"chainsaws" poems
I want a beard like Chris's beard
But I can't even grow hair on my chest
This may sound strange if not a bit weird
That I have a Chris beard full on man crush
I swear I'm not gay, why I'm even straighter than straight
You can call my house and ask my wife
She'll tell you I'm out back juggling chainsaws all day
And other manly things I do with my life
But with hair on my face there's not the slightest trace
Not a follicle will you even find
But with Chris's beard I think that it's clear
That sucker could grow over night
So yes, I want a beard like Chris's beard
And that is the straight up fact Jack
Cause with a beard like Chris's manly beard
I wouldn't have to put up with anyone's crap
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
I knew a man once who could read the trees
He'd stand in a field with nothing on
And look at them for hours
(He couldn't talk to flowers)
But he would pour over every branch
Trace every knot and feel their bark
He translated a sycamore for me once
But oaks and beeches were his favourite
He said he just preferred their type.
The elbow bends told him of seasons
The trunk's tilt told the prevailing winds
Their denseness in relation to their neighbours
Told him all manner of gossipy things.
The colours and the hues told of the soil
The moulds and lichens the local fashions
He'd tell you if they'd ever been frightened
By hippies, chainsaws, axes or lightening.
And as I looked on, I realised something
As I read his naked body with no clothes
This man was obviously a stark raving lunatic.
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 8:31 AM UTC
(AP) Chicago vicinity hit hard yesterday by fierce bracing winds approximating unmanned chainsaws violently cutting across streets sidewalks heavy lakefront blizzard icy snow resembling slivers of broken glass slashing stinging skin news alert of return of dreaded snow worms attacking women and children technically known as Kinorhynchan Oligochaetes Nemertines these deadly transparent parasitic creatures slither slightly ticklish creep inside boots preferring hairless legs of children slimy vipers dig between toes devouring traces of toe jam then gnawing toenails until they reach foot bed where they fester in bitter dark brown green milky juices crippling little boys and girls in shaven women the elongated legless carnivorous ice worms disguised as mere icicle drippings climb up calf knee thigh ****** ****** ovaries feasting on female eggs their favorite food many northern women choose not to shave during winter season so as not to fall victim to the snow worms
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 9:16 AM UTC
The beautiful Tiger strides as her
muscles ripple with strength
She is a stunning power house
which moves with the lightness
of a feather
Although never with an arrogance
of a king, but with a knowing
of a great general
Her many strips earn't though an
evolution of battle and conquest
The air flooded with a juicy orange
as her many strips drift and float
out like the waves of an ocean
We all become transparent as all
is gathered within the glowing
eyes of a tiger
With her light lime eyes she
***** the whole world in
And a dash of yellow to cut
through everything
Like bright bulbs they shine and
possess a gravitational force
Enjoying a deep comfort with
her surroundings for she fears
nothing, as the jungle wraps her
in a warm quilt she feels cozy
Her vibrant colour that celebrates
with the trees will disappear to
the colour blind as she vanishes
behind leaves
Caught in the nets of a tigers
glare her presence will cascade
all around you
Pulsing heart you become paralyzed by
her stare as she fires hooks into you
Lost in the jungle, she is the jungle
If the Lion is king, she is the kingdom
As you stand in the presence of her
magnificent beauty her fire will
engulf you
All a blaze, forest fire orange flames
bellow from her lively fur
As you feel the tremendous power
of this fiery dragon
A thousand chainsaws cut the air
as you are beheaded with a roar
Every bone shall rattle every cell shall
cry as fear is drilled into you
As she blasts a second roar you feel
her fiery force as she burns a hole
right through you
The crouching tiger recoils her every
muscle with a thousand frustrated
springs, she ready's for the pounce
Crackle and spark as a combustible fire
swamps the air, friction burn
Ignited she explodes her energy
burst through a self made vortex
As we see fire jumping
As she leaps through a secret passage
a tunnel in the air
Hunger driven her jaw widens and
a gateway opens as she rockets
forward with a relentless appetite
Time stands still as she leaps
through the air
Her flight so effortless she could
be stood still in space as the world
travels to her
As a black hole is opened she *****
her prey in
So much fiery energy can be enjoyed
when the power of the Chinese dragon
is released
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
Paws and reflect
we're all good little kids
in bleachers, listening patiently,
allowing nonsense to continue
then the trees fell
things got out of hand
kids became adults with super strength
lifted the floors up
threw chainsaws into crowds
yessir
they grew up that day
that hour
and nobody pitied the inhanced
only wished they could join
could be as jaded as the them
climb mountains and spit acid
melt rocks with a look
but no
such characteristics were reserved for the up-and-coming
gods and titans
full of potential energy
bursting at the seams of the skin
splitting open into laughter and mockery
they will save the world
or at least give it a hell of a run for its money.
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 10:12 AM UTC
I’m whirling about
There’s fruit I’ve never seen
And chainsaws
Hanging from the ceiling
Collections of rusted
And nostalgic
Remnants
Playthings of my
Past memory
The people here
Mimic the eclectic offerings
Every part of the group
Teems with
Individuality
I feel cherubic laughter
Quiver my lungs again
I head for home
Clutching a book
I acquired
From this impeccable
Trove
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 4:11 PM UTC
God waited for Abraham's arm to be actually starting down, the biceps fully tensed.
Nothing short would do; in extremity, we learn what's true.
With a good job, a good marriage, a fine son, I had everything one could expect.
And yet there was a lingering dissatisfaction; a malaise.
It seemed, deep down, that I didn't really feel or believe in anything.
.........
On Saturday morning, August 11, 1990, my three-year-old son and I rounded the corner at the south end of the block where we live. We were out for a walk. (He had been born through in-vitro fertilization, everything else had failed -- including several previous in-vitro attempts.) He was riding his tricycle -- it's amazing how fast a three-year-old can go on a tricycle with big wheels. . . . The house next to the corner had tall bushes growing right out to the sidewalk. As we passed the house, my son speeded up. My attention was diverted to men working across the street trimming trees. Their chainsaws drowned out the sound of a car backing out of the driveway next to the house with the bushes. The car was moving slowly and I can see in the slowest of slow motion -- I screamed, but I'm not sure just when (there's no sound track to this movie) -- the car backing into the left handlebar of the tricycle, tilting it over to the right, my son breaking his fall with his right hand. (As low to the ground as he and the tricycle were, they could not be visible in the driver's rearview mirror at this point.) And, then, the car stopping. Did the car stop because of my scream? Or had the old man driving the car seen my son at the last second before he disappeared behind the car?
.......
I learned instantly with the terrible weight of that tire inches from my son's head, that I wanted with a giant, horrible wanting for this boy to grow up healthy and to have children of his own who would, in turn, have children of their own, and that having my wife hate me for losing him would be unbearable.
All the unfairnesses I had suffered in life -- ALL of them --
instantly became meaningless. Everything was clear.
This is what I wanted; this is what I believed.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
Give me..
**Give me that good ****
You know, *that good ****
We're handed pipes instead of pills.
Told to smoke pain away something that's been breed 4 generations deep.
A poverty in the sheets.
An allergic reaction,
nuclear,
biochemical -
skin abrasions, lacerations -
3rd degree burns on our hearts.
Drink away the pain to sooth the burn.
To silence the scald.
No one even teaches you to hold yourself.
Instead they tell you to find someone else to do it for you.
Make you unable to be whole.
To be three fourths **** up.
Bandaging your own self inflicted scars in the bathroom sink.
To be metal jackets made of sorrow.
To be blacked out Saturday nights, too hung over to go to church with your family in the morning.
To be so high, you never even get low.
To be light bulbs busted, stayed bright too long.
That good **** ain't good **** when it turns you into the kind of slack jawed, numb monster your mother is ashamed of.
We are a generation self mutilated - no, no - self medicated.
Raised by television sets, they made cigarettes look ***
They made suicide look pretty,
And binge drinking look cool.
They made it normal for kids to pass around bottles of liquor at 14.
You're too young and too fast, and **you're trying to not ******* feel ****
I've been you.
I am you.
So no, it ain't no good ****
*I don't have any good ****
Cause nothing is good, if it's never been bad first.
If it's never been broke, and broken, and sick.
If it's never cried itself to sleep.
If it's never seen its own reflection in broken pieces of glass and felt akin to the shatter.
You have to feel every inch of the low to make any high worth it.
And let it be a homemade one.
Let it be love.
And lust.
And the sun, and good art, and loud music, and jukebox laughter, and your family telling you, you matter.
Don't let it be synthetic and manufactured. Don't let it be bought on street corners, let it be home grown, and natural.
Raised in the corners of your mother's smile.
Let those good moments be you.
Let those moments be life.
Let them be the warmth before the scald, let those be the moments before you fall.
And I know it hurts.
It hurts to be a volcano victim.
To be so irrevocably in love with life when it can burn you so badly.
Believe me, being numb means nothing.
And yes, I know it's hard.
Hard to be 14,
And 17.
And 21,
And 45.
I know it's hard, so ******* hard to exist every single day.
I know the bouquets of heart break, feel like chainsaws and forest fires.
I know the boys hurt your feelings.
I know your parents don't understand you.
I know your teachers don't listen to you,
I know you hate yourself
And I know you shouldn't.
Because baby,
A pipe,
Or a pill
Or a bottle
Won't ever do any good **** for you.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
The sound of silence is a chainsaw
with no fuel, longing to gnash its teeth
against the husk of sweet bark.
It is the cold wind on a winter’s morning
that sweeps across a frozen Lake Michigan,
gently kissing the motionless street sweepers
in the city beyond.
The sound of silence
was never the sound of one hand clapping,
nor was it ever kosher.
It was never the final breath
of a young wanderer dangling
from the husk of sweet bark
that chainsaws longed for.
The sound of silence
is the paper blanket given to
homeless men and women,
the aftermath of broken plates
in the home of a south side apartment,
the lingering misty droplets
in a bathtub full of cold red water,
all of this
unheard and unseen.
The sound of silence
is not the absence of sound.
It is simply not noticing
that a starving child was whimpering
in the first place.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
We dance in the wetlands:
Hopping tree to tree in galoshes,
In snake boots.
We can hear the rattlers and
Crying crocodiles over the
Buzz buzz buzzing of our chainsaws,
But the bossman says stay down.
So we wait and watch, and when
A snake snaps to bite, we touch it
Just so: on the back of the head
With our buzzing tools. Then
We go right back to dancing
Tree to tree and rock to rock.
Step in the water and scaly babies
Will cry out for mother,
But bossman will say to stay
And shoot the mama if she snaps to bite.
We drive them from their homes,
Scaly devils, with our buzz buzzing saws
And our snake boots. We clear the land.
Where they shall go, we shall follow,
Always there is more to clear
More to cut and haul away
But we must be prepared for
Attack, always awake,
Always ready to shoot and touch
The back of their heads, just so,
With our insistent buzzing saws.
Sep 5, 2010
Sep 5, 2010 at 3:21 PM UTC
Step 1: Take a breather. Don't start going insane and terrorizing the city with chainsaws. That is in a later step. Go have a cup of tea. Calm. If you're cold go get a blanket. Think warm thoughts. Imagine you are on fire. Okay, actually never mind, don't do that.
Step 2: Go back to your computer and hold down the off button until it completely shuts off.
Step 3: Scream obscenities at your laptop, kick it and drop it off the roof.
Step 4: Wonder why it isn't turning on.
Step 5: Call your second cousin twice removed's best friend's dogsitter's guitar teacher's Polish-speaking doctor who lives in Germany. Ask him for help. Apologize for thinking she was a man and explain the ****** hair in the pictures and her extremely deep voice were misleading. Say hello a couple times into the receiver before accepting she has hung up on you.
Step 6: Send your second cousin twice removed's best friend's dogsitter's guitar teacher's Polish-speaking doctor who lives in Germany a basket of muffins with a heartfelt apology note written in Korean, to prove you are multi-cultural.
Step 7: Hug your computer and stroke it creepily whispering: Awwww who’s a good laptop?
Step 8: Dump a bucket of water on your computer when it STILL doesn’t turn on. That’ll teach it.
Step 9: Cry about your hair not being shiny enough. Get distracted by a butterfly. Wonder why there is a butterfly in the middle of the arctic. Wonder why you are in the arctic and how you got there.
Step 10: Feed your stupid meany-pants laptop to a polar bear.
Step 11: RUN in terror from the hungry polar bear with indigestion that you have just ****** off.
Step 12: Get your chainsaw and go terrorize the nearest village.
Step 13: Send that village a basket of muffins and a heart-felt apology note written in gibberish so they are impressed by the fact that you are fluent in Gibberish.
(OPTIONAL STEP 14: Send that polar bear a basket of muffins. Just to be nice.)
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
You're good to go.
Smile and talk like the perfect host
Of a happy crowd, inebriated
Vapid, inane, upperclass professionals
Play nice, your mind is a cage
Chainsaws and stretch racks dance in your head
Fantasies of impending doom,
But alas~ this cannot be
Fear and shame, fear and shame
You are a changeling.
Secretly substituted for a real girl at birth
Alone in a crowded room
Fey don't eat
Fey don't sleep
The perpetual curse of wakefulness
Only desiring to sleep forever
Walking dead, one thing brings you joy
Free fall, kindle the fire
Endorphins and fun chemicals
"The difference between medicine and poison is in the dose"
In this case, your poison
Is a cold cement bridge
Early morning snowfall
And tempting waters blow below.
Eternity passes
And then you become one with the ******* titanic.
Float back to the fairies, my dear.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
The trees are stricken with a terrible illness
a certain shrillness that permeates
their perpetual stillness.
And I have seen them.
Their pitch dripped hearts buried underneath
Their brown and rough bark, our version of skin.
And I have cut them.
Looking for their sap, their form of our blood
Hoping to find it still sticky sweet with life,
Hoping it has not succumb to their illness
That is our men.
Men, with burly beards and chainsaws
That are the trees versions of sterile masks
And metal toothed needles
Chainsaw needles that pump poison into
The trees’ version of our arms
Their form of cancer that
Ravishes through what would be our
Organs.
Men with saws that are our version of chemo
Shaking off the leafs that would be
What we call hair
And I have seen them.
They fall down the same way we would
And are covered by our same dirt earth.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 5:17 PM UTC
chainsaws **** zombies
on my movie screen
like a nightly terror
can't help but scream.
find the crawler by the doorstep
watch the creeper look your way
strike an arrow in a socket
bleed and make your lover lay.
In a thought in a cloud
in a word with no sound
fight the distance in between
seas of memories lost in dreams.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC
As the morning songs initiate with singers of feathers,
As the hellish darkness calms with sunrays of answers,
Comes a beautiful new day in the un-urbanized,
The father with his sickle goes on to fetch green to his beloved,
The mother wakes up in devotion and chants mystical speeches
The children wake up with energy of a lifetime
Enough to get them through their carefree lifeline,
The people here are simple not bothered by Mondays,
Nor are they very happy when there are Sundays,
The birds still chirping, the streams still flowing,
Children with their silly little games, above them the sun still glowing,
People from the country are bored, no TV, no network,
The Villagers instruct them to keep their worries aside
And enjoy the organic meal prepared
Enjoy the carefree environment before the troubles reappear
With a sip of water that’s sweeter than life
They carry on their silent relationship with their wife,
Life here is different, time works strange,
Afternoons are silent- could one be deranged!
A spider likes the one seen on TV lurks from the corner,
In the garden a snake, quite venomous is noticed,
The elder with one courageous might sweeps off the snake
The on lookers are awestruck, taken back by his might,
An hour in the afternoon is like an asylum
So Silent, everyone sleeps due to the heat waves,
The sound of chainsaws are heard in the distance,
Could deforestation be marching?
The sound of engines roaring,
Could the corporate be lurking?
To “modify” the landscape and make it more “mainstream”?
They’d destroy the peace here with a showcase of their money,
Deploying clouds of steel over what was once sunny!
