WJ Thompson Apr 17

The stars are in the sky
And they are bright
at night
But they are very far
and despite how far
We can drive in our cars
We can not drive to
the stars
because they are very far
away.

One day
I will destroy my enemies.

A poem I wrote as a joke for my friend.
WJ Thompson Mar 30

It was an atmosphere
It was an atmosphere
It was an oxygen mixed with southern fog
Southpaw gloves tied in sailor knots
Waves of golden grains in ocean wind
The rolling hills behind property lines

It was the question you asked
It was the question you asked
not with words but in the way you breathed against the window glass
as I leaned against your Corolla
And we sang under the overpass

It was graffiti
It was graffiti
It was the cavernous concrete cats with purple hair and acid wash jean jackets
melting the light of their city's street lamps into the obsidian void of moistened pavement

It was the way the reverb spread the major seventh across the sky with burnt orange cascading into the violet of the minor ninth
which reminds me of crickets and summer nights (and violins and cellos and midwestern jazz bars)
and how bar chords are a guitarists way of flipping off a crowd-
surfing the web for an answer to why I'm still single-
handedly the handsomest man in my car currently.

It's the cloth in my empty passenger seat
soaking up the air of my A/C heat
and the scent of the soil spilt from the succulent I was given at a wedding last fall
and now I don't know if my trunk will ever smell clean at all

But I'll let this night be interstellar
I'll take a bath in the Big Dipper and write you a letter about Orion's Belt
or how I miss the stars sparkling in your eyes making contact with the E.T. in me.

Phone me home, darling.
I'm lost at sea.

-W.J. Thompson

A repost but with a different ending.
WJ Thompson Mar 22

Furious, I shook my fist at God
and said,
How could you allow this!

With an eyebrow raised,
God answered:
I could ask you the same question.

I wonder how often I am the cause of my own problems.
WJ Thompson Mar 21

The potential in the collections of seconds which crescendo into minutes in the clock of an outdated watch simmer furiously with their inability to communicate with their bearers and explain or at least signal that now would be exactly the perfect time to go and
                          just
                                do it.

Hats off to LaBeouf.
WJ Thompson Mar 21

The question respirates
the acrylic aperture
behind the eardrum.
A responsive tongue to the palate
taps out the consonant.
But before the note descends
with musts in the glass-
The cathartic statue
refracts the
synapses stretching
continuums
to grant a
minuscule autocracy.
Already charting north,
fingers fluently gather
ego between the
sundered reverb of the vowel.
Already twisting key,
pressing restive feet
to acquiescent gasoline.

Working on my vocabulary.
WJ Thompson Mar 20

I am fascinated and enamored
         by the jewelry of a woman's heart
who after being torn apart
         only grows softer, gentler, and kinder.

Just saw The Beauty and the Beast. Inspired. Though, I suppose this poem doesn't exactly capture what was happening in the movie, but it reminded me of a couple girls I've known.
WJ Thompson Mar 19

It is
beginning.
Mouse on the C
Mouse on the keys
Photovoltaic benjamins
New cologne: Mars Musk
X marks the interstellar profit
Build-a-baby with CRISPR-Cas9
Mouse jumping playing "Für Elise"
Are words worthy of the afternoon?
Does the value offer gain an interest?
Nicholas coils are being insistent.
Mouse waving, saying, "see!
Will you follow me?"
Scampers toward
ignited rockets
I'll follow him
into the
gold
rush

New job, baby. Let's gooooooooooooo
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