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Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
El reloj es tranquilo, metódico, incluso cuando corre mi mano fuera de control, empujando palabras que se escapan de la ***** de mis cinco dedos de lápiz.

El poema se levanta en el este y se pone en el oeste, los conspiradores están de acuerdo.
La carrera debe seguir este curso.


The clock is calm, methodical, even as it races my out-of-control hand, pushing words leaking from the lead within my five pencil fingers.

The poem rises in the East and sets in the West, the conspirators agree.  
The race must follow this course.

the inspiration:

“poems: the best don’t even flow, they fall out of ya
Its not even me that mind is hostage to a pair of hand and it's Muse, the pencil”

please read
Daisy Thompson Apr 2018
I’ve been thinking of all the methodical remedies
Blank spaces
What’s left of my memories
Drugs in my head and I swear some are a mystery
I can’t feel my face maybe it’s all the ketamine
Captain Trips Dec 2014
"My future ex-wife,
are you still alive?"*

The thought hit me as I was out of cigarettes one Monday morning, when I remembered that the previous night I was only able to smoke half of my last one. I had put the shorted cigarette underneath of a spring doorstop, still in plastic and uninstalled, that lay resting on the brick pillars erected on the front porch of the house. For as long as I've lived there, that doorstop had been lying on those painted bricks just waiting for a half of a cigarette to protect from the wind and snow.
The filter, on that common Monday morning, was ice on my lips, and your frostbitten love was inside of my lungs.
As it smoldered and spewed twirling blue swirls,
I sat and recollected upon you.

— The End —