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natty-morrisonPoems
I When you write down the word "love," in a poem, You say bigot words like you are bigger than words. Here comes the chest puff. II How is any body or anything we make like Frankenstein, bigger than words Brothers say "permanent" like they say "forever.” That pervert stutter , let out with lust; they taste their own wet lipstick if it's Lutheran.   Face paint for Hindu.  Making up rules Because thems the rules.   III. After the second war Frank Lloyd Wright built houses for the young men in uniform, well pressed by the years we hardly mention all of the flesh he has carved from the world. Inconsequential, once they were dead He is not remembering right away, A live delay  Remembers watching dad On thanksgiving with the turkey and his knife And thinks of stuffed gravy When he has those dreams about drowning in the stomach guts. IV Infinity is a math, a faith based on faith in numbers to be counted, up and on this is the fail safe city and I can’t count past 100 without losing count, every time like god, I mean dad, I mean   Space is the final front in the god game you can sling it for pieces And let them see light themselves Make it new hell An empty everywhere. Not even, not odd. The Repeating Integer heart. V. If you make it you broke it already,when it mattered; now it floats. It’s a witch It’s a witch Someone tell her she’s water There's a pile of disowned sons and daughters who watch Slavery **** on their laptops every night in another pile. Off the record, recording it, on the record it skips where I need it Living in filth.  Living here, in our own Dump. Family dump and Feed hall. The Dump is the one Who lives on, and is our legacy, A house that would be a house for just anyone is a **** with a ************ for a father And a father figure for lover type. All the things we think we put time into Are not containers and we don’t skew time We barely keep track.   VI If you can be vague, I can be vaguest, I guess I could be some sort of zeitgeist and live at that bus stop with the clock in the corner. The one by the guy with half his **** out and that clock, metronome too quiet to rock.   This clock which is just a clock, which is just a tool. Which means it was made for one thing We made it. my only sign that I am not from, but of the time.  Which means I where we did not stop to look back for another bus or Eurdydice soaking into Hades' airway because of Love.  She died toes wrapped round a viper who said nothing. Words are the viper, not vague but the death.   VII When you read aloud and say Love - without implied eyes that roll, like dead do in the graves you make everyone down there wish for a bigger box or viper. When you start a line without busting out it starts like the middle of a stop Not stopping, stopped.
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Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC
LoveGodBullshit Meditations, I through VII
I When you write down the word "love," in a poem, You say bigot words like you are bigger than words. Here comes the chest puff. II How is any body or anything we make like Frankenstein, bigger than words Brothers say "permanent" like they say "forever.” That pervert stutter , let out with lust; they taste their own wet lipstick if it's Lutheran.   Face paint for Hindu.  Making up rules Because thems the rules.   III. After the second war Frank Lloyd Wright built houses for the young men in uniform, well pressed by the years we hardly mention all of the flesh he has carved from the world. Inconsequential, once they were dead He is not remembering right away, A live delay  Remembers watching dad On thanksgiving with the turkey and his knife And thinks of stuffed gravy When he has those dreams about drowning in the stomach guts. IV Infinity is a math, a faith based on faith in numbers to be counted, up and on this is the fail safe city and I can’t count past 100 without losing count, every time like god, I mean dad, I mean   Space is the final front in the god game you can sling it for pieces And let them see light themselves Make it new hell An empty everywhere. Not even, not odd. The Repeating Integer heart. V. If you make it you broke it already,when it mattered; now it floats. It’s a witch It’s a witch Someone tell her she’s water There's a pile of disowned sons and daughters who watch Slavery **** on their laptops every night in another pile. Off the record, recording it, on the record it skips where I need it Living in filth.  Living here, in our own Dump. Family dump and Feed hall. The Dump is the one Who lives on, and is our legacy, A house that would be a house for just anyone is a **** with a ************ for a father And a father figure for lover type. All the things we think we put time into Are not containers and we don’t skew time We barely keep track.   VI If you can be vague, I can be vaguest, I guess I could be some sort of zeitgeist and live at that bus stop with the clock in the corner. The one by the guy with half his **** out and that clock, metronome too quiet to rock.   This clock which is just a clock, which is just a tool. Which means it was made for one thing We made it. my only sign that I am not from, but of the time.  Which means I where we did not stop to look back for another bus or Eurdydice soaking into Hades' airway because of Love.  She died toes wrapped round a viper who said nothing. Words are the viper, not vague but the death.   VII When you read aloud and say Love - without implied eyes that roll, like dead do in the graves you make everyone down there wish for a bigger box or viper. When you start a line without busting out it starts like the middle of a stop Not stopping, stopped.
Written by
natty-morrison
American
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC
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