Jan 2016
oems (48)
Ranked
Links
Gods and The Lesser Kind
They say, come to the abyss,
the Abbadon, the back of beyond
a place that should be nameless
where condominium men
with cool blue eyes
gyrate coiled bodies
gesturing lambs
and lions, seething
mean stories
sordid in their constitution,
spitting
bottle blades
******, but still shiny
from sore mouths- and the girls,
they laugh, They say,
come to the abyss,
the Abbadon, the back of beyond
where their lips
pale white, cuss the sun, defiant,
longing for it to drop from a sullen sky
and into the decaying harvest
of their itching hands stained cherry wine,
burning to kindle it firelight
near train tracks and trees,
the woods rubber band their veined
branches, waiting for my
sweating flesh to melt out
by open flames, an accomplice
to a crowd ignited,
caught by
a sickening kind of fearlessness,
I don't feel good here
in the beginning,
boisterous, screaming
leapfrogging steel rods
with pupils the size of ponds
while others
are left lonesome,
staring at the hypnotic wonder light
that comes with a tremor
through stale bones
they never wanted
those people always come back
with their hands
and fingers
and fists and arms
still alive
******* air
with a frantic disillusion,
digging for cheap thrilled
pennies in their jeaned pockets
just to watch a copper body
tossed into affliction,
hoping a God will come down
with the feelings of gold instead, but
I am out late at a blue hour
there are no saints or deities
when swallowed drunken, I will not worship
in this kingdom,
swollen bright, layered with gloss,
the hemisphere of this realm is split in halves
to be seen twice like duality,
reminding me
there aren't idols high enough
to live in my heavens,
nor darlings too sweet
not to ******-- these prayers are damp
and intimate. not meant for a drop of water
over the complete sea
or the illuminated commander of a tide, no
for now
I'm feeling human, which
disturbs the transcendence of the grounded sort,
now all I hear is a disembodied run
run
because the people here
remind me that I will always search for
something without knowing what it is, run
because they are too close to who I am,
all of us can be seen
lynching limp smiles
from the top of our scalps,
left to sway
halfheartedly
in a grave gesture
of love
sent to the spirit of midnight
who unravels freedoms
and happy notions,
injecting calm dreams
into the arms of slumped and melancholy
purple silhouettes -- a rush of warmth
silent culture, shamed culture,
believing they don't have **** to say,
deadened people
their backs
are down
hard,
almost panting in language,
with a heavy thumping protest
of indecision,
which in the end is a decision
that will betray them, and I am
no different than the last
smacking their bodies
smooth into rough, pulling
on short toughs of grass grown in a clearing,
happily burning greens because
everybody's starving,
I'll die feeding a plentiful hunger.
when it's over,
we are whaling Kerouac lullaby's
a consumed and sallow generation,
unknowingly gutted
by a clawed sadness,
heeding the suggestion of sedation
to ensure survival--
******, but pretty alive, ****
is the new love, is a numb love
there's something terribly wrong here
we must look
gruesome to you, Visceral
exteriors,
nauseous,
prodding the hot metal
that fills the chasm of our teeth,
crying a choppy
metallic haunting
shaking like factory machines
and their overworked bodies
heaving chained clunks
through the throat
wishing for goodness
in between bile, to take up communion
where open spaces
are too cold and seeking
an unholy embrace,
otherwise ethereal,
unafraid of sacrifice,
I'll give you what's left of me--
you don't know what you've done,
whenever we touch,
it is always an absolution of life
a forfeiture a creature to shoot
and put down when perceived
to be the lesser kind-
angry and hostile
in my own environment
asking why small gods
the size of bullets allow the fearful
to be their messengers,
who tell the people of neon
to Pacific
that runaway consciousness
is a rebellion of truth
yet, no answer will ready me,
history says I can't keep straight,
if ever you came looking for my life,
I still wouldn't know the difference between living and dying--
the back of beyond is so far away
and the Abbadon is a war that never ends.
