#spectator
~
*Weather balloon for a hat
propeller on his back
morning is observably alive
leaving it to atmospheric pressure
he consumes today's newspaper
with the enthusiasm of a bowl
of Corn Flakes
this Heath Robinson contraption
of getting to work first
over enemy lines
is all the rage in his satirical
state of mind
that is until the absurd derailment
of wartime employment
and so he returns home with tubes
and catheters attached to his body
and feeling like one
of the unwieldy machines
he had so often created
full of atmospheric pressure
and apparently thinking it
an undignified fate
he pulls out the tubes
and quietly dies
of his own invention*
~
Sep 15, 2022
Sep 15, 2022 at 1:28 PM UTC
When I pronounce my fears
or when I shed silent tears?
When I float in my passion
or when I calaculate my every action?
When I naysay to unease
or when I offer my every piece?
When I dance like no one's there
or when I be conscious of my way?
When I'm that benevolent fighter
or when I'm the aloof spectator?
So tell me, when am I my better version?
When would you think of me as a better version?
May 30, 2020
May 30, 2020 at 8:27 AM UTC
Trap music and sad rap
Nightclubs and bar crawls
Culture streams are visceral
Don’t get carried away
Emojis and acronyms
Twitter mobs and Tinder
Paddle hard right
Watch out for the rocks
Pop idols and fashion
Cam girls and pornhub
Hustle and swag
Image and pride
History’s mightiest riptide
But I’m not in the throng
I’ll be on shore at the headwaters
Watching it all flow out to sea
Nov 28, 2019
Nov 28, 2019 at 12:25 PM UTC
a city plain enough
for all the world to see
though round the edges rough
it always seems to be
as half the city sleeps
long past alluring Dusk
lonely screams creep
from eventual husks
sirens blare
while i grow pale
and cast a prayer
to no avail
a city plain enough
asleep at thirty to three
missing finer stuff
to keep me company
laying there, wide awake
the night not quiet yet
i shut my eyes for my own sake
and wait for silence to set
i hear ambulances convene
on the parking lot below
whisk away a pallid teen
without her soul in tow
my mind is forever *****
as a war-torn sieve—
i could never forget two-thirty
not for as long as i live
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 6:09 PM UTC
When a dog chases it’s tail,
Does it get bored after it catches it?
Or does it hang on tight,
Running circles through the night?
If I chase you again,
Will you continue to run?
Run away forever,
Some sick idea of fun?
And if I become as fast as light,
Will I be the dog that hangs on tight?
Or will I too get bored,
And leave your life fragmented and ignored?
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 1:11 AM UTC
“It is our function as artists to make the spectator see the world our way not his.” - Mark Rothko
To have the guts like Sinatra’s to declare
through regrets, tears and despair
“I got through it all and did it my way”
Oh, to trust the power in me and stay
always authentic and true
to my point of view
no matter how out of sync
or what proper poets think
The Rothko chapel with its paintings of black
took me completely aback
they seemed non-paintings to me
but I sat in the changing light and could see
the artistry in that quiet urban place
I could feel his gentle grace
he forced me to see his world
in his hues and strokes and curls
A Rothko or Sinatra I am not
but if in my lines are caught
the sweet or dark breath of my muse
if I speak in my voice with its hues
maybe a whiff of spirit there
will cast a piece of my soul and snare
someone’s musing causing them to write
and fling out their world in their light.
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC
The taste of tension, like water, plain but there
Invisible, but felt
A faint undercurrent, a barely detectable wave
Physically, fine, well most of us
But mentally, a little shaky
Slightly off
Not easily detectable
Our lips graced by bald faced sugary sweet smiles
Don't look at the mouth, look at the eyes
Where the truth screams out at you
If, you can detect it
His antics, a little over the top
Her quirks, just slightly more enhanced
But even then,
You can't truly know what's going on behind the curtain
Unless you forcefully lift
But
That could possibly damage it
Completely
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 8:58 AM UTC
Drowning in ignorance.
I've given up on myself.
I try to breathe out of bubbles of assurance.
But I die with every breath.
