"clanking" poems - Hello Poetry

"clanking" poems

I don't know how many bottles of beer I have consumed while waiting for things to get better I dont know how much wine and whisky and beer mostly beer I have consumed after splits with women- waiting for the phone to ring waiting for the sound of footsteps, and the phone to ring waiting for the sounds of footsteps, and the phone never rings until much later and the footsteps never arrive until much later when my stomach is coming up out of my mouth they arrive as fresh as spring flowers: "what the hell have you done to yourself? it will be 3 days before you can **** me!" the female is durable she lives seven and one half years longer than the male, and she drinks very little beer because she knows its bad for the figure. while we are going mad they are out dancing and laughing with horney cowboys. well, there's beer sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles and when you pick one up the bottle fall through the wet bottom of the paper sack rolling clanking spilling gray wet ash and stale beer, or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m. in the morning making the only sound in your life. beer rivers and seas of beer the radio singing love songs as the phone remains silent and the walls stand straight up and down and beer is all there is.

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44.3k

Charles Bukowski

I don't know how many bottles of beer I have consumed while waiting for things to get better I dont know how much wine and whisky and beer mostly beer I have consumed after splits with women- waiting for the phone to ring waiting for the sound of footsteps, and the phone to ring waiting for the sounds of footsteps, and the phone never rings until much later and the footsteps never arrive until much later when my stomach is coming up out of my mouth they arrive as fresh as spring flowers: "what the hell have you done to yourself? it will be 3 days before you can **** me!" the female is durable she lives seven and one half years longer than the male, and she drinks very little beer because she knows its bad for the figure. while we are going mad they are out dancing and laughing with horney cowboys. well, there's beer sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles and when you pick one up the bottle fall through the wet bottom of the paper sack rolling clanking spilling gray wet ash and stale beer, or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m. in the morning making the only sound in your life. beer rivers and seas of beer the radio singing love songs as the phone remains silent and the walls stand straight up and down and beer is all there is.

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Sundays on the ranch are somethin', Just after morning chores are done, I head up to the house on a dead run, I've called the herd and put the buckets out, Fed the chickens, called the horse, "Old Son," Heard the rooster yammering at the rising sun; Old dog is baying loud to add some fun.... Meanwhile, at the house, The wife has rattled up the kids and lined em out, When I come in, they clear the bathroom out, So I can get a shave and morning shower, And off we'll head to church in half an hour. Or so we think.... It's then the neighbor calls to say our milk cow's swinging by, Bell clanking off-step time to her butter-churning udder, "She's headed north toward town!" he chortles mirth, "Maybe she wants to hear old Pastor Perth!" I mutter. All jokes aside, I hang the phone and grab my cap, We pile in the truck to try and get her back.... We have a chance if we can turn her 'round above the hill.... Why is it Sundays sweet Dolly becomes such a pill? A simple rule of nature I wish I could avoid, Is if a plan is put in place, as sure as Lloyd, Our Guernsey chooses then to go out on a spree, And Pastor Perth in town prays extra hard for me.

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Nov 29, 2014

Nov 29, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC

Cow on the Lam!

Sundays on the ranch are somethin', Just after morning chores are done, I head up to the house on a dead run, I've called the herd and put the buckets out, Fed the chickens, called the horse, "Old Son," Heard the rooster yammering at the rising sun; Old dog is baying loud to add some fun.... Meanwhile, at the house, The wife has rattled up the kids and lined em out, When I come in, they clear the bathroom out, So I can get a shave and morning shower, And off we'll head to church in half an hour. Or so we think.... It's then the neighbor calls to say our milk cow's swinging by, Bell clanking off-step time to her butter-churning udder, "She's headed north toward town!" he chortles mirth, "Maybe she wants to hear old Pastor Perth!" I mutter. All jokes aside, I hang the phone and grab my cap, We pile in the truck to try and get her back.... We have a chance if we can turn her 'round above the hill.... Why is it Sundays sweet Dolly becomes such a pill? A simple rule of nature I wish I could avoid, Is if a plan is put in place, as sure as Lloyd, Our Guernsey chooses then to go out on a spree, And Pastor Perth in town prays extra hard for me.

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Nobody marching toward us Their guns making us die. No tanks are come clanking No bombers in the sky. But our Congress and generals When oil or bases seem needed; We appear armed and threatening Peace and love talk not heeded. No country has attacked us With troops and lethal artillery. But our leaders expect us to Go open up their arteries And **** their women and children And laugh while they all die And we are expected to do this And never think to ask why. It’s almost like big companies Were sad when WW2 ended So they started attacking countries We really should have befriended. We let Russia have free reign To **** and ****** and steal Almost as if their aggression Wasn’t really true or even real. We looked around and made them, Those evil old warlike excuses, That some country threatened freedom And we pretended they weren’t ruses. We attacked Korea and Vietnam We were just supposed to observe That they were yellow people there And think they got what they deserved. We didn’t stop there, as Reagan took A duly elected leader and put him in jail. If any country did that to our country The conservatives would howl and rail. Then the Bushes tried their best to take Iraq to steal their oil and punish them And created an era of stronger hatred And anti-American outrage and mayhem. No foreign country has attacked America; So, the point bears repeating once again. We need to stop acting like bullies here And start acting like decent statesmen And women who have the bigger picture; The growth of peace in our battered world So, other countries will not take their guns And shoot our flag when it’s unfurled.

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Sep 26, 2018

Sep 26, 2018 at 4:56 PM UTC

THE BIG LIE OF WAR

Nobody marching toward us Their guns making us die. No tanks are come clanking No bombers in the sky. But our Congress and generals When oil or bases seem needed; We appear armed and threatening Peace and love talk not heeded. No country has attacked us With troops and lethal artillery. But our leaders expect us to Go open up their arteries And **** their women and children And laugh while they all die And we are expected to do this And never think to ask why. It’s almost like big companies Were sad when WW2 ended So they started attacking countries We really should have befriended. We let Russia have free reign To **** and ****** and steal Almost as if their aggression Wasn’t really true or even real. We looked around and made them, Those evil old warlike excuses, That some country threatened freedom And we pretended they weren’t ruses. We attacked Korea and Vietnam We were just supposed to observe That they were yellow people there And think they got what they deserved. We didn’t stop there, as Reagan took A duly elected leader and put him in jail. If any country did that to our country The conservatives would howl and rail. Then the Bushes tried their best to take Iraq to steal their oil and punish them And created an era of stronger hatred And anti-American outrage and mayhem. No foreign country has attacked America; So, the point bears repeating once again. We need to stop acting like bullies here And start acting like decent statesmen And women who have the bigger picture; The growth of peace in our battered world So, other countries will not take their guns And shoot our flag when it’s unfurled.

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To Struga Festival Golden Wreath Laureates & International Bards 1986 Stand up against governments, against God. Stay irresponsible. Say only what we know & imagine. Absolutes are coercion. Change is absolute. Ordinary mind includes eternal perceptions. Observe what's vivid. Notice what you notice. Catch yourself thinking. Vividness is self-selecting. If we don't show anyone, we're free to write anything. Remember the future. Advise only yourself. Don't drink yourself to death. Two molecules clanking against each other requires an observer to become scientific data. The measuring instrument determines the appearance of the phenomenal world after Einstein. The universe is subjective. Walt Whitman celebrated Person. We Are an observer, measuring instrument, eye, subject, Person. Universe is person. Inside skull vast as outside skull. Mind is outer space. "Each on his bed spoke to himself alone, making no sound." First thought, best thought. Mind is shapely, Art is shapely. Maximum information, minimum number of syllables. Syntax condensed, sound is solid. Intense fragments of spoken idiom, best. Consonants around vowels make sense. Savor vowels, appreciate consonants. Subject is known by what she sees. Others can measure their vision by what we see. Candor ends paranoia. Kral Majales June 25, 1986 Boulder, Colorado

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5.5k

Cosmopolitan Greetings

To Struga Festival Golden Wreath Laureates & International Bards 1986 Stand up against governments, against God. Stay irresponsible. Say only what we know & imagine. Absolutes are coercion. Change is absolute. Ordinary mind includes eternal perceptions. Observe what's vivid. Notice what you notice. Catch yourself thinking. Vividness is self-selecting. If we don't show anyone, we're free to write anything. Remember the future. Advise only yourself. Don't drink yourself to death. Two molecules clanking against each other requires an observer to become scientific data. The measuring instrument determines the appearance of the phenomenal world after Einstein. The universe is subjective. Walt Whitman celebrated Person. We Are an observer, measuring instrument, eye, subject, Person. Universe is person. Inside skull vast as outside skull. Mind is outer space. "Each on his bed spoke to himself alone, making no sound." First thought, best thought. Mind is shapely, Art is shapely. Maximum information, minimum number of syllables. Syntax condensed, sound is solid. Intense fragments of spoken idiom, best. Consonants around vowels make sense. Savor vowels, appreciate consonants. Subject is known by what she sees. Others can measure their vision by what we see. Candor ends paranoia. Kral Majales June 25, 1986 Boulder, Colorado