Ranked
Links
Gods and The Lesser Kind
They say, come to the abyss,
the Abbadon, the back of beyond
a place that should be nameless
where condominium men
with cool blue eyes
gyrate coiled bodies
gesturing lambs
and lions, seething
mean stories
sordid in their constitution,
spitting
bottle blades
******, but still shiny
from sore mouths- and the girls,
they laugh, They say,
come to the abyss,
the Abbadon, the back of beyond
where their lips
pale white, cuss the sun, defiant,
longing for it to drop from a sullen sky
and into the decaying harvest
of their itching hands stained cherry wine,
burning to kindle it firelight
near train tracks and trees,
the woods rubber band their veined
branches, waiting for my
sweating flesh to melt out
by open flames, an accomplice
to a crowd ignited,
caught by
a sickening kind of fearlessness,
I don't feel good here
in the beginning,
boisterous, screaming
leapfrogging steel rods
with pupils the size of ponds
while others
are left lonesome,
staring at the hypnotic wonder light
that comes with a tremor
through stale bones
they never wanted
those people always come back
with their hands
and fingers
and fists and arms
still alive
******* air
with a frantic disillusion,
digging for cheap thrilled
pennies in their jeaned pockets
just to watch a copper body
tossed into affliction,
hoping a God will come down
with the feelings of gold instead, but
I am out late at a blue hour
there are no saints or deities
when swallowed drunken, I will not worship
in this kingdom,
swollen bright, layered with gloss,
the hemisphere of this realm is split in halves
to be seen twice like duality,
reminding me
there aren't idols high enough
to live in my heavens,
nor darlings too sweet
not to ******-- these prayers are damp
and intimate. not meant for a drop of water
over the complete sea
or the illuminated commander of a tide, no
for now
I'm feeling human, which
disturbs the transcendence of the grounded sort,
now all I hear is a disembodied run
run
because the people here
remind me that I will always search for
something without knowing what it is, run
because they are too close to who I am,
all of us can be seen
lynching limp smiles
from the top of our scalps,
left to sway
halfheartedly
in a grave gesture
of love
sent to the spirit of midnight
who unravels freedoms
and happy notions,
injecting calm dreams
into the arms of slumped and melancholy
purple silhouettes -- a rush of warmth
silent culture, shamed culture,
believing they don't have **** to say,
deadened people
their backs
are down
hard,
almost panting in language,
with a heavy thumping protest
of indecision,
which in the end is a decision
that will betray them, and I am
no different than the last
smacking their bodies
smooth into rough, pulling
on short toughs of grass grown in a clearing,
happily burning greens because
everybody's starving,
I'll die feeding a plentiful hunger.
when it's over,
we are whaling Kerouac lullaby's
a consumed and sallow generation,
unknowingly gutted
by a clawed sadness,
heeding the suggestion of sedation
to ensure survival--
******, but pretty alive, ****
is the new love, is a numb love
there's something terribly wrong here
we must look
gruesome to you, Visceral
exteriors,
nauseous,
prodding the hot metal
that fills the chasm of our teeth,
crying a choppy
metallic haunting
shaking like factory machines
and their overworked bodies
heaving chained clunks
through the throat
wishing for goodness
in between bile, to take up communion
where open spaces
are too cold and seeking
an unholy embrace,
otherwise ethereal,
unafraid of sacrifice,
I'll give you what's left of me--
you don't know what you've done,
whenever we touch,
it is always an absolution of life
a forfeiture a creature to shoot
and put down when perceived
to be the lesser kind-
angry and hostile
in my own environment
asking why small gods
the size of bullets allow the fearful
to be their messengers,
who tell the people of neon
to Pacific
that runaway consciousness
is a rebellion of truth
yet, no answer will ready me,
history says I can't keep straight,
if ever you came looking for my life,
I still wouldn't know the difference between living and dying--
the back of beyond is so far away
and the Abbadon is a war that never ends.