The shining orb of the night returns after her shift,
The Sun with it’s protruding glamour leaves the scene,
The children scatter from the trees and hurry back home,
The elders with their “doko” full of green currency retreat,
In the end, the silence abrupt the call!
Perhaps, it’s now the Owl’s turn to howl!
A Beautiful Day in Heaven comes to a halt….
A Beautiful Day in Heaven comes to a halt….
Aug 16, 2024
Aug 16, 2024 at 8:40 AM UTC
Feeling you oh my world unjust
from matter grey growing old.
intellect chaotic in cruelty killed
mercies all dead in hearts chilled
for morsels of humanity,ravenous.
with tidbits of graces small ecstatic.
despaired for a dreamy mirage afar
in flaming greed's do I slowly char.
smoky guns rattle dealing out ******
whining chainsaws balding green all
very wombs earthy tremble with nukes
elements all so impure,one just pukes
men in name only **** with rebukes.
all of us many brutalize one world just!
flowing from nooks of a spirit noble
my tears, moistening heart,well in eyes
unseeing and drop silently on earth ******
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
so today I awoke
orchid in head
and gave it all away.
The "all" being
my grip on the here,
any thought of the now,
trees Feel.
Chainsaws roar through the awareness of leaves,
puddlejumping in branches waving shade
in the oil and *** of the street,
leaping in splashing down the block
from the catastrophe of
white trash eyeing my innocence
pretended for show
Eye through plight of falling forest,
I give this away,
Flower in mind withers, decays,
Puddles soak through to my skin beneath denim.
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 6:39 AM UTC
She is grass cut fresh on the hill.
She is the chaos that's holding me still.
She is birds in a nest in a tree.
She is the formlessness I cannot see.
She is here.
She is now.
She is bread in an oven.
She is a river of blood.
She is the vein in Atlas' forearm.
She is juggling chainsaws and daffodils.
She is the deer in the forest grown from the ashes of the last forest.
She is everything and nothing and something and some more or less.
She is the Goddess who birthed all your gods.
She is the oldest and oddest of all.
Sheisheaven,hell,thedeepestwell.
She is answer E) All of the above.
She is fierce, violent, conflagrate love.
She is the hole punch around the binder ring.
She is the throat through which we sing.
She is swimming through my eyes.
She is running through my mind all night.
She is whispering herself in my ear.
She is the ashes, the forest, the deer.
She will repeat it, if you did not hear.
She is She is Again and Again.
She is:
A story.
A good one.
I will read I will read Again and Again.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
Waking up to chainsaws -
Morning the spluttering
engine of mourning. It's
in the name of truer
trees. Slicing the butter
trunks, dropping the chippings;
garnishing with finesse
my olive tree below.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
I am making a log pile
I choose a chainsaw carefully,
sixteen inch
I prime it,
push in three times
one
two
three
and pull
it roars and comes to life,
I find a tree,
dead and rotting,
poor thing
there is no time to think
so I start cutting
slice
slice
BOOM
it falls.
Next comes liming
small branches fly
time to log it
careful not to hit the ground
the chainsaws teeth chew through birch
it’s a clean dismemberment.
I stack the logs one by one,
building on what is already there
one on top of the other
sometimes they fall
and I have to rearrange
but I never give up
that log pile
isn’t a pile at all.
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 6:06 AM UTC
This is where it almost blew us away.
Where stunned silence gave way to
chainsaws and sirens,
where a whole community rolled up
its chequered sleeves in solidarity,
brought tractors and barrows,
ladders and axes and enough rope
to pull it all together.
(we've seen it all on screen)
It split bare trees.
Some lay paralysed,
varicosed roots flung skywards.
Others, headless, fixed like totems
gave a new slant of light to the polished cobbles.
Some were touched, others not.
Some cursed God's reasoning,
others sure of scientific fact.
The abyss did not divide them.
Peace coincided with the setting sun.
The wailing of sirens and chainsaws gave way
to the sound of unadulterated joy.
(Earth allows these moments-
they are her children.)
In a battle of strength, small hands
locked in solidarity, made way for life.