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I am sitting on the surface of the stone faced moon looking in through the gray above the green hanging over the black shingle roof of the room where I am sitting. I can't see me resting here. The streets of my youth are out my window through a hole in the trees in the still autumn night. I must rise to the call of the bread truck man, to the whinny of the rag picker's horse, to the distant clanking of a slow freight train. So far away on the stone faced moon how long my ears have thirsted to drink the sounds they cannot drink again, to sponge the voices from the streets of my youth and squeeze them back a drop at a time. Sitting on the surface of the stone faced moon I can see the globe rolling cars upon it. Outside my window into autumn is the incessant din of transportation, the percussion of outbound movement toward the stone faced moon where I sit.

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Nov 10, 2012

Nov 10, 2012 at 1:44 AM UTC

Stone Faced Moon

I am sitting on the surface of the stone faced moon looking in through the gray above the green hanging over the black shingle roof of the room where I am sitting. I can't see me resting here. The streets of my youth are out my window through a hole in the trees in the still autumn night. I must rise to the call of the bread truck man, to the whinny of the rag picker's horse, to the distant clanking of a slow freight train. So far away on the stone faced moon how long my ears have thirsted to drink the sounds they cannot drink again, to sponge the voices from the streets of my youth and squeeze them back a drop at a time. Sitting on the surface of the stone faced moon I can see the globe rolling cars upon it. Outside my window into autumn is the incessant din of transportation, the percussion of outbound movement toward the stone faced moon where I sit.

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The long hours of the night highlight our inner insecurities Relating to the change slowly disappearing in a clanking machine My stomache burns I didn't suggest to pay this, indebted to the alcohol No filter to the lewd humorous words we speak As we cruise away from the wild eyed life, bits of lint collect on the drivers glass The mistakes and embarrassment blinds our minds A push of a button, watching the grey fluff slide down the wind shield Turning into a tumble **** rolling down the loneliest highway No commitment to the grief The clouds smother the brown smudged mountains A white submissive canvas, I see My metaphoric future becomes one with the peeks My heart weeps as they come back into view The world once teaching me, is now background beauty Where shall this car take me

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Apr 29, 2016

Apr 29, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC

A discovered dynasty of drunken views

The long hours of the night highlight our inner insecurities Relating to the change slowly disappearing in a clanking machine My stomache burns I didn't suggest to pay this, indebted to the alcohol No filter to the lewd humorous words we speak As we cruise away from the wild eyed life, bits of lint collect on the drivers glass The mistakes and embarrassment blinds our minds A push of a button, watching the grey fluff slide down the wind shield Turning into a tumble **** rolling down the loneliest highway No commitment to the grief The clouds smother the brown smudged mountains A white submissive canvas, I see My metaphoric future becomes one with the peeks My heart weeps as they come back into view The world once teaching me, is now background beauty Where shall this car take me

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The devil's speech say they: Rolling, clattering, frolicking, hungry. Billows of charred skeletons embrace the air Black soot pumped straight from the pyres of Hades Congealing to clouds of evil intent wherever it roam. That charred old shell so terse, Black as sadness and dead as a hearse, Darling to death as he brings on the rain: The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train. In the coughing desert Not a thing dares roam Neither wind nor creature And neither stick nor stone. But then the silence disturbed by a horrible shriek - The railway screams in horror and the train itself speaks, saying "Tell me, thou innocent, Why feel you special and best? For when all is done I take you And return you to my nest; Your world is bright and happy Full of high spirits and song, Though soon you too shall step aboard And join my faceless throng." Hot saliva on the heaving engines: Weeping, groaning, ghostly, parched. Rusted joints spewed onwards grinding resisting Movement spat out like a violently beaded string of curses Sloppily uttered as incantations of a malformed mouth! From that charred old shell so terse, Black as sadness and dead as a hearse, Darling to death as he brings on the rain: The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train. That dark train cries out and all around A mourning whimper rises like slumbering fog- Bleak and yellow it obscures the land Seeping out insidious in strange locales all: The old lonely fisherman Sleeping on his wharf, The frustrated hawker's Windblown barefaced booth, Silent streets crying for attention, Dark places hidden at the corner of every eye. That solemn train cries out and all around Her mourning whimper rises like harrowing fog Calling all to upright attention and fear. Looming like a spectre but a breath-span from your window Slowly closing cold dread claws- Naked numbness dumb as ice- Cold dread claws upon thy waist. And you, You poor old thing, Shivering in your pitiful shack of bones, You never had any chance! You were only human. You were only human, you poor old thing. Barreling on with brimstone slang: Clang clang! Dang dang! Beelz Bub! Sputtering an ocean of curses from turgid goat-flesh Born of sadness to cause even more, yawning great maw Jowls clanking with fresh hot oil drool steaming stark and lewd, and yet That charred old shell so terse, Blacker than sadness and slain like a hearse, Is all that gives meaning to our every gain: The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.

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Oct 4, 2011

Oct 4, 2011 at 12:10 AM UTC

alexander-klein

The Funeral Train

The devil's speech say they: Rolling, clattering, frolicking, hungry. Billows of charred skeletons embrace the air Black soot pumped straight from the pyres of Hades Congealing to clouds of evil intent wherever it roam. That charred old shell so terse, Black as sadness and dead as a hearse, Darling to death as he brings on the rain: The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train. In the coughing desert Not a thing dares roam Neither wind nor creature And neither stick nor stone. But then the silence disturbed by a horrible shriek - The railway screams in horror and the train itself speaks, saying "Tell me, thou innocent, Why feel you special and best? For when all is done I take you And return you to my nest; Your world is bright and happy Full of high spirits and song, Though soon you too shall step aboard And join my faceless throng." Hot saliva on the heaving engines: Weeping, groaning, ghostly, parched. Rusted joints spewed onwards grinding resisting Movement spat out like a violently beaded string of curses Sloppily uttered as incantations of a malformed mouth! From that charred old shell so terse, Black as sadness and dead as a hearse, Darling to death as he brings on the rain: The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train. That dark train cries out and all around A mourning whimper rises like slumbering fog- Bleak and yellow it obscures the land Seeping out insidious in strange locales all: The old lonely fisherman Sleeping on his wharf, The frustrated hawker's Windblown barefaced booth, Silent streets crying for attention, Dark places hidden at the corner of every eye. That solemn train cries out and all around Her mourning whimper rises like harrowing fog Calling all to upright attention and fear. Looming like a spectre but a breath-span from your window Slowly closing cold dread claws- Naked numbness dumb as ice- Cold dread claws upon thy waist. And you, You poor old thing, Shivering in your pitiful shack of bones, You never had any chance! You were only human. You were only human, you poor old thing. Barreling on with brimstone slang: Clang clang! Dang dang! Beelz Bub! Sputtering an ocean of curses from turgid goat-flesh Born of sadness to cause even more, yawning great maw Jowls clanking with fresh hot oil drool steaming stark and lewd, and yet That charred old shell so terse, Blacker than sadness and slain like a hearse, Is all that gives meaning to our every gain: The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.

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clanking clank slurp, ka-boom the slop runs down a throat merrily merrily terribly chilled the gunk rolls down a throat. the forks spoons knives plates salts salads and wines ding and echo like soft butterfly tea parties all gone rabid. throughout the walls of pictures of food and the butterfly echos echo and dinging cups splash and forks click and clock (and and,..and!) hold my breath. clanking cubes of ice bing against one another Gluttonous Pig slobs them down with a spoonful of spicy French soup Pigman talks to Pigwoman; spittle flying out of his piggy chops. he stares at my forehead they see my odd selection she's laughing insanely at a joke I'm holding my eyes inside my head while all on my plate sit the legs of baby spiders all on my dish are darting sow eyeballs pitcher plant garnish and frozen grey custard for dessert; (echos still in the restaurant) I gag outloud the Fat Pigman scoffs at this my heart pops inside its cage and the waiter rolls his eyes at the mess.

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Apr 25, 2012

Apr 25, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC

Noisy Restaurant

clanking clank slurp, ka-boom the slop runs down a throat merrily merrily terribly chilled the gunk rolls down a throat. the forks spoons knives plates salts salads and wines ding and echo like soft butterfly tea parties all gone rabid. throughout the walls of pictures of food and the butterfly echos echo and dinging cups splash and forks click and clock (and and,..and!) hold my breath. clanking cubes of ice bing against one another Gluttonous Pig slobs them down with a spoonful of spicy French soup Pigman talks to Pigwoman; spittle flying out of his piggy chops. he stares at my forehead they see my odd selection she's laughing insanely at a joke I'm holding my eyes inside my head while all on my plate sit the legs of baby spiders all on my dish are darting sow eyeballs pitcher plant garnish and frozen grey custard for dessert; (echos still in the restaurant) I gag outloud the Fat Pigman scoffs at this my heart pops inside its cage and the waiter rolls his eyes at the mess.

