"adaptations" poems
This little man that I know with money in his sockets and routine in his pockets has self proclaimed that he is a tight *** When I envision a *** such as this, I imagine a bundle -- of securely aggregated, perfectly sharpened number two pencils. The businessman just shy of adulthood and too tired to remember –even the beginning of his of disclosure, denied his struggle to acclimate a multifarious lifestyle, appropriately suggested in the form of a triangle, and a circle, both of which embody polar opposing adaptations of humanistic routine.
The two shapes: The circle, denies the break in motion by imposing a constant cycle of diligent compression, there is no room for pause only steady flow and relentless drive. This influence of life impression slows down the heart, body, and soul while speeding up time. This particular commitment accommodates the dry colorless beings that embrace and accept boxed imprisonment.
Traditionally, the triangle denotes rhythmic patterns that elevate and drop to a point in which imposes a healthy reflective pause: progression, reflection, balance. As stated, as a provincial approach, a regular triangle flat on its base, peaking at the top represents a healthy, solid life routine. In contrast, the triangle can be flipped upside-down introducing an entirely new dynamic, composed of flat-lined monotony, tapered off to a regressed realm of destruction, regret and disorder. Despite the uniqueness of the standard triangle model to the man in question, it is important to compare the negative reflection, for it applies to the entirety of this investigation.
We used to be lovers, he and I. We shared my giant pillow-top that I bought on the black market for a meager two-hundred fifty. -- A mere steal at that rate.
We occasionally exchanged ideas, mainly about ethical concerns related to globalization and the environment.
I attempted to give him a cooking lesson once, but that failed, indefinitely. The bust was not my doing, but simply, a great disinterest on his part; or better yet an inability of not being better than me at something.
Everything has gotten so crowded.
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 1:17 AM UTC
"Alexander son of Philip, and the Greeks except the Lacedaemonians--"
We can very well imagine
that they were utterly indifferent in Sparta
to this inscription. "Except the Lacedaemonians",
but naturally. The Spartans were not
to be led and ordered about
as precious servants. Besides
a panhellenic campaign without
a Spartan king as a leader
would not have appeared very important.
O, of course "except the Lacedaemonians."
This too is a stand. Understandable.
Thus, except the Lacedaemonians at Granicus;
and then at Issus; and in the final
battle, where the formidable army was swept away
that the Persians had massed at Arbela:
which had set out from Arbela for victory, and was swept away.
And out of the remarkable panhellenic campaign,
victorious, brilliant,
celebrated, glorious
as no other had ever been glorified,
the incomparable: we emerged;
a great new Greek world.
We; the Alexandrians, the Antiocheans,
the Seleucians, and the numerous
rest of the Greeks of Egypt and Syria,
and of Media, and Persia, and the many others.
With our extensive territories,
with the varied action of thoughtful adaptations.
And the Common Greek Language
we carried to the heart of Bactria, to the Indians.
As if we were to talk of Lacedaemonians now!
5.2k
the millennials like to dream,
we like to believe in anything.
love, life and food cycles lasts forever
at least in photographs it does.
the age of superhero movie adaptations
and the golden age of TV.
where an epic episode cost ten million
times have changed
but we never stop dreaming
its a daydream nation out there
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 10:17 AM UTC
it is done differently - more is not necessary - more of this -
is too much;
the kissing is an exploration - to a polar destination of
virtual whiteness -
to discover more than this. the kissing is not an end in and of itself - but a fjord unexplored leading to what? yes there are many different kinds of kisses - adaptations to a changing terrain - but the face, the face, the face (not just the lips),
the head entire -
is the first battle in a world war where the
opponents strengths and weakness are
literally uncovered and shape the nature of the war of the worlds
yet to come.
more than kissing, it is a speech and an interrogation;
an ********** revelation
of fine lines and small scars, a writing of a history, a history that existed unbeknownst to the explorer and thus interesting and dangerous - a history composed in a different time and place and almost in a vacuum - for kissing is impactful - outlines of footsteps on never before trodden lanes - but who prepared these paths in advance of my arrival, and was my arrival forecast or just imagined?
first time kissing oft portrayed as excited glee - but this is a grievous error - a wild display of wasted resources - it is not to meant to be pesky single shots of damp I was here where next? it is a drawing, nay, a sculpting of map to be reproduced in limited quantity for only the map rooms of the greatest museums.
each individual kiss is more than an act, but a marker
connecting the previous
to the future next -
exactly a map drawn by an explorer - meant to be shared with others who love history, discovery and women creatures.
be wary of unmarked crevasses and pools where
no one has measured the depth -
novice sailors without proper charts upon unfamiliar faces -
too oft drown or are somehow sail as lost forever.
but the notion of being the first, even if you are not the first,
is so intoxicating
for the brainstorming it provokes - the envisioning of
more than kissing but of unlocking
a new nature, creating a creation born in the intersection of two waters - where fresh waters joint the brine of the ocean -
and there are untold different kinds of waters and no two terrains though similar - are ever exactly the same.
here does my entry in my log - my journal - end - though the notation of than
is comparative and therefore unending.
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 9:46 AM UTC
the one drop rule
invisible blackness
black versus white
different categories of race
created by man for evil purposes
such as caucasoid negroid and mongoloid
this is a bunch of hooey
these words are just terms for
marginalising whole groups of people
by some smarty pant with a so-called degree
in anthropology and sociology
who gives people the right to classify other racial groups
I pondered it - anyway just blue smoke and mirror stuff
created by some racist people organizations and institutions
by creating racial and class division plus religion creating wars
thus
God created man - singular form
thus
God created man from the earth (black mud)
and no accident that we are made from one blood
oh yeah - Adam's blood
mankind is just a very large extended family - based on DNA
Europeans are not 100% white
they became white because of environmental adaptations
and they are no better that the rest of God's creations on earth
skin color does not make one racial group superior than another
this is just a head and mind game for social and political advantages
however everyone is a Heinz 57 mixture
White People are mixed with so much stuff - too
oh yeah baby and who is your daddy now
race mixing has been around
throughout the history of mankind and still
it will continue to mix races in the future
just remember this
the neanderthal mated on a regular basis with the homosapien
no race is 100% pure of anything
according to one drop rule - White are neanderthals too
this one drop rule is a silly and hidden taboo that is just plain ludicrous
God is a good God
God is neither Black nor White but He is a Being of Existence of every dimension
God is the all of everything - seen and unseen
God exist in every creation
God is a part of you and me
the will of God lives in every place
God is justice and equality
God don't speech hate and racism
God is love and peace toward all mankind
God does not make men slaves
God gives man the right to be free
God wants man to be inherit the earth and be good stewards
Well ain't God good no matter how you look at it
yes He is good - all the time my brother
yes god is good and everlasting
amen amen amen
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
My roots aren't here
They never were
I planted some crops
But they were imported
An ideal situation this land may be
To the adaptable, changing and innovative breeds
It is habitable to the natives and hybrids that are able to flourish
But me, my roots come from a different tree
They belong somewhere else
They always have
I can survive in new elements
But only with proper care and chemicals
The artificial adaptations eventually take their wear
And usually from the inside out
Without the natural nourishment I whither
So as thankful as I am for a land that harvested growth
It is essential to my survival that I find my proper home
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC
Toddlers can put green crayons in the freezer without
Anybody questioning them and I
Have a problem with that.
I have a problem with the fact that toddlers can put
Green crayons in the freezer and tell their parents that they are
Preserving
The Earth and that they’ve been learning about
Animal adaptations and conjunctions in school
And that they
Love
Their friends.
I have a problem with the fact that a
Toddler’s idea of
Beauty
Is a butterfly landing on their finger during
Recess, a snowflake on their tongue, the
Grogginess of staying up past 8:30,
Scooby snacks, Dora the Explorer,
The satisfaction of scraping the
First chunk out of a tub of butter, the
Giddiness and fear at your first sleepover,
The one where you had to timidly shake your
Friend awake in the middle of the night because you could
Not for the
Life of you find the bathroom.
I’m not ashamed to admit that
I haven’t said I love you in a time that
Lingers like the smell of burning.
It’s always love you or love ya and I’ve
Forgotten what it feels like for those words to
Caress my lips, to guide my heart
Out of its cage into the
Stale air.
