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Clayton Woolery Dec 2010
All the min-u-ets you played danced in my head
Cut-ting through all my brain's synapses
Now I find myself staying up at night
Fruit flies dip-and-diving on my
Porch light

All the con-***-sions I suf-fered in the dark
Helped in the day when I re-invented art
Keep-ing up with all the verbal trends
Words I say in private are all
Open ends
Open ends
(There's nothing living, don't know
I don't know why,
My brain is numbing and it's weird)

All the mas-ter-pieces kept on hanging up
When the doctors said they "had to pull the plug"
Awake enough to hear those daylight words
My night-light eyes ate the bugs like
Little birds
Just like little birds
(No longer buzzing in my head)

All the con-vo-lud-ed pains at

All the bugs in-side me ate
My light!

All the dead have died in
Sick-ly fa-shion
Dropping like flies with blinks of God's eye
Never forgetting it all

All the things you said were dead had really died
All the things you said were dead had really died
All the times I thought you had, you never lied
Cure my insanity.
Clayton Woolery Dec 2010

Can you feel the nothing?
Dignified castle silhouette.

All the bullets are gone with the stale wind.
Their wings are broken in the magnetic field.
Curse this inhibition.

Are you getting enough sleep these days?
Have you felt the symptoms of loneliness?
Carpal tunnels.

All our lives we've been snapped in halves and fourths.
Our brains are memory movements, twitching and hollowed.
The medieval depiction left you two years older and a box of prismacolors poorer.
Buzzing in your tendons.

We were fighting a hormone war, wet and *****.
And now we're too old for the stomach flu.
Your skin tone still slides into my color palette, and your image through my wrists.
Now we both suffer, like always.

Strange enough that we never see each other anymore.
And I wouldn't call this love, it's more like an echo.
Can I ask you a question?

Photos, paintings, boys, girls, lying, telling the truth: it's all art.
But words, they're just soul and slices of mind, pure torture.
When do you cry nowadays?

It's all been solar flares.
And we are emerging from our illnesses.

We've both spent too much time being artists, so don't point any fingers.
Clayton Woolery Dec 2010
overcast life not worth the open eyes
i need to rise above these clouds and lies
its overgrown and overdone
this way we go about
with chapels and tradition
rituals and true religion
why do we not fear these things?
tornadoes in the making
tsunami waves breaking
is it ever worth it all

God wouldn't want this
God would'nt want this
God woul'dnt want this
God wou'ldnt want this

hideous mistakes and earthquakes
man has made a mess
blood and broken glass
and crusaders in the rain
overthrow the superficial
revolt yourself from overlords
floods in the making
covenants breaking
why do we not fear these things?
is it ever worth it all
love others as you would wish them to love you
Clayton Woolery Dec 2010
Such a shame to let loose
That I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing
But pretending seems to work so well;
You all claw at plasticine symbols
The letters deplored with a swish of the ink well.

Calligraphic self destructions mean something to somebody
Over an ocean with eyes so slight as to shine in the darkness,
Glinting in robes of black on the rooftops of rich dynastics
And the rhymes of yesterday creeping to the forefront,
Reminding me just of how hopeless hopelessness is--
The assonance of a retreating boxcar
Is steaming into the backdrops of consciousness.

Is it time to rewind somewhere?
The visages of paintings only mean so much
To the blind bats on cave walls in cavernous reaches
Of static television snow drifts.

It seems that you and I have come to the biggest of filamentous rifts:
Sifting between now and then we have mind-skips
Of epic proportion, a sickened distortion
Of all of the children left in their contortions
It's all leprosy in my eyes
Since the skies are burning down as we pinpoint abortion.

And we release that defeat, and try to find meaning in it all:

A lie of great size
Told from my lips yet it was--
You who believed me.

Together we made a chimera
A deception even worse than anything I've ever known
I said that some god had told me all the things that

I can't begin to begin an apology
My mouth mummified by request next to Jeremy Bentham
I only wanted what's best for you--
But look at what you've done!
Oh, Crusades! Oh, Crusades!

Children don't lie with your eyes on the sunset
For Nietzsche is the ultimate navigator!

And you finally catch sight of the top of an alligator
floating in the oil, staring at you
slanted eyes smiling cruel.

It all makes sense now, what half believed lies
That explain how the darkness will come to rise
But the opposite side of our crystalline marble
Has known all along, they knew all along!

Facing the east, wasn't He?
Then even he knew
Perhaps what I said was not all untrue
And in fact
the fault lies with Him
Not me,
Not you.

The Bible.
Western Philosophy / Eastern Philosophy
Clayton Woolery Dec 2010
Let's go out tonight and in the cold, we'll
Spirit ourselves away until
The sun appears, in little
Nooks and hollowed tree middles.
Let's go out in the dark moonlight
And take these clothes off right
As soon as we step off the edge
Into cold wetness and nearly freeze to death.
The precipice will smudge
When we walk down the sloping blur
To where the water is photoshopped so nicely.
Our throats will no longer be sore
So we will shout some more,
So we will shout some more.

Hopping spritely across the river on rocks
With our hoods on and our knee high socks
We shall transmute into the smallest flock
Of Canada geese.
When's my funeral.
Clayton Woolery Dec 2010
Empty humans echo when tapped
Ceramic heartbeats crunch through riverside air
Their senses vaporous, impaired.

Those which melancholy cannot reach
Across the Styx with curling hands
With icy fingers, buzzing bland.

Empty humans echo when tapped
With icy fingers, buzzing bland
Across the Styx with curling hands.

Those which melancholy cannot reach,
Their senses vaporous, impaired
Ceramic heartbeats crunch through riverside air.

*Pottery people are all appearance
And their hollows are touched rarely
By their own sentience
While waiting for the ferry--
recycling lines.
Clayton Woolery Dec 2010
I am contemplating all my faults
Arranging them in rows and columns
And then in wind storm decision
Promptly forgetting them
Slept since then and never more do I
Call upon the kings and queens to tell me I could really do better.

I run on sentences and letters quickly
Escape the fact that full stops matter
Avoiding rhymes and clear cut patterns
Three point one four one five nine
Two six five three five eight nine
Seven nine three two three eight four six.

I was never worth the time I spent
Defining myself and my clear cut corners
I want to spread out and have no name
And be enigmatic with charisma
But I can't in this city town village house room chair
So I'll spend more time waiting for the future crosshairs.
I don't think that I like you anymore, but I got these feels at the feeling store.
Clayton Woolery Dec 2010
Infallible were the nights we spent alone on rocky shorelines
I never gave all those pent-up emotions I had to the king of the stop signs
Like you did
I never counted on your instances
You do kid
About counting lost images oh, oh

Dishonorable were the things we stashed when we were in Oklahoma
Counting our chickens before they've hatched and saying your freckles were melanoma
Like we did
I could always count on you being morbid
You may kid
But your eyes don't lie when you are sordid

Containable were our dark white lies we told each other in confidence
Playing the double agent just like a cave filled with resonant
good times, good times, good times, good times, good times.

— The End —