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The Nameless Nov 2016
I think, I think, I think therefore I think I am
Mechanical little workings, I tick I am I think,
But there are no certainties in thought, that's why it's
ff*     uu       nnnnn         nnnny,
   ff       nnn           nnnn                        honeyyyyyyy     yyyy         yyyyy
                                                       ­                                 yy           yyy
She asked if I found Jesus, but he's laughing
Ha      hhh                                          ­                                  ha
     ha           aaaaaaa                                                         ha              haa
'Cause he just wanted directions out of the tomb,          *Ha

He don't have Alzheimer's or nothin,'             HA
He was just trying to find himself.                                                    ha­

My pockets are heavy, heavy, heavenly heavy
With prayer stones and dog bones
And secrets that tick,tick, tick therefore am
Am, am am amamaMAMAMA
                                                   ­    M
  I                           ?                           A                             am
         Who am                            M                           who am              I
                                             ­           A               *I

       ?                                            M
            ­                    Who                  A               am I

Wailing like a helpless baby                                                 WANTS
That at least knows what it wants.                wants
What do you                               YOU
you           what                                        you            ­                        wants
    WANT           do                     you                   wants      YOU
  you         what do you                               YOU         wants  you
Not really a poem, just a tiny excerpt from my thought catalog where my mind is allowed to get lost.
The Nameless Oct 2016
I whisper, but first:

Nimble little feet, these,
Racing through the fields in silent murmurs,
Crushing the grass and soft buds underfoot
And in echoes of quiet unknown, overlooked ants mourn a world lost.

Nimble little hands, these,

Little wiry strains of music sing, stinging, till a bouquet of blossoms and stalks
Are contained by grubby fingers, roots trailing to the ground.

Nimble little fingers, these,
Back against scratchy oak and like spider legs they move, weaving a web of their own,
Head bent and concentrating, occasionally stopping to smell the flowers,
Stopping to

He loves me not.

Nimble little girl, me,
Crown of oak above my head, necklace of flower stalks roped around my neck,
I am queen of the sod, and flowers grow all around me.
I am queen of the air and for a moment am flying.

And as the world sits quiet, my lips move in soft whisper.
The Nameless Oct 2016
You asked me what I was
And realized:
The Nameless Oct 2016
She has hair that glows neon
In the midnight chill of the mind.
It blacks out her face from memory
Like the lace of a
Wedding veil dream catcher
Spun like spider silk
To bind her blind.

And she wears polka-dotted
Cigarette scars on painted,
Sallow, yellowed skin,
And her heart is made of patchwork,
Some pieces lovingly stitched,
Some loose,
Some worn,
Some dotted with blood from
Hazy misaimed needles.

She’s swathed in Virginia silk,
A feast for the eyes,
A feast for the moths,
And as gauzy as
Bandages, as gauzy as
The swirling darkness of her mind
As it whispers
Frightening, beautiful thoughts
From behind her button-black eyes.

She needs mending, she says,
Needle against her skin and
Eyes shining like marbles.
She needs loving, she says,
Stuffing herself with OxyContin
Laced with lies like the lace of a
Wedding veil dreamcatcher
Spun like spider silk
To bind her blind.
The Nameless Oct 2016
Drink up, Mister Bailey,
Your scotch has lips paler than yours
And the moon is howling brighter
Than the shine of a dime
Spent on the sweet succor
Of the candied poison
You still suckle,
Splendid as the white hot stars that
Scream maddening blindness
Into the silent pitch
And the depthless pools of black
In your surrendering eyes.

Drink up, Mister Bailey,
The wolves are back,
Backed by bleeding broods
Brooding in the bar;
It isn’t just your wistful warped
Reflection dimmed by dirt
In the half-chipped mirror
Behind the bar.
The warmth in your belly
Is the gift of ghouls and gods
Whose promises of the world
Died like your deadbeat dad.

Drink up, Mister Bailey,
Red Riding Hood’s put on her rouge,
She’s inviting you to tango
On the sordid street corner,
Begging you to hit a green light, gyrate,
And pass ‘go’ while you’re still lucid,
Lucky lord of the lost, you.
But you’re a day drinker, darling and ******,
And the fogs and fears serve to
Mend your mind
When the moon refuses
To rise.
The Nameless Oct 2016
I met the devil on the razor edge of Pembroke and Third
While the corner cafe stealthily sold me hunger
In the scent of overburnt croissants and coffee spills.

You've got flecks of him in your eyes, you know,
They're the color of an impassioned yellow sky,
And your mouth froths a bit like boiling water.

And your laugh barks like a mangy dog
That's found another final meal
In a pool of scraps and pigeon blood.

The ground is too flat here, and the world too grey.
The wind whistles too loud and cars
Are leaving me behind in too much of a hurry.

But this is just a stop, just a chance meeting
With another glimpse of the devil
Until the bus unfreezes time in this toy town.

Until I can hide with the rats in the darkest
Corners of buggy bright lights
And share a bed with another devil in another station.
The Nameless Oct 2016
I’ve got dials in my head, clicking like a winding down timer
While I'm finding a channel that isn’t just static
Or a faded children's primer, illegible and bleeding its ink
Like its supposed to be tragic or the ***** Dozen
Resting in the kitchen sink; reduced to vegetables after
An overtly silent war on the terror of omniscient pesticides.
We're the violent, thirsty poor and we're the weeds thrusting
Our roots through drunken misdeeds with the staying power
Of a half-decayed pursuit scrawled in the margins
Of a faded children's primer, illegible and bleeding its ink
Till it sprawls off the page into gin-fueled wishes
And rage till it's only me again, fighting dials and static,
Supposing that I can't be mended as I light another match
And wait for the commercials to end.
my typography teacher would be appalled by this text block, and that brings me unbridled joy.
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