#crises
Laid off, laid on; spot the difference?
Don’t take it personally, it’s just business.
Busy-ness. Keep your hands on the table.
Am I looking for a job or am I looking for myself?
Because this job board is just a mirror of the spaghetti mess that I am.
Parmesan does sound good, though.
Is it getting hot in here?
Turn on the AC and close the window - my money’s flying away.
At least one of us is free.
Mar 30, 2024
Mar 30, 2024 at 1:39 AM UTC
Too soon I realise the dreamlike nature
Of my steps on native soil
The horror of my nightmares a reality
For those in foreign lands
Where once, they said, a saviour was born;
And I sing about this time of year
When others sing of £1.20 wrapping paper
And candy-cane romance - dreams
Cost money, but hope costs kindness.
O Kyrie, Kyrie, Kyrie elei-elei-eleison
KYRIE ELEISON. Not on me, O Lord,
For my petty problems, as much as they
Seep into my sleep in panic
And place vices on my heart
- Mine are but the troubles of the Modern Man,
The one still responsible for ancient evil,
Who used Thy Son's words but when it suited Him,
The self-interested, but not self-examining, Man,
Who cuts down Thy trees
To pay tuppence
To the man working 16 hours a day
To make £1.20 wrapping paper -
And a sticker
To go on a document
That lets me fly
Where I choose.
Dec 26, 2023
Dec 26, 2023 at 6:31 AM UTC
I am no poet nor elysian saint.
I am nothing more than a
living record of transgressions:
odes and testaments of
tarnished gold intentions.
it is for naught: sincere
folly to search for an
elusive inner meaning.
I cannot ascertain if
any exist. take heed to
proceed with caution
there are years which
answer; providing insight,
clarity, a gateway to serenity.
yet there are the years
yielding naught but
empty questions
e
c
h
o
i
n
g
soundlessly across
the starless horizon.
these hands are riddled
with memories of all
that I burnt, broke
and dismantled.
scorch marks
embellish my skin:
lamenting cries tasting
of ashes and insidious intent.
whenever home is no longer
hospitable; the foundation
crumbling under derelict
decay and dilapidated
compassion. empathy
common sense.
boundaries.
where does one begin
unravelling the shards of
broken bonds, presuming
to eradicate the distorted
fragments of fermented
claws, kisses, and teeth?
I am a storm with skin:
volatile, tempestuous,
forever untamed by
human hands.
do not misinterpret
the agelessness of
my Soul as a catalyst
for destruction.
chaos is no longer the
joy in my heart.
Dec 4, 2019
Dec 4, 2019 at 2:22 PM UTC
even in our best
light, we, as humans
are irrepressible
even in bodies
made of stardust,
bodies that aren't ours
at all,
we still are
wildfires
think, what
is ours,
what is truly ours?
and what is impermanent
as the stars in sky
just ready to collapse?
there are rivers of us
on earth,
there are bodies who has dissolved
into said river,
and filled everything up
into some unholy flood
even in our best light,
we as humans
are irresponsible
isn't it funny
how nothing
is real?
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 1:35 PM UTC
I am seer of thine in Abernathy
but squarely this divineness fore
my essence will describe
with maturation on my side whether
or not this dither fantasize will deduce gold hexagons
that mix a feather awhile and let dolce vita thrive
a supremely superb undulance in ubiquity here.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
Is it possible to
Have a pre-life crises?
For I am nowhere near
Mid-life,
Yet I find myself deeply,
In peril.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC