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ooznozzPoems
The rawness, the element of risk at the entrance to my anger… malleable as soft clay... Black curtains... never ending; mental state fractures and the pièce de résistance: unable to find a sense of comfort through the stillness - Step over its threshold, into my space where i have frayed angel hair (a tangled mess) from rebellious fingers of tumultuous running through it Yes, i get into the same bed each night trying to go to sleep, engaging in a thorough, exhaustive rethinking night after night. Thinking that if i look away, it might be gone by the time i look back Ambling onto this stage of even bigger drama, My soul is a battleground, DARKNESS, the chosen color of my odyssey... AND dialed up t’fail There’s a nagging sense that actions have no consequences and rules are being made up; a slumping trail mixes among unsettled footing on a ledge of well-stocked missed directions – There’s a flickering neon sign with its defective tubes, smelling funny and humming noise… Reminding me of the fact that there is no stirring narrative word – FUMFUH’d again / pulling the rug from under my feet, a flapping numb – brain think, as it is with most who write and then fall off the page by "ooznozz"
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Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 3:29 PM UTC
poem: The obscene, garish landscapes and conquering from the margins
The rawness, the element of risk at the entrance to my anger… malleable as soft clay... Black curtains... never ending; mental state fractures and the pièce de résistance: unable to find a sense of comfort through the stillness - Step over its threshold, into my space where i have frayed angel hair (a tangled mess) from rebellious fingers of tumultuous running through it Yes, i get into the same bed each night trying to go to sleep, engaging in a thorough, exhaustive rethinking night after night. Thinking that if i look away, it might be gone by the time i look back Ambling onto this stage of even bigger drama, My soul is a battleground, DARKNESS, the chosen color of my odyssey... AND dialed up t’fail There’s a nagging sense that actions have no consequences and rules are being made up; a slumping trail mixes among unsettled footing on a ledge of well-stocked missed directions – There’s a flickering neon sign with its defective tubes, smelling funny and humming noise… Reminding me of the fact that there is no stirring narrative word – FUMFUH’d again / pulling the rug from under my feet, a flapping numb – brain think, as it is with most who write and then fall off the page by "ooznozz"
ooznozz
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ooznozz
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 3:29 PM UTC
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