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Tim Eichhorn Jan 2015
walk side streets
   alone - headphones.
zones of melody
   channeling canals
deeper than all
   the billboards basted
by bad barters.
   must’ve been mistaken.
although their dressed
  up, they’re simmering
thin - acetaminophen.
  finished, drugged bugs
cling strings holding
   last lines of defense.
Tim Eichhorn Jan 2015
I never whittled wicker fiddles
while riddles belittle the middle
class of ***** and elephants.
Irrelevant asides alike another
mother smothered by her brother’s
last lover and uncovered this summer’s
eve. ****** – the reason seasons start
aren’t propelled by a spell in my heart.

the spell in my heart you ask?
its a dry spell for sure,
it crackles with the flames of fire
that whip out like the whips
of elephant trainers,
the way they scare me in place,
and i shake with terror.
but terror arises and smothers
the way mothers have been smothered
by a brother's last lover,
and summer eve will still come.
Special thanks to co-collaborator The Creep That Loves You. Two poetic minds indefinitely greater than one
Tim Eichhorn Jan 2015
If only, if only I could think of one line.
I would write anything. Carroll-ing,
in Wonderland, ring, bing, ting, ting,
but in actuality, that is the sands of time
“Passing Me By” – like the Pharcyde, far side.

Anything, I would write. Insects, parasites,
diseases. God forbid if I wrote about Jesus.
I need something to quill that I cannot resist,
I will, believe this. I take the keyboard swiftly...
but the key is, I’m bored; mind keeps shifting.

Write anything – I would. True Yoda –isms,
Star wars, chores, ignorance galore; I’m bored
Of uncovering the ills of NSA’s PRISM.
******, I want to travel! A world to explore
And unravel; out there are words to score.

Would I Write Anything? I’ll just sit here
Like the man on the marble slab. Blank screens,
White walls, smoke green and sip all the beer.
It’s weird, I’ll sit here and it hits me sometime.
If only, if only I could think of one line.
read pt 1 first, don't cheat.
One true solution, Write about you're writer's block
Tim Eichhorn Jan 2015
On the lonely road to Chicago,
I reach towards my passenger seat,
Open my pack of squares, when suddenly
I realize that I may have misplaced something;
I can’t believe that I lost my lighter!

Minutes pass and I set the sedan to cruise,
Scavenging the car seat’s abyss with one
Eye on the road, the other with peregrine’s
Vision, gazing for the sight of the red flint.
Where in the hell is my lighter!?

Cig in hand, waiting patiently for puff one;
A sign appears: “next stop in forty-six miles”
The road, more desolate without my sly,
Pyrotechnic, sidekick; How could I lose it?
I would do anything to have my lighter!

Time perception; out of mind’s reach,
Twelve miles away, eight miles to withdraw,
The car’s engine at full go, the road dragging
Further than the Lake Michigan shoreline.
I can’t make it without my lighter!

I pull the car aside, open the convenience
Store door and walk to the clerk with
A hyena’s grin and ask for the red bic;
On the road again, and once again smoking.
Ecstasy! I glance in jubilation at the sight of my new lighter.
The five stages of coping... with smoking.

— The End —