N R Whyte

N R Whyte Sep 2013

but first you were everything
and then everything
and then complication
grew like how on a fig tree
a fig
might not grow.

N R Whyte Feb 2013

Brain

Like a city grows on the banks of a river, water giving the people life, the brain grows in the skull.
Burroughs of the brain flourish, expand, fill with children; all age together.
Roads are built down familiar trails.
Thoughts flow like traffic, passed honking person to person.
Somewhere seven ghettos are folded into the pattern, somewhere seven suburbs.
Churches grow in clumps uptown, the steeples of the brain.
The people grow up, find careers that never change.
All are infertile.
School classrooms, though the books of teaching remain, empty.
Age claims first the eldest, tragedy claims others lost to alcoholism and extreme sports.
Libraries close, leaving suburbs of food sprawling.
Eventually all are in nurse-less homes, the TV flashing but set to no channel, ******* their pants.

N R Whyte Jan 2013

white ice / blood flat

a white white round witch
ice witch
ice white round which witch white ice

a black bleeding bleeder bleeding flat
black and bleeding
bleeds black and blackening flat

a white ice witch bleeds flat round black

N R Whyte Jan 2013

Scenario

the sunrise today was not special or unique
from every other,
it was not perfect or shiny or
new
it was beautiful.

N R Whyte Jan 2013

Glass

I break glass;
glass against.
Perfect blade of perfect glass perfects a pane of perfect grass
So perfectly green and glass breaks blue and green glass
On glass.

N R Whyte Dec 2012

My Body is Not a Temple

My body is not a temple,
Instead it is a duplex.
My body is a place where the two halves of me live,
Together, though they can't quite interact.

My body is not a temple,
It's more like a church.
All the spirituality of a temple,
Covered by snobbery and incense.

My body is not a temple,
Rather, it's like a smartphone.
It runs just like a laptop,
But it fits just in your pocket out of sight.

My body is not a temple,
It's actually just flesh.
Mortal bone and sinew,
And an ever-tightening knot at its core.

N R Whyte Dec 2012

Inspiration

It's a harsh burn, inspiration.
That despicable, clawing feeling at the root of your being,
You're there, just trying to get something down,
Anything.
It's never just right.
It's always a finger, a hair, a sliver away.
Or maybe more, but it's never there.
It's never just right.
Baby Bear, how did you do it?
Goldilocks, you lucky *****,
You found it, and stole it.
Inspiration, I guess, comes from the right chair,
The right porridge, the right bed.
Then, a swift infallible blow to the right side of the head.
Oh! Right in the creativity!
Inspiration,
Though you try to force these words to be something that they can't be,
Make them do something they shouldn't,
While English speakers ruin the language,
Inspiration ruins it further.
It's never just right.