I've decided I want to be a spectator to my own pain
The outsider grieving over a theatrical game.
If I was mature enough maybe I'd laugh
However I'm just an orphaned stranger.
A child taking care of its mother.
And hahahaha isn't it funny we've heard the same story over and over again
Nothing new, everyone's sad right?
But nobody's sad over the same pain
We're self-sufficient only at night.
Have I reached that stereotypical age when all you want to do is sleep?
Oh and how society loves to call this self-discovery.
So I just chose Drowning.
Or dying.
To fulfill the purpose of our perfectly functional society.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
The Savior
There once was a girl
Who visited Death
On her birthing day
Her heart had almost stopped
Her lungs breathed almost not
And Death carried her throughout the hospital that day.
There once was a girl
Who visited Death
On her fifth birthday
Pig tails up
She’d gotten stuck
In the branches of their tree,
Hanging with the leaves
She would choke before she would land
And Death had cradled her within his hands.
There once was a girl
Who visited Death
On her fourth grade field trip
They’d hiked up a mountain
Some kids pushed her down and
Tumbling she hit her head and broke bones.
Death had pulled her close and whispered she needed to go home.
There once was a girl
Who visited Death
The summer after freshman year
She’d gone swimming down by the pier
When she’d cramped underwater
And her lungs were unsure
Death had hoisted her ashore.
There once was a girl
Who visited Death
A fortnight before her 21st birthday
She’d gone to a party, people were all getting laid.
He’d given her a drink
Soon after she’d thrown up in the sink.
He seemed awful sweet
Pulling her into the room to lie down.
Until he started pulling her pants down
She wanted to scream but he covered her mouth
Instead of screams she squeaked like a mouse.
He pulled out a knife
Threatened her life
And had his way with her.
Pressing the knife against her throat
She soon began to gasp and choke.
Death comforted her until it was all over.
There once was a girl
Who visited Death
On Christmas Eve
Just turned 25
She was dead inside.
That boy from before
Who called her a *****
Had been calling her his
She’d cried every night begging for future bliss.
That night he’d burst in
Drunk and full of sin
Throwing her down to the floor
She begged for no more
And he called her a *****
Before throwing her out into the snow
Death pulled her out from sinking below.
There once was a girl
Who visited Death
While working inside
Someone drove by
Everyone was tongue tied
As they shot right through the glass
Bullets flying past.
She felt it before she saw it
She knew she’d been hit
Ironically by a .30
She begged to live she still had things to do and say
Death had blocked the bullet that day.
There once was a girl
Who visited Death
6 months after 35
Working up until midnight
Furiously typing away
Someone snuck around wanting to play
Just escaped prison
Wanting some fun
Knock out then knock up
But she had her luck
And attacked till he couldn’t move
She’d started to push and shove
But he took the gun
And shot her in the stomach
Hoping she’d bleed out
She ran till she collapsed to the ground
Death stayed until she was found
The Spectator
There once was a girl
Who saw Death
Watched him close that kittens eyes
As it let out its final mew and he let out a sigh.
Cradling it’s soul in the palm of his hand
He sent it on it’s way, to it’s promised land.
She worried about her life
In her 40th year and her 40th night
Was she going to die?
A far fetched idea
But then how could she see Death within the crowd of people?
She turned back again
But Death had disappeared to the oblivion.
There once was a girl
Who saw Death
Hold her sisters hand.
So in her final moments she wouldn’t be sad.
She felt sorrow in his eyes
As he glanced away to the side.
She watched as he drained her life
And sent her to her afterlife.
Her sister was 10 years older
And at 55 her sisters life was over.
There once was a girl
Who saw Death
On her 50th birthday
She wasn’t sure if she should be happy or scared
But at least someone remembered, someone cared
She stood there gazing at the gift
50 dried up roses laying in the mist.
She gathered them together
And put them in a vase on her dresser.
There once was a girl
Who saw Death
Walking around a graveyard
As though he was a guard.
Protecting each of those who had passed
Appalled at what he had amassed.
At 55
She realized death wasn’t stealing lives.
The Speaker
There once was a girl
Who spoke to Death
5 years after she’d forgiven him
The sun had begun to descend and dim
She posed a question
“Do you come here often?”
He replied “Only with the one i love.”
There once was a girl
Who spoke to Death
Being 65 was hard
She was scarred and marred and starred
“Does everyone look like this at my age?”
“Only the ones who love instead of hate.”
There once was a girl
Who spoke to Death
“Do you know when I’m going to die?”
“You mean when you’ll say goodbye?
70 is just an illusion in your mind.
But yes, would you like to know?”
“No I’d rather leave it alone.
I’ll just live to the fullest each day.”
“I figured that’s what you were going to say.”
There was once a girl
Who spoke to Death
“I turned 75 today.”
“I know, you complained it was too bright so i made the Sun go away.”
“How long do i have left?”
His response was swift and deft
“That depends on if you live it to the fullest.”
The Survivor
There once was a girl
Who fell in love with Death
He had helped her
Whenever she began to hurt.
He brought her gifts
When her heart was amiss.
At 80 she realized
That for decades she had agonized.
When her love was right there
Brushing her hair.
She reached up and grabbed his bony fingers
She spoke softly but the words still lingered.
The Stagnant
There once was a girl
Who Death was in love with
He’d been there for her whole life
Harming any who gave her strife.
She was what he looked forward to
When he was feeling hated for what he had to do.
So when she turned 85
He had no reason to lie.
He told her calmly and clearly
That he held her very dearly.
And that today was the day she’d pass
But he would wait, so the day would last
But when time came, he held her tight
Knowing she wouldn’t put up a fight.
In her last fleeting moments he told her a secret
Because he knew he no longer had to keep it.
And so, softly he whispered in her ear
The very same words she’d meant for him to hear.
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 5:37 PM UTC
I feel
*like a **** spectator*
I see things happen,
but I'm scared to do a thing about it.
I am scared that I will die.
That I won't do something good.
I feel
like the fallen soldier,
on call of duty,
who watches other people
fro the spectator screen.
I hear that she just cut,
yet I cannot stop her.
I cannot hold her.
I am only a spectator.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
---
LIFE
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/25/2014
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 12:38 AM UTC
Candleabra's flickering flames
cast a shimmering dancing
shadow of me,
upon my golden coffer overhead,
brought about by a sudden gust
of window-wind... God's finger-breeze...
Master airy-finger puppeteer
you are
dance the leaves
about my Autumn yard...
Push and stir
soft light newly blanketed wintry snow
on lifting eddies,
causing flying fancy, barnyard dancer's dos-a-dos
among infinitesimal,
and featherweight
delicately frozen
crystal-looking flakes...
Push tiny tango waves
upon reflected sparkling silvery lakes
that crest s l i d e then fall
And spectator trees
that enciricle about the watery ballroom-lake
surface-floor,
then with airy fingertips
clap, clap together
the loudly whispering and rustling leaves
that applaud
the watery dancing waves below...
And with windy fingertips
sail white billowing cotton like
vapor-sails
across an unplowable
oceanless
spatial blue...
Glad God
You mostly are
puppeteer of every star
Dance sundries of objects
on your play-ball planet
and puppet-likened stage
And let me laugh
in zestful rage
about danceable things
that can be danced,
that can be danced
on windy-finger days...
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
I am almost a hermit
Chewed up and spit out like some perceived vermin
I almost had love but I just went on and burned it
Had I not decided to block it out, I could have earned it.
I am almost an alcoholic
Drinking throughout the day hoping to stall it
It helps to fit in with the jackals
But it hurts to be dishonest
I am almost out of the hole
Talking to people about sane things
Measurable things
And quickly walking away before we reach the shallow
I am almost sure
that we might all be pretending
I should have never gone the deep end
Everyone's a little selfish
Just try to grab a piece of your shadow
Let yourself embellish
How they crowd around you when
You treat everyone inferior
They've built statues of you
I guess I'll reach for the shadow too and be a little selfish
I'll grab on to that shellfish and we will be hermits.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC