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Jay earnest May 2017
the trickling



of a cool mist


spills on my forehead----


and the evaporated *****
crusty on my elbows

begin to flake into the ventilation system.



some girl is shaving her arms on the 2nd story,

and beneath her is an ostrich
screaming at an elephant
for its last spoonful of monkey meat.


a man with a hydro-head sips lemonade in the shadows
and jerks himself while old grannies clutch pearls.

a dog
eats an alligator on the 4th of july after watching cartoons in the afternoon.

a priest is being mollested
by a todler

and a muslim is kissing the feet of an abusive female.

Trump is eating cornflakes
while hillary


is reading her emails and arranging for pizza parties.


obama is a limo getting a blow-job from Trudeau,


and Africa is sending foreign aid to the US to quell the ZIKA outbreak.

Reagan is resurrected.

and papa is sitting in an oven getting deloused with Cyclon-B.

meanwhile
lucifer
is knitting a sweater in the hamptons while the kardashians eat strawberries from a **** bowl

and everything gets washed away and becomes a steely white

as the scent of cinnamon
flows through your nostrils

and your blood is injected with happiness forevermore
Jay earnest May 2017
bleak


and raw.



the waters strip the fur
from the creature
as it floats through the ravine.


a fly
lands on a sardine sitting on a porch
in portugal
and the man swats it away
with great ferocity.

i'm outside
watching
the fireworks

and the bleeding of my gums
results in a splitting headache.

gunshots are heard--

and voices
are drowned
by the whizzing of the train

and the breathing of the dead ladies in the banquet hall.

screeching armies
make their way through the castle

and the ****** is extraordinary--
and they become willing wives.

and the offspring are plentiful.

and the roses are vibrant and luscious in the spring sunset.


but despite all this,

i still sit in my chair

and the walls
bleed a pale yellow into my soul
and endlessly
endeavor to erase me for
eternity.
Jay earnest May 2017
i remember someone
long ago

asked me why

i liked to walk on the sidewalk
while wearing
an armani
suit in the 93 degree heat.

i told him
,

that sometimes
your style
is a just your manner
of thinking of things

and that oftentimes
your confusion
is just measurement
or volume
of what really is upsetting your past self in a dimension of

satisfactory
fortitude.

then he nodded
and the next
day i saw him in the same armani suit in the
93 degree
heat
telling
all the other people the same thing
and they started wearing their own armani
suits
but it stopped being
93 degrees outside
and more like a cool
23
centigrade
Jay earnest May 2017
my back hurts and i have no lotion to soothe the pain and alleviate the aches
that crack within the walls
of this treasured
illusion.




pointed
remarks
by dicators
slip from the tongues of squirrelly
amusements
and feast
within the belly of hanged entrails.



the last of us
are starving
and the few
that have
remained
will be shot down
like


a gross animal among the astonished herd
Joshua Brown May 2017
Frequent & repeated lines of questioning,
not limited to frequent and repeated running,

O,
your honor,
how wyd one do in the dog days should so futile an expense be paid.

Often,

though not often enough
(and
entirely too often,)

it seems
to be
repeated

to be
repeated the sayings of the elderly,

but I say,
among others,

RUN!

collapse into the whole of everything else.

Run not in the ablative sense,
but inwardly.

The Dog Days are days in the truest meaning,
Don't Hold Me To That!!!

for this will pass,
as will those and that.

That rustling will never cease
and should it,
I fear the worst.

From this cries a home

A HOME!

for want of all.

Take this, Take me, whole, unbroken, beyond dog days and frequent and repeated sayings & questions. Take me home.
Joshua Brown May 2017
A Breath of wind is wind itself,

should true and steady braided shelfs,

foraged fords from handsome lords,

prayed hopes & proper ropes,

could life and science meet the world beyond Biology?

"A home," it cried, "a home for me with trees and lakes and reverie."

I tried and cried for something else, elsewhere

I found a leaning shelf.

Should what was true and even hold nothing told or helpless here,

I cannot hide a place inside,

though I cannot say I really tried.
Joshua Haines Apr 2017
Jazz women clap in unison, black.
All the boys in the club move
way, way over, for your health,
sister.
Some bartenders smoke ****
while polishing glasses, big or
small.
Cartoons play on box t.v.s
while people look at hubs on
smartphones.
Some gruff guy points at you
-- and, yes, it could have been
me --
we have a phone call, I think.
Who uses a payphone, any-
-****-more.

Choir children double for choir
mice.
Helicopter parents hover their
hands above their juniper drinks.
Gesturing at poorly dressed kids
has never been this in fashion.
Be perfect for the camera;
this moment will be captured
by synthetic eye.
Moms and Brads turn to
  look at us laugh.  Which has
always been in poor taste.
They say my poetry is bad
and your music is **** -- but
I guess it's nice that someone
  gave us those views.

Columbia and Harvard
seem like distant planets.
But that's where we'll be,
supposedly.
You with your Guinness,
me with my Tito's.
Jewel M C Apr 2017
please accept the terms & conditions before you proceed...

& *please
, enter at your own risk!



Will you allow technology to fully access your identity?

yes *or
□ NO!

did you even
read
the terms&conditions?

also known as

monsters' diction
/ modernistic snot
condemn its riots
not stoicism, nerd
or crimson diets;
demonic tort sins

disclaimer:

perhaps you should pretend
to feign interest in
those lists of lengthy descriptions
never quite captured by our cognition
though not lost upon our inhibition
that may more or less explicitly detail
all the vicious ways in which
we are being unmistakably,
blatantly blackmailed
against our will / with our own consent
when we check the box that reads; "accept"
we exploit our most private content
to the highest bidder
so dare yourself to reconsider...

Welcome to the 18th year of century 21; the new millennium.

we are living in a world where
our most significant intimacies are shared
between the tips of our fingers
& the touch of a screen

reflecting our digitized lives
before prying eyes
that magnify
the things we hide

(but you can't hide,
don’t try)


while we wander through life
roaming via cellular connection
guided by the gentle misdirection
of the electronic dimension

seductive despite the apprehension
lurking beneath the tightening tension
that tethers us to the tender touch
of technological temptation

hypnotizing us in its animation
as it memorizes us & analyzes what
we think, say & do online upon every occasion
while we continue to ignore the trepidation
lingering within our realization

that children today will be born
with fluorescent addiction
flowing through their veins,
a condition nothing short of inhumane

you might say society's to blame
but no one prepared us for this high-tech hurricane
humankind's claim to fame
a reality we deemed difficult to obtain
artificial intelligence will never be worth more than a brain
but we've created a world where eventually nothing else will remain

whatever humanity is
we seem to be losing touch
with what it used to be

Who would have ever guessed that our fingertips could crave a screen's touch to a human's?

we have become parasites that feed
upon the delights emitted by the blue light
of our digital paradise
where precious memories are measured by megabytes
archived to our favorite device
to which we automatically sacrifice our rights
without thinking twice
so here's a word of advice:
don't roll the virtual dice
because this wi-fi powered world won't play nice


*Is this the real life?
Beau Scorgie Apr 2017
Sunlight pirouettes
through a window.

Translucent zebras
dance upon the stage,
dance across
a little honey bee.

Petals of paper
weaving through
the day.
Like tiny footprints
to lead the way.

Lead a zebra,
lead a honey bee,
to a delicate daisy flower
where they might sit
in silence
or discuss
how peculiar it is
that a honey bee
just might fall
in love with a zebra.
Martin Bailes Mar 2017
A convoy of trucks crossing the desert ...
dust ...
& a constant passing
in the moonlight,

dead parrots in a flowing stream,
jewels ...
in the palm of the hand,

white women
wearing long dresses,
whales ...
in the deepest, deepest
part of the ocean,

smooth fingers
caressing her thigh ...
dark hair ...
twisting in the wind.

Amidst the forest
& fields of lush, lush green
the ladies dance
in their red,
their yellow
& their blue,
while the studious men
watch from afar ...

what dreams!
Dream on.
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