Via Moore

Via Moore Jan 2019

Sweet and salty kettlecorn shrapnel
Scatters a falsely ocean-colored carpetscape;
Heavy corn casualties at 0100 over Indianan waters.
I could dive through
One of the murky stains and
Chip the rest of my fingernails
Along the portal away from persecution.
At least I'm not biting them from fear,
But fingernails should hold their
**** keratin when
You're trying to wind each neural pathway
Back to where they were six months ago.
I'll try to scrape as much oddness out
As I can with these jagged edges
And consume sweet and salt
In my scattered, corn-filled ocean mirage.

One night of free Boom Chicka Pop later...

Via Moore Jan 2019

Watercolor Garden

Faded pink petals lift
From my eyes,
Swirling the air and
Wafting peonies
Through my skin.

Ethereal citrus blossoms comb
My rumbling waves,
Gently intertwined with
Your heartbeat.

Your smile
Embroiders light along my skin,
Draped around my hips and shoulders,
******* darkness
From my side.

Every ice and umber pigment in
Your eyes,
Cashmere ripple of
Your touch,
And tender brushstroke of
Your voice
Paint me home.

When someone you love visits you for the first time in your exile, their colorfully-flowered light brings you home.

Via Moore Jan 2019

Brick Bubble

Squint.
My gaze traces the aluminum falcon's trail;
I catch it blink me out of existence.
Breathe.
Rotting flesh lingers in the humid air.
The natives are accustomed,
But my lungs repulse it.
Silence.
The inmates file into their brick asylums--
Not required, but exiled forever if they don't.
Bite, Chew, Swallow.
Trays of fat steam in rows--
Replenishes inmates for daily duties.
Salt seasons but my soul.
Soak.
Loneliness bathes me as
The Simulation infects others.
I am Blind, Deaf, Numb
To the mildewed hospitality of their "home."
Shackled to the bubble of my Exile,
I work within the Devil's reign,
Floating, waiting
Till I reach the edge and
Burst.

An ode to University which I used to hate -- still wonder sometimes why I have committed myself like this.

Via Moore Jan 2019

Rations of Time

The damask-tipped needle
Gently glides past the marker
Of a time to which none will return,
Trapped in a
Carved mahogany tower which
Encases our memories of
Needles and gliding
In one-way glass.

This divine, embezzled box
Torturously mocks our lives,
But if not for this cruel mirage,
How would we know where the
Time goes?

Sacred blackmail of a grandfather clock

Via Moore Jan 2018

Everything

No Brain,
No Headache.

No Brain,
No Knowledge.

No Brain,
No Fear.

No Brain,
No Brain.

No Brain,
No Nothing.

Poetry.

Via Moore Jan 2018

Tree Who Rules Earth

Delicate flowerettes spine
From your prosperous branches,
The lively twigs
Which may become
Only a snap
Under one's foot.

You hold generations
In your rings,
Yet you hide your knowledge
Beneath bark,
Knots, sap, and
Silence.

You graze taller heights
Than I,
Soaking in the massive life
Surrounding from above,
Yet I treat you like
An enemy.

You deserve better,
For this symbiotic relationship
Has turned toxic,
And only I am
To blame.

Such beauty lies within the trees which raise us every day, but we diminish them into paper to wipe our *****. Funny how that works out...

Via Moore Jan 2018

Who Are You?

Do you want this pain?
    No.
Do you want to be you?
    Yes.
Which matters more?
    I don't know.
So, what are you going to do?
    I. Don't. Know.

So, now you have no pain?
    Yeah...
What's next?
    The chicken or the egg?
No, who are you?
    Am I the chicken or the egg?
        You tell Me.

What goes on in my head sometimes. Make of it what you will as it applies to you.