Jan 2017
Not here. Not there. Not anywhere. Not anywhy. Not caring pennywise above my lotto-won unslant brow. I simply cannot who this town anymore.
Wut? It's not that i "jus can't;"
it's that.. well, it's that....
---- It all sidepath whirr spins too much, resulting in me being in it too kneedeeply, as my limbs brim over the finely-tuned ledge of what we think we can potentially know, where it grins up at the space stolid, like a thing imagined real - plus my poor machete has (in a torrid blink of the winkers) turned; or, more accurately, transmogrified into sudden feted befridged leftovers, which, aren't exactly untaciturn in their ways.
(understatement of the eon, iknowiknow)..
---- worse still, -forgotten- leftovers, hidden away in the crisper drawer under the rest of the things spoken for: half due to lazy; the other half, to the fact it won't slide nicely anymore :/
it, turning
and smirking.
Oh! the its
and things.
And those three anthropomorphic hands always pushing n prodding the fated its and things. It's all so.. meh.
So, of c, we decorate it w meta imps and wings above them. Methinks the neon signs of the new rind output axon doth protest too much.
Yet, the gray area is nigh.
Autocorrect, be ******.
Me: I, now, know your tricks. Your abstruse, purely theoretical storms which appeal with chartreuse arms elongated into lawnorder - I can see you've been drawn out. I can see around the bend. You don't scare me anymore with your elegant renderings. I am too much in the dying whitehot.
That voice inside: nothing
Me: ...
Chicken, *****.
Don't you see? It's all getting crunched down. God is in the box marked "fragile," sexting n taking dog selfies doing a Miley tongue wag in the ***** bathroom mirror w an awk ttfn postscript n kissy face discursive.
I won't flinch.
my pockets turned inside-out aboutfacedly, knowingly staring that stare right back up at me, reflexively, interrogating and adjudicating, highchaired n bewigged n gavel-swinging n self-righteous spittle-wingin n all - cuffs hugging the curly q sloughed off set-o-symbols once hung like rare priceless lace above that (over)hyped brand new skull muscle (geologically speaking, of c). but the ***** have all been given, and i, finally, with arms reaching forward and backward, am here.
the haste the haste
the grammar head at the wake
let rigormortis do it's worst,
because there is more behind its door
0100111101010000 bars
hug the star's start
stripping them away,
Denuded, they
corrall it
adn things
white-knuckled,
I grip these two
and win back
the abysmal.
I am OK with breaking down,
with being hurt. Vulnerable as ****.
These tears are me
and mine.
Wut? It's not that i "jus can't;"
it's that.. well, it's that....
---- It all sidepath whirr spins too much, resulting in me being in it too kneedeeply, as my limbs brim over the finely-tuned ledge of what we think we can potentially know, where it grins up at the space stolid, like a thing imagined real - plus my poor machete has (in a torrid blink of the winkers) turned; or, more accurately, transmogrified into sudden feted befridged leftovers, which, aren't exactly untaciturn in their ways.
(understatement of the eon, iknowiknow)..
---- worse still, -forgotten- leftovers, hidden away in the crisper drawer under the rest of the things spoken for: half due to lazy; the other half, to the fact it won't slide nicely anymore :/
it, turning
and smirking.
Oh! the its
and things.
And those three anthropomorphic hands always pushing n prodding the fated its and things. It's all so.. meh.
So, of c, we decorate it w meta imps and wings above them. Methinks the neon signs of the new rind output axon doth protest too much.
Yet, the gray area is nigh.
Autocorrect, be ******.
Me: I, now, know your tricks. Your abstruse, purely theoretical storms which appeal with chartreuse arms elongated into lawnorder - I can see you've been drawn out. I can see around the bend. You don't scare me anymore with your elegant renderings. I am too much in the dying whitehot.
That voice inside: nothing
Me: ...
Chicken, *****.
Don't you see? It's all getting crunched down. God is in the box marked "fragile," sexting n taking dog selfies doing a Miley tongue wag in the ***** bathroom mirror w an awk ttfn postscript n kissy face discursive.
I won't flinch.
my pockets turned inside-out aboutfacedly, knowingly staring that stare right back up at me, reflexively, interrogating and adjudicating, highchaired n bewigged n gavel-swinging n self-righteous spittle-wingin n all - cuffs hugging the curly q sloughed off set-o-symbols once hung like rare priceless lace above that (over)hyped brand new skull muscle (geologically speaking, of c). but the ***** have all been given, and i, finally, with arms reaching forward and backward, am here.
the haste the haste
the grammar head at the wake
let rigormortis do it's worst,
because there is more behind its door
0100111101010000 bars
hug the star's start
stripping them away,
Denuded, they
corrall it
adn things
white-knuckled,
I grip these two
and win back
the abysmal.
I am OK with breaking down,
with being hurt. Vulnerable as ****.
These tears are me
and mine.
