#subtext
we talked
about?
um
all our
fathers
questions
raised but
never
answered
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 7:44 PM UTC
>Want a thing? Relax
>into a script to get a taste.
>Fetishes? or repressed natural inclination?
>Roll a D20 to feel better, take fun and make it killing,
>with just enough free will to make it interesting.
>Nothing else can become reality so in the universe we got
>in the cosmic lottery, calm down
>and have fun.
>Find the most effective deformation — BAM BAM
>SHOOT EM UP — and life is real. Over the top?
>Or so aware that art is less than or equal
>to life, so why settle for realism?
>Say something the way that no one else can say
>it. Maintain a state
>of relaxation by white knuckling your partner until you forget to breathe.
>Fetishize white men not being racists.
>Lay it all out for your audience
>whose uneducation cries out to be fixed
>by you
>and you alone.
>Reassure them
>you get it:
>art is hard,
>so I’m going
>to speak my subtext
>and spice things up
>with some choreography
>just to make sure
>you get what it is
>exactly
>that I’m trying
>to say,
>because god knows you wouldn’t get it otherwise.
>(And this way, people will finally understand you, and you will be complete, and you will be satisfied, and you will get everything you ever wanted, and you will ride fulfilled into the bright new day of artistic enlightenment you lucky sonuvabitch.)
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 8:39 PM UTC
College dreamers,
trust fund seams broken down
like veins after repetitive prods.
Drinking days
are alliteration accented
because two
dollar drinks deserve denotation.
A hangover that brings
clarity is irony;
a sad realization made
after a night of excess.
A drop of vulnerability
and personal accountability
is desperation, and preference
at this point is permissible,
yet premature.
Face buried, between the sheets, wrapped in legs and lust,
books thrown against a wall.
Classes are dropped faster
than broken furniture
and one night stands.
And **** the taste.
We're all chasing that last sip
that brings a confidence
to think rhythmically.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
As the rain batters the car
sighs born in a
love/hate stalemate
weigh down the air
Forests surround the parking
lot, protecting
our thoughts, nothing
saves me from you
Words spoken incompletely
float in the clouds
of sad warm breath
and ghosts turned to flesh
Limbs untangle and reach for
the moon, stereo
cherubs sing tunes
of sweet death metal
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC