"additive" poems
Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago,
ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific
without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories,
but not histrionics
fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished,
powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a,
age
and yet
renews as of,
at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not
for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom
they even now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of
If not now, When?
Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking
But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:
Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the
outrageous misfortune
of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** **** these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.
Enough whining:
*I wrote those poems to
eject out those pains,
and I write this now, once more,
to realize that so so many still face
uncertain and unrelenting similarities,
doing their own sums,
and I wish them easing,
strength to compose and
thereby dispose of
the ineloquent
and eloquent
words of staining suffering*
3:30am
Thur
July 10
2025
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 5:39 PM UTC
*He reminds me of
red velvet cupcakes.
His clothes are dark
like it's wrapper. Skin
as sweet as the white
frosting placed as the
topping. Cheeks blood
red like the colour
additive added in the
recipe. He's sweeter
than honey coming out
of the queen bee. I'm
telling you he's a cupcake
to me*. ~
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
a great ingredient
I've discovered for cookery
in the past it was never
added to my recipes
for I wasn't aware
of its tasty properties
recently a friend
introduced me to it
now all my meat and vegetable dishes
are super hits
those bland old recipes
of an era gone by
no longer in my kitchen
do they apply
garlic is now my favorite
cooking additive
and on my crockery plates
long shall it live
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 8:42 AM UTC
Some poems never end,
Nor were meant too.
Alliterative phrases, invitations,
Add a verse, a word, even a sound,
An exclamation of delight,
A stanza in its own right.
Unfinished work, forever additive, collaborative.
Modify mine, pass it on,
Free to steal it,
For ownership passes to you,
with your first reading,
And lost when you close it,
Stamp it and release it into the atmosphere.
But some poems do. End.
Unique and distinct,
Pockmarked-faced at birth.
Owned by my initials,
Never to see the shelves of a
Lending Library.
Like this one:
*Cannot remember a single day
When suicidal thoughts
Were not heard clearly above the fray
Of jingle-jangled, responsibilities
Demanding my immediate attention.*
The end.
NML
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 10:56 PM UTC
My Woman, My Partner
we need today it seems identifiers moreover,
as we slice, dissect, and categorize the W’s of our
individual experience,
by defining ourselves as pieces of categories
Today, woke with this title-to-be-poem in my head,
My Woman, My Partner
I like particular, individuating descriptors that distinguish
rather than categorize, summary’s that capture the
roomy broad and small strokes, the subtleties of capturing~
encompassing an image total, and yet intuitively tasting and
comprehending the depths and flavoring of our totality,
a combinatory humanity
my choice was My Woman, which was comprehensive
and distinguished, yet upon consultation with said person,
for pre-authorization approval, it was returned to me with
an engine-heart additive, that was both a word that denotes a
binding, ties, equality, and takes it to another, even ever
highest level,
*this essay on how I came to title this poem, well, is the poem
in its entirety, it is the process, the point, the summary and the
minutiae of all I wished to convey.*
Sunday Aug 13 8:03 AM
Aug 13, 2023
Aug 13, 2023 at 8:11 AM UTC
Ireland is riddled with
cancer.
Pesticides, herbicides,
fungicides-
Are obviously, not the
answer.
Dairygold® have got
it right. Surprisingly!
Organic pastureland,
green grass, happy cows!
"Golden Valleys,
Growing Naturally" ?
("Logo ™")
without the question
mark.
<>
In the event of Corporate
Punishment, IE, finding a
herd of hungry Friesians
in my front lawn, or my
next organic pizza happens
to be a Crispy Cow Pat with
lashings of Mozzarella, I am
hereby declaring that Silent
Spring lady, Rachel Carson,
was bumped off for making
metaphorical accusations, such
as could be interpreted by those
who are currently involved in
the depopulation process by
way of poisoning the people
via consumer products, that
are known to contain harmful
carcinogenic compounds veiled
by misleading advertising.
natural
adjective
1. her policy of using fresh, natural produce: unprocessed, organic, pure, wholesome, unrefined, pesticide-free, chemical-free, additive-free, unbleached, unmixed, real, plain, ****** crude, raw. ANTONYMS artificial, refined.
2. a natural occurrence: normal, ordinary, everyday, usual, regular, common, commonplace, typical, routine, standard, established, customary, accustomed, habitual, run-of-the-mill, stock, unexceptional. ANTONYMS abnormal, unnatural, exceptional.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 4:43 AM UTC
(Dedicated to Stephen E Yocum)
You who have spent time on this planet,
That you can count your annual growth rings,
By just employing a combination of
Fingers, toes, eyes and nose,
Stop and think, after reading on.
Forty years on, what are the words, the titles,
The honorifics that you would like to see
Next to your name?
There is a yeoman Yocum in our midst,
Who has collected a few adjectives,
The sum total if additive,
Is a resume most complete,
One you should envy!
Able Friend,
Lover of Dogs and Humans,
Gentleman Farmer, Decent Photographer,
Spinner of tall tales, woven for his
Grandchildren.
A writer, a poet,
He says "a would be,"
I say, one who attempts,
Puts his name on writs public,
Is no would-be!
Who here would dare disagree?
More than all this, unlike so many,
Grateful for everyday of life,
Even those ****** full of strife,
And who served, a grunt,
One of the proud, the few.
I salute, you, and call out,
Attention Poets, Marine On Deck!
But no stuffed shirt ,
A man of soil and earth,
Who can laugh at himself, and write,
*"My driving experience feel greater,
Would be to speed down the road,
Behind the wheel of my little Red Racer,
Completely **** naked,
And of course,
Feel the wind in my hair."*
It is easy to be some things.
It is hard to be many things,
But it is the hardest, and the best,
When you look back,
And laugh out loud, admit,
The funniest thing you know,
The one that keeps you sane,
The one-thing, hardest, and the best,
Is to laugh at yourself.
So stand attention,
Go to the mirror,
Tho you might not like what you see,
If you focus, and really look tight, squint,
Do not be surprised,
If, in a few minutes,
You burst out laughing,
Especially if you do it in your
Birthday suit!
Maintain this perspective,
Forward and retroactive,
And then perhaps,
You will be able to write
These words...like he did!
*Where upon, sheer elated emotions,
Of this my journey of self discovery,
Began to sink in and I started to cry.
There are times is one's life,
when lessons are taught,
When almost no words
need to be spoken.
And the best teacher's are
our own Brain and Heart,
Comprehending, embracing
Life's many shared Lessons.*
Marine Slocum, Stand at Attention!
There are Poets saluting you.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
The strength your skin holds no one can touch it's a pity they don't know you already won black beauty your skin shines in the sun without trying natural thick hair and hard to break down curves in all the right places beautiful black women you don't need no additive your already the Queen take your crown and shine
Aug 26, 2021
Aug 26, 2021 at 7:22 PM UTC
~inspired by Lar Lubovitch,
gifted to Glenn Currier
who made my eyes water-dance this
morning ~
<>
raise the arms in preparation
for an articulated genteel waving
to keyboard,
an elegant slow descent,
fingers extending, splaying,
but in fine coordinated curvature
for they are 24 carat gold filled fingertips,
word & dance-art~infused
i king and expelling sounds of dancing words,
all over my body
some body part of me,
grasps that the cylinder of ink,
becomes a baton,
single instrument director,
an attaché,
an additive~lubricant,
for all my orifices,
firing rocket-in-the-air bomb bursts
while body in its entirety
motions,
shuckin’ and jivin’
in the prayer~poem first position,
a rock n’ roll motion,
back and forth,
to fro,
holy mesmerized
words run down my arms,
letters drop encased in salt drop capsules,
from the intuition in my eyes,
we see them forming words,
pooling,
without volition,
upon,
all my surfaces, but they
a mere conveyance,
bringing these expulsive explosive verbs
in an ordered fashion,
to your eyes,
intuitively,
asking you
to dance with me,
begging you
to envision me,
hearing the piano maintaining rhythm,
while a violin crys out in a overly long held notes,
concertinas bellowing,
all together quavering,
oscillating, emoting,
and you!
you are reading me perfectly
so we dance in unity
cheek to cheek,
to the song of
our poem,
our words, our tongues,
our entire entities,
rogue kissing
Dec 4, 2023
Dec 4, 2023 at 8:52 AM UTC
/ sitting on your leg
almost ingesting a tongue-like
presence into your ****
on a window-sill?
miracle, when it comes
to bowel movement;
and what a pristine piece
of **** that was...
i hope homosexual ***
feels... just as good.
p.s. esp. while listening
to brooke c's drum covers...
and to think...
some people read books
on the throne of thrones...
on the odd occassion a game,
but sometimes:
watching videos,
thinking to myself:
this takes the bollocking -
it's d'ah ****
i guess that's what you might
call cognitive massage parlour
additive to compensate
for...
the deconstructive
post-modernist, derrida spreschen
of modern lawyers...
brick is a brick isn't a brick
type of scenarios...
i thought they stopped
as a thesaurus sensibility?
guess i was wrong, all along.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 8:06 PM UTC
you want war, you have world war two spitfire pilots to serve your post-colonial migration; and yes, i'll twitch my eyes; ha ha cuisine scots using ginger.
there's a quintessential
fascination with cabbage
among the mutli-cultural
asians of england being picky
concerning scandinavians
and the slavs...
politico i could say as much
about indian spices.. but they're
granulated i admit,
so there's less stink in the armpits;
or there isn't, given chanel cardamom:
assimilated asians into british
society don’t use raw herrings and cabbage
to joke about other european ethnicities
while waving the st. george
of that great fake curry of suffolk.
*i've been telling the turks about sauerkraut for years
to match up a purposive additive for the lamb kebab;
sours to cut through the lamb fat like the chillies
cutting through.*
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 8:10 PM UTC
You are my drug
No.
No I'm not your drug.
A drug is...
additive.
A drug is...
an escape.
I am no ones escape,
I am not a savior nor a queen.
I am not intoxicating.
Nor a
drug.
So take your sorrows and throw them to someone else.
Someone who can stand.
I may be fire,
but I shan't burn you.
I may be independent,
but I'll never be strong.
So please,
don't take me like you would a drug.
I am not one to be a substance,
used in your self medicated life.
Please...
Please...
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
•••
"on some days, I love you more than others,"
an early morning uh oh
IROLO
(instantly regretted out loud observation),
of the potentially ruinous kind,
spoken with malice towards none,
*and obviously,
no forethought,*
firmly but modestly muttered
over the modestly rumpled
courtroom battlefield
of sheets, newsprint, mugs
and Bocelli on low
smockingly,
(a slow spreading smile of mock),
she turns her gaze upon
the presumed guilty, querulous,
soon-to-be-ruined ruminator (me),
and asks with
disdainful derisive decisiveness
is your first cuppa too hot darling?
has your uncommon sense of non-sense been burnt?
t'is true I reply,
I feel the burn!
for am I not sworn
to tell the whole heated truth
and nothing but?
my love for you is simply
a mathematical additive,
progression series
every new day I love you
is forever
a mighty mite more
than the prior,
a smudged smidge of a penciled line,
taller than the
higher higher notated
upon ancient yesterday's doorpost
ergo,
ip so factoid,
and therefore,
by definition
on some days I love you more than others
•••
p.s. never have conversations like this in the presence of within-reach newspapers,
for they be
easy rolled and revised
into fearsome weaponry,
suitably for handy smacking"*
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 4:46 PM UTC
Deepen trust,
Excellence begins.
The tempered genesis of the warrior within.
Fervent reckoning of judgemental sin.
Endlessly imaginative,
Conscious without additive,
Process enlightens the child within.
Patience with dis-tempered grace,
Wisdom expanding through space.
Scarred and burned of previous dismay,
Humbled by generations play.
Laughter soothes the master within.
Tormented,
Defeated,
Synonyms endless for the ones who’ve retreated.
Death be chosen,
We are born again.
Thinking of stories only a child can tell,
Open to trusting our journey back from hell.
Having the will to laugh at ourselves.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
"looking at the future of your creation...
when creation is the art of being in the moment"
~program notes from the Grand Finale, a dance by Hofesh Schecter, choreographer, composer~
<•>
*as one who makes their living, affirms their existence,
by staring at the blue-white screen,
a blank black backdrop, an empty stage,
a blue lined spiral-notebook, stationary store fresh
thinking only of the inky black commandment of
what next -
a contradiction comprehended with perfect understanding,
for the composition unborn unimagined yet
shaping, chafing, child birthing, will be seeded thru
many tiny moments of webbed connected secretions,
imaging the whole, yet the future arrives serialized as drops,
slow and singular, additive and adhering, even addicting
throw them all up to the ceiling tableau,
a letter, a note, a visionary imagery
of many dancers bodies
in photo time-lapse time captured
what sticks, what returns, the returns
needy of refurbishment, a fresh dice throw,
the retrofitting of a new combination moment
thus the future forms, the wet moments fill the crystal glass,
spilling over, spilling out from within, when all spent,
all the next moments are silent, water stilling,
le futur est arrivé,
but the individuals that are its construct,
wave friendly to you, asking do you remember me,
tenderly, parentally, I concede to each their birthright,
how they transversed from the past,
presented into the future, only to arrive in
the here and now,*
as a present to us all
11/11/17 8:55am
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 2:13 PM UTC
With the addition of one.
They seems to have so much fun.
Just by removing one.
With the addition of one.
They grew to be better.
Then they once was.
Mary got to sing a little more.
Notice her lead upon Touch, a simple additive song.
These are the ladies called, the Seventies Supremes.
Led by the voice of the sweet vocals of Jean Terrell.
A voice you can tell so different than Diana Ross.
Who recorded an album called boss?
And I'm not talking anything from her.
And sweet Cindy Birdsong.
Another member, who grew into her own.
And shared more vocalistic leads as a co-lead singer.
It Time To Break Down, with his bass beat.
Would have anyone dancing upon their feet.
Stone Love, taking them in areas that Holland, Dozier Holland never thought of.
These were the Supremes.
Which by this time only four membrs were upon hits.
We can't forget Flo.
Who were apart of the original hit trio?
Frank Wilson, accepted the challenge of the seventies unit.
And left them with an imprint that fans will remember.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 10:12 AM UTC
Seven New Poems for Seven Days #2: Hover^
My Children:
Ancestral homes oft possess,
a unique scent, product of an atomizer, a memorizer
Musty time, the odor of
faded and shadow,
hollow, yet hallowed.
Somewhere along the road,
a residence transforms from home to
shrine-storage unit-hospital room-tomb-records depository.
Dust, expired perfumes,
the sweet odor of crumbling, yellowing books, disinfectant,
stale medicine chests, years of furniture polish, sabbath candles.
It is my smell -
the parfumerie of my history, a customized blend,
a commissioned work in 1964, entitled, more accurately, emitted,
"Her-Story."
Photographs, memories, and paper scraps
my very own Preservation Hall Jazz Band.
Yet the most potent firing pin for historical retrieval,
the molecules of scent.
Soon all will be dismantled, discarded,
just plain dis'ed.
Confused and disenchanted,
my departure orderly but, in a disordered fashion.
unable to seed one last kiss upon your forehead,
nonetheless, surreptitiously enter your neurons
though my entity, away, across the miles-wide Hudson River.
For three days, I will hover invisible,
implanting myself once more,
slapping your mucous membranes,
transversing this pathway, an additive to your cells, nuclei,
where my markers always reside.