Straining against an opposing force,
tugging on a rope
where the trick is to stay grounded,
to hold on and not let go.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2014
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 12:17 PM UTC
Rich bark
clinging to oak
I am perfect
not yet destroyed
by chainsaws
tearing me down
and suddenly
I'm torn away
goodbye brown sap
and sturdy roots
collapse inward
form into a
beaten log
discarded into many
like myself
thrown into a pit
sold for warmth
not my own
time to disintegrate
into ash
flames surround me
lick burn scratch
so suddenly
I turn to nothing
turn to dust
buried with earth
I'm
gone.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
Me when I'm ******
Stage 1: Politely nodding and smiling. Thinking: Omfg shut up.
Stage 2: Staring at them blankly. *Thinking: I'm gonna **** myself.*
Stage 3: Clenched jaw and glaring. *Thinking: I'm gonna **** YOU*
Stage 4: Completely lost it, revving chainsaws (no accident that I pluralized chainsaws) and burning **** down, the town is in ruins and I am evilly cackling insanely and raiding chocolate stores. Thinking: MWHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
*you never really say piranha.... it’s more like piraña... no wonder english without the necessary diacritic spans north america and australia and the emoji platform, so the romans said: bonum, sed ν (nu) *** linea obliqus, sic ha est ad hoc tetragrammaton pars, et allah est la la; quamvis latin est mort scriptio autem non clara voce - basically just write some latin using english grammar, what’s beneath it? guess.*
i’ve written almost 10,000 poems and still i can only
remember having said one or two memorable things,
i mean, for god’s sake, the pedigree maine ****
that lived with me for the 7 years he lived to
dying of kidney failure said more memorable things
than i did, having only said meow / miał (i.e. he had it, once),
maybe that’s because i don’t actually cradle these outbursts
to much appreciation, hence my own worthy critique -
but like i said it once admiring spiderweb threads and the washing lines:
by the casual phrasing ‘killing time,’ i’m sure people invoke
the meaning: to occupy a definite space;
the antonym? that’s a bit what philosophy preaches - ‘to stand outside
all of time and space,’ well the first one i can do and feel remorseful
concerning boredom, but that gives me an indefinite space,
although this whole ‘killing time’ is a great option, i’m going to
schwarzenegger time with a sawn off umlaut, ooh... kick to the groins
watch the crouching tiger hidden *** change - and occupy
a definite space. see, you have to find the hammers and the chainsaws in language
to escape the waterfall of fictional narration, obviously grammatical
categorisation of words makes it easier to suddenly realise:
am i really typing, or actually hammering a word in?
but realising that grammatical categorisation of words
exposes unlikely-to-turn-rusty tools gives writing a whole worth
of sanity, as no longer the chance encounter, but a safe environment
to abseil like a spider which lost the plot of creativity famed by the cobweb, just ******** out a piet mondrian.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
To render strings of scenes from your head
into words on paper
that another person could read in order
to recreate the voice of someone unmet,
and at the same time be presented beautifully and clearly;
to choose the right words making the right phrases
making the right sentences making the right paragraphs
making the right chapters, and to have these chapters
interweave into a cohesive story that manages to
fulfil the reader and make him feel
joy, sorrow, despair, or hope;
is insanely meticulous,
and inanely ridiculous.
And to come up with characters
that need to feel alive:
to have to be so many people at once,
each with their own dreams, wants,
thoughts, feelings, identities,
and treasured memories,
how can one not explode?
How can a mind not erode?
And of all the hobbies, passions or pastimes
a human being can engage in—
from juggling chainsaws on a tightrope
to playing the piano while painting yourself playing the piano
to sculpting a hypercubic klein bottle,
nothing is as delicately difficult
as juggling a thousand possibilities of plot
on a swinging tightrope of self-doubt
while playing the instrument of your vocabulary
to paint a scene revealing itself magically
all the while sculpting an entire universe(!)
piece by piece from the flesh and bone of your own
pregnant imagination.
Who, then, but only the most idiotic,
brave, ambitious, and diabolic self-haters and self-lovers
would write a book?
It's a noble task, to be sure,
for without its fair dose of literature,
mankind would crumble and un-create
back to the unthinking, unfeeling dirt from which it is made.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC