Grey lions run with us
through the mirrored cave and down
the temple staircase
will I remember you?
or this day or night
will you remember me?
feeding obswine turtles by the orange shore
them lions sleep next to us
and we dream.

If she were to touch you
                taste you
                hear you
                observe you
Fingers tentative
Mouth pliable
Ears fine-tuned
Sight keen
You would taste
like stardust and glass
like galaxies and rust.

i do feel a little dead today.
it's a little harder.

"I'm an abstract painting.
Some people
will easily judge me
as nothing
but an ugly painting.
Some people
will like the colors
or the composition
of me.
Some people
will praise the painter
for creating a piece of art.
But only a true artist
will understand
that in every stroke,
I'm telling you
only the truth
about a journey
of the soul" .
-Kanya Puspokusumo-

Brick by brick
Stone by stone
Screaming out
Shattered tones

Fleeting life
Wanting death
Fucked up dirt
Shooting meth

Vacant hole
Ill spirit
Puking shit

Crumbling veins
Spilling red
Broken blood
Damning dead

Darkest day
Blackest night
Drowning black
Losing light

Tempting fate
Inner itch
Hearts will freeze
Blood will twitch

Bruising cracks
Inside bones
Brick by brick
Stone by stone.

today, you seem

to swim consciously
in the blurry happenings

of both their chaotic canopies
and their knotted stilts
in substantial intertwining

your recent form, you
effervescing lightness, as i deep-delve
into your freeform spectacle
in scribes and silence


a contemplated combobulation
in almost a hidden haziness: there's  
but a fiery flame within
in boundless lucidity  

of the flaring galactical suns
and the sacred smoking eyeblack
smears around from cores, the blackwhole scripts

that you realized
and still in the go as you grow
full and null  and full and null
and so.     verse traverse

your phasal swings
unto that yielding amplitude

that one unreturning



abstractions within ...syncs with the elements ..the moons and the suns and the skies in you and around . this consciousness, the subconscious heartmindsoul as it arts...
Donna Jones Oct 3

Coat hanging on fan
Pretending to be human
In this crazy world

Anon Sep 27

I am,
seething serenity


James H Butko Sep 23

conversation, in the rain
dry only half the way but i can cope
a carrier pidgeon waits for me in my chambers
with a message that shatters my armour
i'm back in the present, no jokes in sight
not much else happened that night
morning came and raps were had
my brother dragged me out of bed
to see a face that said it all
top bunk, tears flowed
the world went on

somewhere new now
they treat us like toddlers
have us paint a window that they're taking down soon
but i can still farm at home
but a service for the fallen
on the other side of town
i end up there and panic panic
what else is there to do
the worst has happened
anything is possible
but nothing else happens
for a long time actually
but winter becomes spring again
and life goes on
i ride a faulty elevator to work
but it's worth it to put out fires i start
just so i can start more fires
in retrospect it's hazy
probably from wildfire smoke
wish i could go back
but life goes on

closer to it now
like i've never been before
these things would fit like puzzle peices
if i were upsidedown or oppsosite
it doesn't last and i go fast
i fight the transformation to a rat
for a while, it works
and i swim and talk of new york city
and maybe even feel alive for once
but just once
paint walls, paint walls, paint walls
so sorry i missed your calls
paint walls, paint walls, paint walls
so sorry i- oh, no calls
and the green grass grows around me
i climb to the roof to escape it
i hear it could eat you inside out
but the grass becomes a bog
and then the bog becomes a lake
where rocks can skip forever
you just have to close your eyes
before you see them sink
a serenity of sorts, a pillow for the devil
but i can't run no more, unless it's for a hat
keep the hat, i'll be sleeping in the snow
or in a tree that's more alive than me

but a shock to the system hits me hard
an eye looks into mine again
the connection lasts no longer than a millennium
so i get the wind to stroke my head
then christmas comes
i walk outside
light snowfall
can be seen beneath street lights
it falls from the clouds above
and probably from my eyes too
but i don't remember it, or more accurately
i remember it like a painting
a painting i didn't make
despite all the paint i'd gathered
and the lessons i had taken
i look at something this perfect
and i think for a second
one short trip inside my mind
is enough to convince me
this wasn't me, but i wish it was

i hope the artist never paints again
but he did
because they kept giving him paint
he tried to drink the paint
but it was non-toxic
but he also got used to the taste of paint
tastes like tv static and old home tapes
i'm sorry for being born
but i should'nt feel too guilty
i saved them from all this
i am the martyr sperm
the story should've ended there
all in all, this year was hell

this is my poetic autobiography of how i experienced the year 2013
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