Adding one more ingredient to your inner vision,
strengthening the formless structure, my altered state.
This odor, keep close, fresh, no becoming musty too, my scent,
the last of your senses knowing me, a true keepsake.
*Hold me close and hold me fast.
This one last magic spell I cast.
This one last magic smell I set fast.
You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.*
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
The insides of him wish for an additive,
While the heart amongst those is a bit too destructive,
This aint a war or a dispute that would lead to a conclusion,
This is a debate wid himself which would cause an intrusion.
"Trying to preserve his heart so light,
He walks on a dark road craving for sunlight.
And while he feels the touch of the rays so bright,
He's unsatisfied cause of the heart tanned by the moonlight."
When he fell it was hard to believe fr him that he had,
But he felt great bliss.
And now in a well of lost hopes n negative vibes,
He curses the hand which dealt him through this.
"Trying to preserve his heart so light,
He walks on a dark road craving for sunlight.
And while he feels the touch of the rays so bright,
He's unsatisfied cause of the heart tanned by the moonlight."
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 10:16 AM UTC
Aristotle’s arrhythmic articulations
Appeared too apologetic for Aphrodite's amusements
Aroused by antisocial media’s alacritous abundance
Amidst arteriosclerosis and amphibiously obeisant Ophiuchus
Asclepius' ascendance was almost an abortion
Arrested by Apollo’s amorous attempts at aphrodisia
Ambidextrous Artemis’ androgynous appointments
Awakened ancient antipathies accentuating allopathic artifacts
Altercations arose among ambitious acolytes and Athena’s anorexic acidoses
Awkward Adonis actively agonized by alarming aneurysms
Allowed Antigone’s ambivalent armistice an aperture of acceptance
Appointing an ambiguously appealing additive to the Argonauts
An anaerobic Acropolis arose amidst ********** asphyxiations
As Amazonian armpit hair advocates approved artificial insemination
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC
.
:::::::
there's
too much
sugar in my tea
i turned it upside down
but i had drank the cup
and so the nothingness came out
i tried to find another drop that
somehow hid away
and waited
for the water to unsettle all disdain
i heard the kettle whistling, the seconds to be
poured but i could feel myself become the steam that
hotly soared by disappearing perfectly, i'd managed to escape
and even if it burned me up it wasn't by mistake the candy man
would come again, of this i could be sure but company like his i knew
i'd not have to endure i flew above his crystal head and melted in the sky
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
became the kind of additive that turned his tea to brine
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC
[you the drug] murmurs to my lips.
the visions pound: a deep
bass [pushing and pulling]
shooting up:
the memory, passion, a high,
the feelings,
(and touches, lingering
slipping into empty
wisps of air)
uncontained, unrestrained,
ticktocktick: [we the clock] that
doesn’t sleep, doesn’t slow,
doesn’t forget.
(being itself a point of reference,
uncontrolled unrelenting time,
being a point of origin,
weighing me down in
the churning waves
in the pounding bass)
[we the clock] that loses me,
that consumes me,
that (being itself a reference)
is unreadable and blindingly
invisible
[clutching sand].
The [ticks of memory] bring
tremors:
the bass pulsing nodes
into my skin, (pushing me into
the drug,
drowning me in the frenzied,
methodical
ticktockticktickticktick of the clock.)
[me the ****** longing and desire]
I cling to [we the clock], love every second
minute, hour. The echoes of the
thrashing
movement of empty time
in the ticktock tears [me]
(kicking and screaming, locked in my head
behind a wall of miles, distance seeping
through the cracks.) from the visions
from [you the drug],
from the bass,
the addictive additive
to living:
You.
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
Wicked winds howled senseless from Great Lakes to Navajo
Screaming eulogies for the frantic madmen
And the love of rage they shot their veins black with
And the additive-free sadness that filled their lungs with ashes
Broke down church bells tolled, once, twice, three times on the hour
Resounding enough to wake Virgina her revered dead
The heart of mighty Shenandoah beats in shades of revolutionary red
And DC sleeps uneasy under armed guard
Here is where your mother lies and bleeds empathy to the tune of Suburbia's solemn hymns
And here is where your brother ticks his weight in manic speculation and nervous wondering
And here is where you straddle the nuclear armaments of culture atop the shoulders of those lonely mad giants you hold so dear
A dying breed, a skeletal frame of burning purpose and relentless conviction
The last great hunter of the American Dream
They said their prayers, their rosaries, and their benedictions floated carelessly off to nothing, from nothing
Laid to rest on the edge of a cornfield six feet under cold Earth and laughing heavens
Heads bowed in lurid admiration tempered with contempt
For the soul of the devil of the world to come
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
The mind
picked up an idea
from reading
to just relax
and vibrate with it
so the mind
since it likes to add
thought just relax
and harmonize with it
and then
just relax
and resonate with it
and I am in favor
of all these techniques
but it strikes me
that this additive nature
of the mind
creates too much
so what I have been doing
is simplifying.
I just harmonize
with everything.
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 18, 2011 at 10:45 PM UTC
i met a mongol once in amsterdam, we exchanged a tearful stare and said a melancholic hello, as if we were to be brother in cement or sandstone of what the sun rememebred and man forgot but nonetheless carved for enshadowed suave of the shadowing hand on hand upon handed down remnant of the handless kanji... the motherless thus tongueless river of sight utilising hand and hand as sophistication of spying thanks to the hands’ shadows: thus no shadow tongue unless that shadow be thought or the abstract off thought: pre-meditation and the subsequent minded courtsey as requested of the blank page or the buddha’s slitted eyes faking intoxication by western standards of that green plant the mongols despise: and western societies fare to tax and thus exploit.
and it would be easiest to withhold making talks
with the slavs
by compensation of the northern-most mosque
being established
as true progression...
but then having insulated the slavs
who are "primarily" plumbers and electricians
to make any dent in the politics of the other monotheists...
where the european excludes the european from europe
there you will see war as encouraging the asian
or the arab...
there you will see war, should a
european exclude european from europe
there you will see war
caucausian againts the rooster against the morn!
TAR TAR! TAR TAR! TAR! TAR!
(in japanese tora tora tora!)
because you did not cherish our shared values
thus become devalued therefore value your integral anti-economic
evaluations that have no place in my land
but concern of keeping brown in the noun and not in the verb
of racism and sun;
i've become a barabbas among you, you messiahs,
you messiah selfies and messiah implants,
what gave you the jews scorned has given
me you as the "jews" scorned in your disorientation
of the fathomed atom bomb already spoken of in
the book of the apocalypse....
but a man ejecting an european from europe
to fantacise a non-invoked colonialism will halve in carving
this world in half for multi-cultarism!
no pole ever spoke of colonialism to see you speak
of post-colonial re-colonialisation of remote areas so ardently cared for:
conquer... and subsequently fall: your sons the additive bullets:
я и pоссия demand: the caucaucus tribes to
fake unity with the danube fools of erected bohemia.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
It's been heard I'm adequate with words
If only they knew,
they knew less
than the full
story
It's been said I'm blithe, articulate
I'm pleasant at that
That I have
and want not's
compensatory
transitory
In the end, I'm worth forlorn words, no more
In the end, my has-been charm goes dead weight
In the end, I'm your additive to the dull days
In the end, my gains come from a snake's tongue
In the end,
I'm nothing
but words
for reading
black lies
on the white light
of a flat screen
In the end,
I've nothing
but words
beneath me
beneath me
Beneath me twists and turns the caverns where my heart grows.
I call it art to your face, when I'm a broker by trade.
You won't know that you trade, you won't see that I sell myself.
You won't feel the hidden strings on your cervical
spine until you've given your food, four walls, window and door,
given your love to a dead duck scanning for escape.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 2:42 PM UTC