As flies buzzing around rotting flesh,
the sound of loneliness remains. Incessantly, surrounding me. Alone. Afraid of everything. Afraid of myself and the thoughts inside my head. Afraid of being alone and afraid of not being alone. A constant paradox which I can't rid myself of People hurt you. expectations hurt you. There is a scream trapped in my throat. A scream for help, scared of coming out. Better off kept away, safe from the world, as its owner suffers in silence.
Sticky, molding floors,
Flies buzzing around the sink, Not a single paper towel in sight. The busy, hussle and bussle, The shines and glares coming from everything in site, No space, No feeling, No compassion. You’re ears are bleeding Mine are too Freshman band ***** Honors is okay
something to write
something to fight at the end, i find the world laughs the roses open the flies appear the world changes the world dances when i see your eyes the sun smiles the morning comes with the birds songs for what? i see your brilliant
love help us to suffer every worst
It has been there for days, wasting away.
Bugs are summoned by the smell of decay. Furry growth in a moist state, Flies regurgitate. Buzz, buzz, buzz all over the Charolais.
Burst of nothingness Fallen into mind They scream They bleat Falling silently Nothing to fleat The flies swarm They fleat The tombs hide Continue to eat Gasp and cry Buried inside Beneith
the sugar bowl rests on the table, anchoring the vinyl tablecloth patterned with bowls of fruits that never became famous.
flies orbit around it like the sun, blissfully unaware of the fly paper hanging in the corner, looming like God over the room. a ceiling cemetery, a paper paradise. i look at the mummified insects and i wince. my fingertips trace the rim of your mouth and my skin pebbles. i wet my finger and indulge in you again. a fly trap awaits me.
inspired by a passage in “aqua viva” by clarice lispector.
My comrade P. is slightly outraged
The knife is honed and spilled with blood I dance with fairy-mushrooms on the stage My wooden horses lined-up at the start And flies together with black crows Float through the heavens getting nuts I feel like hundred-year corpse I feed meat-hasher with my guts My ******* fatherland in red Is getting mossy day by day I look at it from high above my head While comrade P. is turning into clay
I woke up in a glade of gray
Littered fingers and threads of grass flay Moistened hair, a dampened glare An enameled heart that stings Scattered birds have yet to sing Will it ever matter? The soft brown dirt pushes down as I rise up The light rain has filled my old tin cup Ridges rusted and my eyes are dusted My wrist-watch is broken and can't be trusted Fire flies in a jar, they won't get far lighted my night as my cigarettes tarred my weakened lungs but elevated my strung- out manners It's getting lighter as my skin gets tighter The clouds shift as the sun gets brighter I miss the moon, but I know that soon the day will pass but I won't see noon How blue Blue
I wonder what would happen
if flames shot out my **** I ponder, would that be a gastro-logistic farce? What if and whatever when and where and why What might be or mightn't a complex do, or die Something to examine perhaps, too analyze The what's the if's the maybe's and the gatherings of flies
Hmmmm wandering a touch morbid today.
pondering the portents, speculating woes meditating excrement's and things between my toes ;D