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andru Feb 2
1
today on the radio, the voice of british engineer
kenneth bigly,
shackled in a chicken wire cage in iraq, is crying and
begging his prime minister
“please don't leave me here...”

the sound of his desperation rises like black smoke,
takes a solid
form, lodges itself in our hearts, non-transferable as
we continue to
invent as we go, what to do next.  this evening,  a
televised debate
about homeland security and foreign policy...

life has spilled out of its channels.

2
the rain has finally stopped, the puddle in my
basement is
deep enough for minnows.  dawn wrings itself out
before the
sun comes up, and trees shake off their heavy wet
skirts and
move on in the wind.

outside the back door, a large spider, the colour of
sand looks like a
crab walking on air, weaving, weaving the repairs of
her lair.

this airy space, this life, holds everything in place.  do
not pluck or cut
or name what you find hanging – it's only time
rearranging itself.

a sense of the invisible in the corner of my vision, a
glint of gold, a
secret life is moving between the trees; they are
always whispering.
in the solitude, behind the rocks, in the tall grass, and
below the
surface of the water, meaning passes silently.

this is not daydreaming. it's watching yourself dream.
the way children
play.  draw the curtains.  open the curtains.  vanishing
or fusing?  what
course will this take?  when the time comes that I can't
feed myself or
get up from where I lay?

3
thoughts are throwing themselves like discarded
clothing inside my
head.  i pick up a few and make some notes, but the
rest, strewn
about, disappear when i turn on the lamp.  sometimes
the very word
i need goes dark.  i want to get on my hands and
knees and look for it

4
the trees have entered the house.  they are on the
stairs and in the
hallways between the rooms.  i can hardly see you
anymore.

you stay, you go.  you will be someone who will always
remember
sounding the hurting horn at the wrong time.  you
catch your plane.
my body wants to fold forward like a suitcase locking
in the pain.

i begin giving things away.  a long time resident of my
head, I tidy up,
fold the past away, and gather what feels like a new
method of
thought – to admit that we just don't know, never knew,
where we are
going.  passengers waiting for departure.

5
tonight i pull on a cloak full of the moon that won't come
off.  i begin to
dance around a hole in the world where love once
thrived.  i hear the
trees applaud.  whirling in the shining light, i float.  i
fall.  i learn to fly.

healing without, healing with
andru Jan 24
Insomniac with a dreamers soul
stealing mornings from these metal detector mornings
Exploitation fiend          stop          turn over
in your mind
role the issue
between slim fingertips
Add some colour to these bureaucratic dreams

Forget dialogue and cohesion and forget
linear and metaphor
Don't force the world to be that small
You laugh
whenever they mention "reality"
You're faking so profound
Your faking, so profound
Opaque
like words we will one day have our revenge upon
What's left?          The skeleton of intention
A dream you've been meaning to have
You wake and don't pretend to understand
why she grew fangs
between her lily lips and took off
smiling into the great void          the notion
of existence
Staring into...into...

Every day we build again
everything we pull from or nothing
Connectedness is the essence of everything
everything is relative
Poetry's just lies
about existence
When did you feel happy last?
Was it your intention?
How is it I become conscious of how foolish I am to
have been searching
when you were in me all along?
What words are left that would make a difference?
What could I say without feeling ashamed?
Write a thousand words
or write the same word a thousand times
Same difference
but don't walk away          add your story here:






I have dreamed of you so much you are no longer real...

Dear You

I am running across vast distances
maybe to see if you have called
I am late
I am following you around in my mind
I am trying to forget you
but it's getting worse
not better
How can I touch across this secret
chasm
of things flown apart?
Challenged to remember the details
of your face
it took a while for the realization
You do not complete me
we are sky perfect, just soul sleeping
Narcolepsy
keeps us falling back
uncontrollably
andru Jan 3
I have remained impervious until now.

With your simple one-act play titled,
"a beginning",
you've stepped up and inside.
Making it perfectly clear
that no amount of world-shattering
or cage-rattling
is going to make you disappear.

And I've tried my tricks.  
Tried every tactic i have in my book
with pages so dog eared and worn
on my shelf from the last three months.

My friends and i have spent days
discussing the lengths in which I'm going to make you realize
that the way your  eyes catch sparks when I'm around
and looking into them,
will diminish after you figure out what a construction I really am.  
(When you're up for days, there really isn't much else to discuss.)

A composite.
I'm the sum of many many parts.  
And if i was to strip all of that away,
the illusion,
this hype surrounding whatever great thing it is
I'm supposedly doing/I've supposedly done,
would vanish for you.

And so I'll play stupid.
I'll play aloof.  
I'll play frigid like Mickey Mouse at Disney world,
refusing to remove their costume in full view of the children.

You seem like the type
with the capacity for the former
and an inclination to the latter,
but i wouldn't know
because I've yet to let you in far enough.

Sometimes though,
i think the word constructions you formulate
have pieces of me in them.
Pieces of me some people have never seen.  
And i wonder exactly
how penetrating your two eyes are...
eyes about which i was once whispered across the table
while you were outside smoking,
"I could fall into for days and just.  
Keep.  
Going."

And so the call is yours.  
Continuing ever closer,
my will power,
my desire to protect you from this thing called life,
can only last so long before i begin to rationalize.  
Before i begin to realize
that my hands aren't empty.  
That perhaps there is a building process.

That we could undertake.

Together.

And i start to place hope on.  
And trust in.  
You.

And I've figured out a lot.
And with this knowledge
has come a sense of disconnection.  
So i will be cool at first touch
which only gets warmer as I begin to thaw.

And maybe this is the one-act that should play itself out before i start to judge.

Because I've tried, and the feel of you continues to follow me through.

I have never seen a light move...
like yours can do to me.

So,
if you have a minute
and want the whole story...
andru Jan 3
A circle speaks volumes.
Revolutionize and tidy up.
Instruction manuals are read automatically.
Privacy parts the talon and now,
how the sky blinks a feather ever so unusually.

Ever wake up in your sleep to your head fully stuck in the sixth sense
stomach of a pillow, and thought to yourself in bed about how much of
a dream it must be to be stuffed turkey?

I haven't.

Or thought to your self made bed how making the bed as an edible
symbol of thanksgiving
is like taking a stand
on a landmine,
for eternity?

I haven't.
I also lie and lay awake to myself.

Although a traveler tends to do all of the above,
below the radar.
A farmer tends too.
Eats an earthquake,
aftershock, rattled rim, pacific clarity, clear the oceans, tremors, tremors,
Noah's ark is a humpback funeral home.
Noah riding a hearse by the hubcap, clean teeth grip.
Noah in my mouth, reciting odd numbers on my taste buds.

Noah licking a polished nail, course matte for me,
three by three, the poor
poor bones of a humpback whale singing sad on a mountain.

You have to wonder about coffins when it's death out.
And water among amidst when your lungs are thirsty.
And since it seems the tried and tested walk has all but run away,
some metal wood rubber leather latex silk wool boxes spit out tickets.

A materialistic downer on uppers levels off at acceptance.
And yeah, smoking will **** you, but this is about me and I need to inhale.
This is not about me, but about you, or was that nature?
The nature of nurturing seems as good a point to start this conversation.
But it's dead end talk to talk in line segments, and well, ****,
it's time for an advertisement:

This cylinder tin is full of everything your life is empty of!
Forget the cost; be content with the contents,
rehearse the ingredients, unload the all and do it again.
Infatuation is hot-air gas inflated in the belly of outer space.
I love the way those stars look and those stars love looking at me.

The cut and paste of our human race is unfairly lopsided.
The northern blade has a tumor the size of misdirection,
the scales are tipped, the whips are tipped, and the weapons are gripped.
Sudan doesn't own scissors; Angola is the axis of axe-less
but their ******* skyline is incestuously bright,
their constellations all make sense,
and their astronauts haven't lifted off, to jump and jive in the very
same sky we share with them.
No, not yet, there are animals to be slaughtered sedimentary still.
Ones with tribal names that come off the tongue like mouth sound effects,
they are almost people, without horns hammered in their heads.

Eating on all fours from a license plate.
Dig in, Donesia.
How is life in amnesia, brain pulp square?
Psychologically disturbed map and memory loss, southwest Asia?
Your address is a long walk, but the **** citizen on the roadside exhibit
is a refreshing remix to our boring, bragging billboards.
And your suffering is art to the skull and cross-bone pale cube galleries
that we call home sweet, home sweet merchandise.
And rest assured, your lack of rest will insure western survival,
North America will steal your toddler corpses
and sell them at the front gates of your orphanage ghettos.
It's the least we can do after gouging out your eyeballs.

I didn't even write this, it was drawn by a blind boy in India.

The black market pencil case people are going to a blow-out sale.
The sales on them and the jokes a bomb.
The jokes on them and the sales a bomb.
The bombs on them and the jokes a sale.
The female holds her breath and suffocates a male.
And the genders collapse in heaps and heaves, recycled and broke
like natural leaves caught in a mythological fighter
jet's propeller.
Like aeroplanes, several even, oddly amount conclusive crash-like.
Like, like, like, if the globe of green and blue were to still be alive
I would colour co-ordinate accordingly, and wear whatever hue
the big bang theory wasn't.
Dust particles getting it on and such.
Finger painting *** with a rag and pan pencil case.

The black market Darwin drawin' is on fire in the pockets of our youth,
elderly lint in same corduroy bent knuckle nameless, places
an introduction to i.v. and a never un-shook from his hinges
living room magazine holder.
So the flinching milli-metricks betwixt our beloved booklets brings
gratification, satisfaction, and eternal life.
And gravity with a runny nose.
Oh, oh!  My first ever and last edit: Make that ******.

So I'm infinite pass-time, tedious rusty grime
and dead llama on the zoo-way.
"Look Ma, a dead llama!"
"No dear, she is just sleeping with her blood out
and cage on".

No more rides for the unknown, let it be known.
Call your superiors, mega-impose their posteriors, an emphasis on
brittle lives.
And chew the fat, chew the fat, **** the marrow, narrow
weight-scale bound in chain-mail, accidental prediction protection,
magnify, mortify, modern sill overdosing on wake pills, horticultural hi.

I am coherent when the setting is all tens, when
the plot is all tens, when the characters are all reaping tens.
The catch is in the ******, looking scared cloth-less elevens.

Judges, what verdict gives you
the right to wig wear an oak arm chair
with an all too obvious worn-mallet-beating-desktop syndrome
bashing your would be innocent until proven rich-boy lashes, err, guilty?

Was that even a question,
or merely a stir-fried rant?

The master chefs are coming after us all in our under garments,
over bridges and mountains and tiger stance wisdom and
we need a Messiah like we need horseshoes on our foreheads.

Mule yoke split on the frying pan of till death do us cook.
Separation nation; a river plain, a barren abstract.
And the artists are painting droplets on their toes,
kissing themselves after a game of Chinese checkers,
determined to squirm sweet nothings while riding
question mark shaped seats from Sweden.

And under a hail of Mary's, Jason's, William's, Susan's, and missiles,
they touch their ankles where they know
nails should be,
extinct.

A circle sounds off,
a sky sounds awful,
a bomb sounds right,
a body sounds circles,
and a circle speaks volumes.

— The End —