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Martin Narrod Feb 13
A CONFUSING DAY FOR CUCUMBER FISH

I’m not being able to escape this, in parts, either on the slip where the drifters weigh themselves against daily chores, or to the perch, where against the millions of suns striking into the cabinets where devoted criminal ****** *** offenders aid and abet their children:

flying kites, tossing bread crumbs to water fowl, playing tag, hide and go seek, or

Cooking food, drinking cold alcoholic beverage, and listening as a friend with a guitar sings about the child born in the mountains as a man, only to find the world as a legend.

Still there is no escape. There is only the peril of night stretching 99% of our brains across the tepid sky, only to wait for the light of those suns to fade, and then only have to worry about the dross and muck on every fingerprint of every man from this place or the next. These are fingerprints that ooze the familiar green devil whose face familiar ages our futures before they can even happen. Then we succumb to the bitterness of these years on the perch, the stoop, the step, wandering around the chollas in nothing but a pair of aquamarine boy’s briefs. This is not insanity. This is the product of insanity. This is not losing, this is the product of living under a government that has been taking what it could not afford, and who trades in what hurts rather than helps what ails rather than aids.

This is the ratcheting heard inside the bruised and frail hearts of many. The pain inside their backs and legs and arms and heads is real. It smells real. It sounds real. It feels real, but no one here has ever known what it is that is happening, therefore they do not understand the great costs being played with when these oozing poison-stricken fingertips start playing at the game of life, or they start playing at the game of their neighbor’s life. There is an outcome of sunset still yet to be seen, and that is the inescapability and uncertainty of millions of children being born today, tomorrow, and hereafter. The children tomorrow should not have to worry about washing someone’s fingerprints off of the skin they have yet to be born inside. Stretching across the dusty and quiet streets, if this Wild West is closing its wildness out and isn’t doing anything but wandering west, there isn’t a committee of sanity that will prevail. Especially as we choke through the gravely heavy metals meddling with the untold stories of tomorrow’s sons and daughters.
Martin Narrod Jan 14
Your invisible me misses on my invisible you
I miss my invincible youth, I miss your unbelievable cool. I dance on a sky made of heavy metals and gray, I stare at the stars as I wish on them to take me away. As I lie and I wait in bed, thinking of all the dreams that’ve come and went, I’m weakened by a state of unease, the kind that makes a home in your heart then leaves.

Dozens of times I’ve stared off wondering, what would our lives have become? Soon I am trembling, cold sweat down my face, year after year until the panic has left me undone. Weakened by sorrow as it clung to my hide, just like your small hands huddled against me in the night. Fairly often it’s taken every ounce of my strength, even just to keep myself from running full steam back into bed. It’s as if I’ve covered my life with a dark crooked lie in a story that’s good for everybody except me. I’ve spent the last, as long as I can remember doing anything to stay on the move. Drank heartache, beat down sweat, found myself in a tango with the dust that makes men lose their mind. There isn’t any ole place where I haven’t tried to escape, only to find something too eager to plant her back deep in my thoughts supine.  It’s been ages since I’ve smelled the sweetness and sweat, or tasted on the feeling of regret, every choice I chose was chosen as my first, I never flirted with the hurt until the fury of her awesome pleasure began to shrink out of my life. Nothingness intertwined, it bled into every orifice until I was blinded, my eyes covered and limbs behind me, counting the numbers of floods that swept me out of my room. Into the abyss of my abysmal dismissal, a candy of black cigarette tar, alcohol, and even opiates. Not one regret, just a cornucopia of upset, lost and still losing myself into every last bit of her I can hurl into my memory before it goes.
She girl loss alcohol cigarettes upset invisible myself her candy eyes blind rhyme poetry regret escape sweat down depression angst anxiety difficulty men loss mind dust something move what exce
Martin Narrod Dec 2018
well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.
Thought circles
Martin Narrod Nov 2018
You have come out less who you are. You have given up on your tiny screen, maybe for that chance at your mother’s arms. Maybe that’s me, or maybe we’re both a little far away from knowing who you are: a giant queen of ease visiting strangers hearts. We know things, but to hear ourselves speak we’d need to scream
Out louder than the Red Spot afar. It was a tiny joy to feel, to feel you’d chosen me to shepherd us through the stars. This map worn with your grief leads to a hemlock branch strung hammock where I imagine laying in today’s grand autumnal festivities.
In a place where pain and disease run off together, and don’t stop to think where you and I might be.

In this world where we are
In this world where they gave you a chance
At giving up on who you were.

We were sitting out beside the sea, given a spot of almond milk to go with our tea, it was pouring art and raining beliefs, it had finally given you a chance to breathe, a child free to live without despair’s feral fiends.

Twirling, through verdant orchards caught by envies gleaned by greens’ motif.

