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mike Sep 2015
Kxxkfnsjdfmdnfi work out
so i camxmsndjdjdnfjgnlsndnb x x fkd d d didjdbrj
waste my time f dkdjr
on
considering my yshwhdiody.
Zgwuusudiziooshspwmxbody.
they said it. Form has no meaning. Why am i still here?
mike Sep 2015
there was a tiny bug
on my screen:

i did not squoosh him
so i did not
write this.

no blood, guts.

nothing.
mike Sep 2015
it has three eyes
to mesmerise

you never know when it is winking

seducing

you never know what it is thinking

deducing

it is always
just tricking
and tricking.

its a neighbor
i want to light
a fire of
to their house
but its connected to mine
so i sit
and i consider,

smoking cigarettes
with a can of gas
as an ash tray
to pass the night
and that racket
they make.

with my foot tapping
on the foot
of a chair
in the yard.
mike Sep 2015
i would not
give my life away
to the perfect piece
or let a sham engineer
take its credit
from me.

i love myself too much
and hate him just enough
to recognize
the difference.

but the perfect piece;

that is painfully
beyond my grasp.

i would quickly cut
my hands from me
and train them
to walk
and to find
what it is
that i seek.

pay them in gold
or in
the beauty of feet.

take myself
from my body.

leave it laying around.

i can hardly
train a cat,
much less
myself.

and cats display ballet.
the music to accompany it
plays while i watch.
no words can describe
what no words can describe.

a signature
is stepping in ink
unaware
and walking across
the page.

cats and mice
are the only ones
with names.
mike Sep 2015
i dont write well when i drink
but i do drink well
when i write poorly.
mike Sep 2015
a white ghost stares at me
and dares me
to tempt.

battles sing
deafening
the opposing.
mike Sep 2015
a ghost child haunts my body.

possessing a dead man.

singing through
skeleton-beak
and
hollow eye-sockets
he floats
on
bone-wings

circling death

and i watch.

the field around me wilts
the crust in the corners
of the spectators mouths
turn to stone
and break.

flesh leaves bone
all that is left is
decorating the past.
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