Joshua Haines Apr 17

It's dark and the light leaks out
like the change in my pockets;
like the blood from her nose;
like knowledge from my head.

And I can feel myself being
  swallowed by this systematic
long dark. I cannot remove myself,
  a gut-worm in the lower-mantle
belly. Watching video-cassettes of
  my birthday. I don't know what
happened to my birthday video.
  I don't know what happened to
my parents or what I did to happen
  to them.

The light leaks, again, and I
choke on my celebri-thoughts;
mentally-masturbating to the
waves I'd give on a book tour
or studio lot. Talking about some
movie that made some money,
somewhere in Santa Fe or L.A.

The news is channeling my president:
a swollen man that is the physical representation
that a lot of American people are parasitic;
lovers in racism, xenophobia, transphobia, Islamophobia,
homophobia; scared of everything except the 'straight-talking'
magnate they put in office. Not playing president; playing God.

I'd hate to get political, though. I'd hate to ramble on
and on about something I don't know enough about to
kill myself over. I can feel myself picking up steam.
I can feel myself getting redundant but embracing the
bruised ego and poor technique. Loving the entrails
spilling out of the splits of my fingertips;
more beautiful than the brains I bashed on the sidewalks
of old Morgantown. Morgantown, a town so kind you
are gently destroyed by its over-crowded masses,
dying to be different or drunk -- I suppose that's not very
different than most places.

But let's get back to these trees that I haven't even talked about.
Let's get back to the kitchen table with the hollowed hard-drive,
with wires and cords flopping to the sides, like a
gutted spaghetti eater with poor stomach acid.
How terrible. I'll never forgive myself for that last line.

I feel so rudderless. So cynical with a touch of cliche.
I keep pushing back that age for success, thinking
that I have the luxury of choosing. My vocabulary is
limited. My intelligence is assumed; probably a void,
where delusions manifest and asian porn rewinds and plays,
  rewinds and plays.

Silverflame Apr 3

Seeing the changes
floating away with the stream
give back my childhood

Trying out another haiku.
Ritika Dev Mar 26

R~, a name so vibrant,
Teeming with endless vitality,
She was named to flow through the ripples of the stream.

Lacing within the folds of clear liquid,
Weaving through the movement,
Breathing in, out.

Unconstrained, forever free, traveling with currents.
Spilling, gushing out from the motion,
Rising above to disappear,
Breathing in, out.

Formulating in little crystal droplets,
Swirling into cotton candy in the sky.
Transforming into birds, fish, happy things.
Breathing in, out.

Shapes churning into sudden wisps of thick gray,
Consuming brightness, leaving darkness.
Deafening booms of anger, bursting streaks of blinding white.

Pouring from the sky, endless invisible beads,
Heavy, weighing the petals of flowers down,
Collecting in pools of reflection.
The soft pitter-patter, a lullaby to the ear,
Falling once again upon the stream,
Merging with the currents of energy,
then slowing to a calm,
Breathing in, out.

Oh so vibrant,
Teeming with endless vitality,
Flowing through the ripples of the stream.

A poem for a friend.

A plastic bag is snagged in the branches where I can't reach to stop its crackled song. The bag is an organ—its kidney? Stomach? Heart?—of the thing that's dying. The thing's given pills and powders, and graveyards are robbed to replace its parts. When it dies, it'll be brought to the taxidermist to be stuffed, and its stiffened corpse will be strung in lights—a beacon for people to arrive, two-by-two, and scoop out the void from behind its glass eyes. And when the void has been doled around, the dead will shuck, jive, and shuffle step to plastic song.

March 25th, 2017

The 10 minute time-span of these exercises includes any punctuation and other cohesion that I add after the words have streamed out.

When the plastic bag rustles in the wind,
I hear its crackled song as an omen heralding in another phase. No matter what happens, only the moment is ever assured for us.

Divine timing
Unraveling self-fulfilling prophecies of satisfaction
Indecision, action-packed
Clarity, spinning out and hiding in eternity
Destroying me, creating my stability
I am not and will never again or anymore be sorry that I’m free
Running directly into me
I exist in and of all time-spaces simultaneously

Stream of consciousness, inspired by journeys with LSD, meditation and spirituality
Chris Neilson Mar 8

Blackberries and conkers
make me go bonkers
with nostalgia and yearning
to stop the world turning
from the old to the new
but there's nothing you can do
with time marching on
and 2 months of the year gone
wasting time on doing stuff
like chores not off the cuff
thoughts of seizing the day
or making hay
despite the March sleet
where snow and rain meet
and swallowed by chilly air
while trying not to care
during viewing the sky
and realising why
from a loved one's kiss
life can be bliss

A stream of consciousness

For none olde worlde readers
*Conkers - game played with the seed of horse chestnut trees
*Bonkers - crazy
bouclejour Mar 8

when I am barely there,
awake nearly and turn
back in toward sleep
all yellow-black,

and when my brain twitches
in the yellow-black motes and
it’s Sunday morning
in the place
where my brain is choosing

in that place my brain it will
through the globe and scheme of all things;

wheel and vector the whereabouts
of where about you might be
in its

(little globe
     little scheme)

and just there below sleep it will


about your smell,
there where it seeps up--

it will pivot
                  about you,          still
for you are--                  still
the music

and the fulcrum. still

                                  of my sleep


CK Baker Feb 25

There’s a silverback haze
on the shallow face
of the Rockwell Ridge
folded brow
puzzled chin
and dark hollow eyes
keeping watch
over the lilies
and crane flies
and will of the wisp

Rust brown ravens
and fisher kings
in the reeds off north bend
(chased by the terraced streams)
youth blades engrain
on the historic
and favored
Banka Memorial

and pumpkin skies
are clipped
by a call from
the resident loon
the sounds of Buddha Bar
piercing the silence
and shaping the afternoon chord

its a time to make way
stream side
seems the anuran are courting

sunprincess Feb 20

A big bad wolf chased me through the woods,
through the forest beyond my golden castle
I ran and ran and ran, he frightened me so
Now it's okay, cause I led him to my fairy friends

My fairy godmother says, "Don't fear princess,
For you darling, we shall fix him immediately
into a huge Toad eating a fly, a toad with big eyes
and never ever again will he chase you dear"

Now I wander off the cheerful little path
where the sweetest of  honeysuckles grow
and follow sunlight to a little stream
where a handsome prince awaits for me


The clouds were not shaped for us to glaze at,
Nor were the stars made for us to live by -
And that doesn't stop any wise man to ask "What
Is the meaning behind all that
Which will remain for a long, long time after I die."

The one who can deeply dream
Hides behind his third eye and soul
And watches as he'll ever be seen
By the bunch of awe inspired whim
Rebelling against their mind and souls' overhaul

Caused by insipid tyrants who control the norm;
The vexing tyrants who make the whole whole,
Obey their own laws and find themselves torn
Between a soft spot in the body of a worm
And a feral n' crazed tut whose obsessed about the form

Of the tried and failed yelp of a plan,
Which was made to fall for and believe
And no one will know how it all begun,
They'll only scout and live

Until a better time will go justified
Until the belief all find factually
To be more than a lost rectified
Romance, which is more truthfully

Told to the messed witch are mold
And let rotten from the feet
Of those creatures who're bold
And suck everything dry which can be possessed by wit.

Dumping old stuff - poem 0d
Quickly added the last two verses -
Really need to get back to this, even if it's not that good, because it feels utterly unfinished.
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