This is not the place where I died
But rather the place I learned to stop worrying and learned to love my life.
Martin Narrod Nov 2018
You sleep they come, you sleep they go. They strike it rich, they take their gold.
They stake your home, you lose your house. Their life may change, you’ll lose it all. Ouchita surplus garbanzo bonanza. Milky white thistle caterpillars encircling State Farm. Around the rosy, redness blooms. First in a scratch, then flooding soon. You they watch, they watch you halved. First, you gave up plastic bags. Now plastic straws, and soon a water tax. The facts may might farriers to make haste with maize, face fate with rays of sun plants, and laughter, goodness stitched into new seeds we need to sew. New pith to chew our speed and seed pods back into. New buckets to hide the tragedies we’ve given into. Peace test, speed test. Time’s up and the beast continues. Some starve heading the tables of ancient feasts, infeasible feats that backroom recording darkness flows to fever grips in crimson-painted streets throw whim through. Chief prisoner that we’ve turned into? Where come we when new winds throw her Earth down, to see this missing blessed ‘being where unshucks from mystery and hide of humans’ rind, polls the throes in wheat to patrol these streets, puh lease don’t let this be the sh*t new DJs push their interdigital civics' symptom just to watch their hips get prompted down.

Who wants to be prompted. Particularly not we. Not now. Not a present. Not of precedent, and certainly not with this incredibly myopic disorderly gag borderer promulgating fact-less el ordeals. Wish these weren’t our ideals? Think again.

Faster than air conditioning units plucked out from under eaves, suspense is just injustice suspect from corruptness. Untouchable blood mensches, Houdini's that’ve come straight down the drain to take The Duchess. Forget smoke relief, screens between players in the first box, and the fellas driving the hearse, box first to fifteen with a given chance to clock down at the top if there’s a draw or otherwise start in at the Bell and pick up as many two or three rounds need to be until one side forgets why it needed to stand up to be put down, so then the Reader’s can connect with a truth mercurial and persistent with which needs to be more regularly achieved. Parts in pieces, or even just pieces in parts. If we don’t start to look at the pieces we’re never gonna figure this all out. We’re never going to make it to the paper on the sidewalk reminding us why we’re wandering around waiting to find a piece of paper to tell us everything, because look left, look right, and then turn around, answers to the questions you seek have never been more available than today.
Martin Narrod Jul 2018
Flits of crepuscular longing across the simoom in the night. For with samiel at the helm, all hell will take us for sloth. Firstly, a schism overtakes the wind, backsliding the doorstep of Lucifer’s kin. Keep an eye on the door’s of ewes. The child angered by sky will surely lust for the hedonists imbue. Then the rattle shakes, pelting trunks of lye, chafing the goons of the dawn and choking from the ***** in our young. Aristotle bakes yore, and relief takes the pen, until the quietness of the impala becomes transfixed by our brethren. Then sores take the skin by trial. Eagerly rushing towards the venomous trails, and only then does the bandit bemoan the pain. Only then will the hungered and hungry peel back their fingers for fare, there where the flocks lay in wait and in pairs. Here where the melancholy of revenge, fills our quivers with children’s tears. Only then do we make haste for the shade, otherwise the sun will cook our hides to the colors of the day, then we will lay quiet too. Maybe then we’ll be overtaken by the Xombie Moon.
Martin Narrod Jul 2018
Some types of blood arrest this mouth.
Yes, some types of lips breathe fire and shout.
Some types of women shuck men of their gain, then some women run hurriedly back to their beaches again.
Some people catch anons between their legs. Others swallow vespers BeSpoke by the lust that they crave. Then envelop Gonzo love on the tip of their quill, if only boiling themselves for five minutes to ensure themselves potable.

I live for the taste of rust. I sit in the second-to-last seat on the back-left side of the bus. And I greet her legs with my aching skin, touch my fingertips to my lips to prove that I’m alive to myself.

If her scent was obeyed by royalty. I’m traversing the world if only once more as I’m praying that she’ll see me. I’m praying for our faces to believe in we. And her taste is the bang that is big from the beginning of time, one twist of the fresh zest of a lime, while the years are turned back into the furnace of time. I’m craving faces and loves I once saw. I need to feel the skin tailored for the female gods. I’m certainly loud and catering forth, I turn up the pre, and force the gain and amp up. If only to be noted again, in a bed with my goddess together we’d spend, every moment together in eternity. Immortality conceived of the beasts we achieve. Trampled by the light and tortured by the sound of ourselves. Please won’t you help me to not be forgotten myself? I’m pursing my lips and shaking my hands, I’m jumping off rooftops and eating mouthfuls of sand. Is our hero here or has she she run? Help me find Britni West, my one true love. She’s in California last I had a taste. It’s only everyone else that I lay chaste. With her I’m on top of the world, I’d quaff her spit and champion her skin. There is nothing nor no one that could come between. She’s the only one that is for me, and I’m the only he she’s told me.
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