?
simply let the ocean run hot.

they will not bother with whiners,
whose lips that starve,
the words now old timers,
and the blood that was carved.

dig deep--dig deep, my love,
and find nothing but ash.
die penniless--die penniless, O dove,
and thrive on the sunken ****.

they drink eulogies,
from soft gray tongues,
and murmur carelessly,
for the young-uns.

the world won't wait--
forever moves it--
**** the weak--the hard workers,
and take up the one shot-ers.

simply how the horse drinks it's water,
and how the earth soaks in rain.
nothing--nothing--nothin' but minor,
and disappointing.

simplicity rings the loudest bell,
and thought sings drooping tunes.
for the world hides not and tells.

and blossoms melt in places anew,
merely brainless--brainless--!
and the shield slips from blue.

for now the world is clear,
and doesn't care for the sanguine ruin in those eyes,
let your work fade--let your work fade, my babe,

play peekaboo a little longer, and drag the sword between the lies.
Even if you feel undiscovered, drag the sword between the lies and bloom them anew.
s u r r e a l Jul 2016
many we bleed from our mouths,
waterfalls of cherry vitality coating writing canvas,
sinking--melting--within twisted tongues,
and they're sure to ban us.

with graphite--with ink!--juicy wrists beg no mercy,
'gainst the natives with stash minds,
for our pain melts like water over leather,
yet sinks branding upon skeletons.

for we are blessed by God to bestow eulogies for one another,
as one tips from silver seat,
another awakens his place,
with picky gums and robins for teeth.

and how the ache and thirst must be great!
for the explorers must find all 10 fingers 'tween pages,
clad with strawberries and gauze,
and lips chewed off by ages.

and hollow words are gurgled by luscious syrup,
and packages droop 'neath vocabulary scholars,
O back, O bottom, O mind aches thee!
for only thousands to endure the shock collars.

for little Alice would fear to sit with our odor,
as gears and cogs steam--overheat--with vehemention,
and nights--pray tell--pray tell,
are long and arduous drinking lobes with the devil.

for four frays fancy flights!
'til grandfather croaks your retire,
and we blood-let and let leeches sink 'neath tender armor,
and shadows usurp darker.

as we are vampires--but crave the stone light,
and pour magma into our young's bellies,
so they may inherit our plight,
and ring off their tellies.

which noose may I bind?
which hand may I lock?
which tendon should twine?
which ink should I rock?

as we let, t'is nothing but medical,
as our teeth melt from mouths,
and our eyes dismiss with ridicule,
as our wrists are slaughtered,
and minds fluster through obstacles.

our hearts are obvious time bombs,
that rush to supply our cherry,
but when will the stunning twinkle cease to live on?
and be nothing but lemon balm?

O the sea we cross is made of iron--rust--and steel,
and lusts for its named called out,
for if we delve within this eel.
it'll surely be leaving no room for elders to rout.

the drive for honeyed poison excites me,
and the ache of the chew grows more,
at the thought others will see,
spin innards at the drop of the lore.

for we are the ones that wished for nothing more,
but to be charmed by crimson, and keys, and herrings,
and we pray for the pricking ore,

so the world may finally wear the pain as our custom earrings.
Us writers are surely...
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