I want to be considering beauty like a
Toddler. I want to be watching Dora and
Learning about conjunctions, but instead I’m
Crying because I can’t fit into my jeans right and I
Don’t know how to do makeup. I want to say
I love you and let it
Ring in the air like
Frozen music
But I can’t
Because you’re
States away and instead I brush my hair
So many times for people who don’t even like me that
There’s no personality left.
I have a problem with the fact that you
Moved on so quickly and left me with the
Loves me not flower petal and that
Dora the Explorer is not on Netflix
Anymore and the price of Happy Meals goes
Up everyday like the age of my
Heart
And that
Toddlers can put green crayons in the freezer without
Anybody questioning them and say that
They
Are preserving the Earth.
Feb 8, 2020
Feb 8, 2020 at 4:29 PM UTC
Though first, I evolved according to plan
Little enabled me outlive this predator
With few permanent armor plates, strong
Muscles capable of crushing
Anything, bones extremely tough,
These serious injuries go beyond
My cold-bloodedness.
I like my environment, have developed
Behaviors to control it, to save energy
That can be put to other use
An evolved entirety of reason
Is why I can go for over a year
In extreme shutdown
My own tissue will feed
On anything it can overpower
Extraordinarily adaptable
During difficult times,
I will scavenge for everything,
Digest nothing left behind
My social interactions are complicated
I primarily lead a solitary life, don’t recognize
Vocalization, postures, signals, touch
My brain more complex than that of any other
A powerful sense of perception
The ability to learn, to avoid situations
That modify me structurally
Adaptations have allowed me to thrive
But surviving human encroachment
May be my biggest challenge
Through habitat enhancement
I may be able to ensure these
Sophisticated survival skills
For years to come
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
Mouths are not used for communication.
Rather they add to all frustrations,
Allowing lies, guile, and machinations.
If man had a trunk to trumpet a warning,
‘Twould be better served than a tongue used for spurning.
A narrow proboscis for nutrients to ****
More useful than lips that spew only muck.
The double-speak game is one that must stop,
Before all good words are spun into rot.
Mouths are ridiculous adaptations,
That enable ridiculously false orations,
Telling us all we need is communication.
-M. Hale
6.10.11
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 12:11 AM UTC
Some days my heart shines like its sure the sun is its closest rival and oldest teacher,
Other days my brain convinces it that it might as well just call in sick for the day to avoid the echoing pains of nights prior,
On most days though my heart is in a constant argument with my brain,
Maybe not an argument but more of a negotiation, my brain lets my heart wander on a longer leash and play its music a little louder, but once the storm clouds roll in my heart has no choice but to be locked away for the sake of my mental foundations integrity.
Somewhere in the compounds of my body there is a soul that cant get a word in on the dialougues of my heart and brain,
Then again he has no scientific bearing in the world so he holds no worthwile input?
But what if my brain and heart are tool my sould has yet to figure out? Or vice versa? Maybe souls are adaptations and sentience is is just us learning to use those adaptations to our advantage?
Souls cant be just tools or improvements though, they are too cemented and too complex,
Too raw, unobservable, undescribable, and undeniable.
I just wish there was a way to get all 3 on the same page.
Nothings the same lately and its like my world flipped upside down, and this is me falling out of reality into infinity and watching everything Ive wanted or known pass me bye like lines on a road.
The other day I took some acid and found myself laughing at the fact that we discover medicines and we have politics and science and that we have this curiosity to explore and this hellbent obsession with expansion and growth.
I realized at that moment that there is a simple and absolutely gorgeous futility to everything humans do,
We might cure cancer,
The sun will still blow up eventually,
We may find world peace,
But overpopulation might bite us for that one,
The point is nothing we do can stop the end times, that doesnt mean stop what youre doing and lose all motivation, it just means at the end of the day, were in the can regardless, dont sweat the small stuff and make your moments gleam.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 3:44 AM UTC
If we’d carefully addressed our nuances
We wouldn’t be in this mess…
If we’d spoken to the heart rather than the heartless head…
If we hadn’t turned this planet into a closed and open hell…
Like a giant burning cruise ship full of mere shells, piercing into the earth’s former self…
We ignore the trees; the trees that show us magnificence and mystery; destroying their epic lives in a heartbeat…
But the trees whisper through connected fungi, working as a team for longevity, with no concept of antipathy…
And in dark forests on the sunniest days we still glimpse those rays of true beauty…
We still have a responsibility in our vastness to steer this ship of souls in the right direction, in conjunction with nature and all of it’s adaptations…
Why stare into one hole in a cave when there are a million different pools and palaces shining through the crystal cracks, all waiting to join as we chip away at a new haven…
Imagine what aliens would think then when they came to visit our shimmering, all-embracing, reciprocal creation…
I remember ones almost my age who saved this vision early on, looked at me straight in the eye and winked as I was gone…
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 6:03 AM UTC
No one
is who they were
yesterday.
Minuscule adaptations form
with each sunrise
and go unnoticed
until you look back at an old photograph,
or think about something that happened
with an old friend who is now a stranger
that you know nothing about.
You are your own doppelganger.
The girl sitting in the theatre
playing obnoxious games
with her loud, aspiring individualistic friends
seems like a stranger to me.
It is impossible
to pinpoint the moment
when things started to change
and I lost sight of that girl,
and who she wanted to be.
At the least,
I wonder
when everything
started to shift.
What caused the imbalance?
Now I sit alone
in classes I don't care to pursue
with no sense of aspiration
towards anything.
I remember all of the laughter
and the sleepovers, gossiping about
everything.
I remember random details
and insignificant everyday stories
that could take up hours
upon hours
of reiterating.
When a friendship terminates
what are you supposed to do
with all of your old shared secrets?
Where are you supposed to put those memories?
The girl I am right now
doesn't talk to those people anymore
and I can hardly remember
what it felt like
to be in her shoes,
and all I really have
is knowing things
about the people
that they used to be.
CVT
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
Interestingly enough, a city filed with intoxicating dress, yes, I like the chucks and baggy pants, no I do not wear it myself, but I appreciate the look, with the Giants hat, let me write you a vignette, techies tools talking bout tacky office gossip and girls they will never **** bahaha and iPods ipods iPods fueling a sweet melody for the ride in boxcar boxcar. Yas yad yas
People going to and from work , quieter, contemplative, examining their tax returns, the hat pulled down straight
people, ticking, tocking, the images of content, staring up with amusement, the people talk of beer, of business, in seriousness, the pamphlets, the trends, counters, crawlers, beggars, in solitude, all of them
have
lovers, insecurities, mal adaptations, taking the drug that says that the life is alright, and thats alright
the little town looks so real to them, they, use the crosswalk, they, stop at the red stop sign, they, don't make eye contact, because their purpose is
to purpose, their purpose is their power lunch, a power lunch, of a sandwich, what of a sanwhich? and what does that have to do with the urban life?
the power meal, designed with purpose, for purpose, in chairs that are made for rain, in intersections made for walking, in red lights made for stopping
and aliens must be amused, by the order, the roots must be...facinating
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
Our eyes are different
our minds so similar
Hearts struck from cliffs
of porous stone
how can you change
what you are after?
At breakneck speed
it is roll or run
My guise is significant
Adaptations adequate
In founding, proscribed
By a burrowing throne
Allocated empathy
Out of arbitrary agony
The suns of our comforts
Can boil your bones
Remember the wild call.
The earth between your toes
How nature allows us
There's no wrong way without a road
Internalize those symmetries
That form a greater whole
We are each what God sought
When he swore and broke the mould
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
These are adaptations in Ezra Pound's tradition, not exact translations. - mce
I
The moon is gone,
the Pleiades vanished,
my youth deserts me.
In night's darkest heart,
time streams on
and yet I sleep alone.
II
On feather beds,
we spent our desire,
dancing within
each other
until no holy place
remained untouched.
III
The Muses instructed me;
My honor is their craft.
IV
We shall enjoy
each other, Love;
let stillness and sorrow
stalk those
who disapprove.
V
No warning!
A torrent strikes
the stout oak
as love strikes
my heart.
VI
Stars hide their faces
when the moon's splendor
smiles and shines
upon the earth.
VII
Taking the lyre
into my hands,
my fingers
invited it
to speak
a lover's voice.
VII
You
have set
my heart
alight.
IX
I thirst
and
I burn.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
A tempest is brewing
Beneath our soles.
Coerced many massive mountains
but sundering them not; consuming them.
With eons unequaled,
With few fathoms measurable
yet measuring the unfathomable.
Unrealistic fables,
As a dragon in a cavern,
Perhaps infernal heathens... ludicrous claims, yet
No soothsayer's transmutations,
No reviser's adaptations,
Nor squabbling between politicians
could surmount to the tensions amassing beneath us.
Are we at pinnacle of the world?
Only if one's ego is at True North,
Merely the surface, unfurled forth.
But as molten iron dwindles slowly outward into hardened crust
As does man's manifested quest for greed and lust
So if a monolithic magma pool ever decides to ******
Hopefully it will gather a rather miraculous gust (it must!)
Distrusting the wicked, while sparing the just
As quickly as water turns ephemeral steel to rust.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
Frozen in daylight
Molten in glaciers
Loving is living
Beyond wildest adaptations
Flabbergasted in the fray
Of messy, mixed emotions
Face deep in downfall
Of kins' precautions..
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 11:15 AM UTC
little ***** and rings
of metal move
as he talks
three studs,
on his eyebrow
wander like a slugish
overfull caterpillar
the bullring ring in his nose,
condenses with each breath
of the frigid winter morn
and his earlobes swing and dangle
with blocks and spheres
of a dark wood like substance
I ask him, does that hurt,
he deigns not to answer.....
We get on with the matter
at hand, his idea for a thesis;
with regard to dramatic reflection
in Shakespearean adaptations
He speaks of Othello, Richard III
and Romeo and Juliet....
the use of water, sunglasses and mirrors
I ask if he believes there is 70000+ words
in his exploration of reflection....
all the time watching the metal caterpillar
try to escape the forest of his eyebrow....
He sighs, and the bullring mists over
the ears lobes waggle and waft around.
He states not really sure......but he likes the idea
I send him off to look for other plays
Shakespearean or not that he could include
in this work.....and to come back in a month
with a precis and chapter plan....
He leaves, shoulders slumped, muttering
and I think....I may have added one more peircing
to his intellectual life
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 5:16 PM UTC
Shake hands with the soul of my flickering shadow as it flitters around the confinement of paths which are visually observed by their myriad of sounds.
I can smell tragedy as it pervades the atmosphere, in the same manner as the keys of a grand piano echo their confident assertions with the resonating comfort of finality.
Can we have dinner together, and discuss those compensatory adaptations which are necessary to bridge the gap over crumbling cliff-top roads as they meander below our spirit with unnerving anticipation?
Let us continue to guide each other beyond superficial perceptions.
After all, we are allies.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
We truly weren't born with a destiny. We just exist to live, breed and then die. It's a sad truth but it is the law of the world. However, humans such as you and I are created so different from other species. We wonder why. Why do we exist? Why do we feel? Why do we do whatever we do? Psychology, religion and science all try to answer this question yet you still wonder. We all face this. We're naturally curious creatures. We develop different mind sets and different adaptations to certain situations that are dependent on our environment. We have close minded people and open minded people. We have people who are always in the clouds and down to earth people. Different ideologies and different reactions. So why are we here? We seem to destroy the earth like locusts to crops. We seem to help it as well. Violence is nature's natural cure for the elimination of the population of species. We commit these when we poach animals and breed them to be a certain way and sell them. We also commit these when we harm environments to suit our human needs for grandeur and comfort. We even commit these acts of violence when we **** someone, hurt them or far worse. The weak will die while the strong lives yet the weak can also become strong. We see survivors from life threatening diseases. We even have humans save others. We want comfort, security, and to live. We cause silly things to happen. we destroy ourselves and others around us. We want to be noticed and to be seen. We want others love. We want to be free and see what life offers. So why are we here? The answer is the most simple of all. We simply are here to exist and live.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 11:03 PM UTC
you were the one that taught me that people never change
no matter how many years you give them and how often the setting changes and how many new people they've met
people never change.
you broke my heart and you kept on doing it and I realized
I will never change
I'll keep loving you.
I will never change.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
Everyday at 6 on the hour May Willows bathes in her flowers.
She gently smooths her lavender upon her gentle skin,
giving it such passion it entices as if a sin.
After which she reaches for her crimson towel and envelopes herself in it's subtle yet overwhelming power.
Yes, without this barrier walls would fall, hearts would sink, evil would rise.
Then her little peachy furs flutter to a wake.
IT is this time today when May Willows recalls the fateful event of her youth that has haunted her fresh adolescents and had given her such shivering adaptations.
She recalls the cold, unwelcoming shards skidding across her face. The speed of her skin against the granite causing her senses to numb in shock.
A party was being held but the ground did crash it. The home was wrecked and the valuables were shattered in the unkind intrusion.
But what was there to do? Nothing was to be done because there was no true damage. It burned only of envy and esteem by the suns next rise.
To say "at least" for what remains means "smile" would be simple. To say another state is ill-fed so you cannot ask for more would be belittling any reason, since every story reveals a different thinking that is living a different living, comparing unique to unique.
May Willows was brave.
But what was bravery when the day replays? And she does not scream since she stayed so brave. She screams inside looking unflappable. The terror is not found in her eyes or her soul, but within her mind. In such a life where only you know and only you feel the calamity, where is bravery? What is bravery? Comfort is difficult when the problem is a ghost. When the truth is microscopic in attempt to evade the naked eye? What is bravery when the scars reveal a story that the body cannot be true to? What then is this great bravery that one might wish to wear? What then is brave?
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 2:22 AM UTC
For all the sake of confinement,
and rules, and laws, and all that is in motion,
my heart rattles in its cage and roars
like a beast, defying human nature.
In a matter of a second,
I succumb to fury. I am rage
juxtaposed to a calm face.
I wail and tear apart the truth,
limb by limb, for denial paves way
to the entrance of my home.
It lives with me, dines with me, sleeps with me;
a welcome resident within my haven.
For when you live through the ways of love,
and love in spite, (*instead of loving for the sake
of loving yourself*) only to be loved
because of your monetary value and
the vanity gracefully done on your face,
betrayal is strong and denial is natural.
For all the sake of confinement,
and rules, and laws, and all that is in motion,
even in most literature, we see,
only these people come to know love.
On the other hand,
when you are loved despite not having
money, looks, power, and influence,
they tell us it is blind, and sad.
Because our faces are not on LED screens,
and news outlets, or tabloids, or
made into a film adaptations,
in comparison, our love
is fleeting, and non-existent.
For all the sake of confinement,
and rules, and laws, and all that is in motion,
even in the love we see from those around us,
we are also told this is where love is, or where
it can never be found.
So beauty or no beauty; money or no money,
power or no power; some will never be loved and some will still be loved. As human as it is for us to deny, it is natural as well,
for human beings to defy and change and have different capacities to be loved.
So, love as if no screen can ever behold its depth.
May 24, 2020
May 24, 2020 at 7:13 AM UTC
People I only knew in passing-
Lovers on a hotel bed, lost in the feeling of controlled chaos, ******* until the sun signals surrender, the stars burning holes in their memories that cannot be pieced together again,
Brothers in different hospital rooms, two halves of one whole engine praying for a spark, to be able to stand on ones own, IV drips trickling down dreams of a brighter morning to collapsed veins and broken synapses,
Sisters in opposing time zones, living out play acted scripts of the same drama in various adaptations, the first act the divine comedy, the second act the hellish tragedy, we all tend to fall somewhere in the middle with these types of things
I don't know where I fit into any of this
I once thought I could piece together the story from the fragments I am left with,
But they're nothing more than points in a vague interest, clean surfaces for drugs, nothing to write home about
Have you gotten thinner? Has your hair gotten longer? Have you slept recently? Have you left your house today? How long has it been? How many cigarettes? How many inches of rain? How many sunsets? How many phases of the moon? The last time you spoke to a ghost what did he say? Did he mention me?
I am living seance, forcing questions into spaces they have no business,
My art is the hand that murdered Absalom, the hand that cuts the lines of pills, the hand that slits the throat of the hydrogen future
The cool, slick ************ sitting wide eyed and high in supernatural pretense, in eternal condemnation of the enemy,
Don't you know if you're broke and suicidal you can just blame it on the alignment of the planets?
It could all be so easy
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 2:15 AM UTC