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Blindsided by a rhinoceros. Tendons, muscles, unraveling. I can't do this any-- Glitch, system failure, shutdown Restart, blue screen, flashing cursor Epileptic shock. Epinephrine injected Command line. Run: Beautiful flying objects thrown violently. Don't open this door! Kiss me hard And not in a good way (if you remember how), Like when fishes try to breathe on dry Land on jagged Rock Climbing without Gears spinning and clanking *** and pan. (Glass and sand) Sizzling in this artificial sun Created by brainwaves soaked in ****** and LSD and yellow cake uranium Ghostriding patterns erupting like Stop. Fail. Restart. Detecting equipment... No input present. How will you communicate? Try again. Restart. Password required. Why don't you eat? These tears are making my face numb. Put this in your arm. Trust me, you'll love it. You'll have Tesla coming out of every orifice. Dancing physics, matryoshkas. You can deny the existence of a God and live, But if you deny the existence of gravity... Well, just try and walk off this cliff. "These thoughts are so scattered. I don't even think they're mine." Those memories? They're not yours. They belong to your master's daughter. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- We're Replicants. We boot up, we shut down, we most definitely restart. Viruses make us sick and sometimes break us to the point where we need new hardware. Sometimes they break our firmware and we need to wipe. We have command lines to perform actions, and registry keys to keep memory stored of the things we learn. The world is our power supply, and when we boot up in safe mode, like some people do every day, we only use the bare minimum of our potential. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I must be dying, I'm only this awkward when I'm dying. Connection timed out.

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Feb 17, 2011

Feb 17, 2011 at 7:26 PM UTC

Blindsided by a rhinoceros. Tendons, muscles, unraveling. I can't do this any-- Glitch, system failure, shutdown Restart, blue screen, flashing cursor Epileptic shock. Epinephrine injected Command line. Run: Beautiful flying objects thrown violently. Don't open this door! Kiss me hard And not in a good way (if you remember how), Like when fishes try to breathe on dry Land on jagged Rock Climbing without Gears spinning and clanking *** and pan. (Glass and sand) Sizzling in this artificial sun Created by brainwaves soaked in ****** and LSD and yellow cake uranium Ghostriding patterns erupting like Stop. Fail. Restart. Detecting equipment... No input present. How will you communicate? Try again. Restart. Password required. Why don't you eat? These tears are making my face numb. Put this in your arm. Trust me, you'll love it. You'll have Tesla coming out of every orifice. Dancing physics, matryoshkas. You can deny the existence of a God and live, But if you deny the existence of gravity... Well, just try and walk off this cliff. "These thoughts are so scattered. I don't even think they're mine." Those memories? They're not yours. They belong to your master's daughter. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- We're Replicants. We boot up, we shut down, we most definitely restart. Viruses make us sick and sometimes break us to the point where we need new hardware. Sometimes they break our firmware and we need to wipe. We have command lines to perform actions, and registry keys to keep memory stored of the things we learn. The world is our power supply, and when we boot up in safe mode, like some people do every day, we only use the bare minimum of our potential. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I must be dying, I'm only this awkward when I'm dying. Connection timed out.

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They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. The millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable--and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come. It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!

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Mar 21, 2014

Mar 21, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC

Patrick Henry: Liberty or death

They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. The millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable--and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come. It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!

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the tick in the clock the chatter of an ignition dishes clanking Mr. Everywhere nowhere to be seen the lungs don't show the lifetime spent escaping times are cold but it's too hot in the kitchen make me a transient drifter with a handkerchief on a stick eating an apple in a boxcar making it's way through cold night make me disappear a wrangler an outlaw delete my typos and move me to the recycling bin

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Nov 8, 2013

Nov 8, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC

the tick in the clock the chatter of an ignition dishes clanking Mr. Everywhere nowhere to be seen the lungs don't show the lifetime spent escaping times are cold but it's too hot in the kitchen make me a transient drifter with a handkerchief on a stick eating an apple in a boxcar making it's way through cold night make me disappear a wrangler an outlaw delete my typos and move me to the recycling bin

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Blindsided by a rhinoceros. Tendons, muscles, unraveling. I can't do this any-- Glitch, system failure, shutdown Restart, blue screen, flashing cursor Epileptic shock. Epinephrine injected Command line. Run: Beautiful flying objects thrown violently. Don't open this door! Kiss me hard And not in a good way (if you remember how), Like when fishes try to breathe on dry Land on jagged Rock Climbing without Gears spinning and clanking *** and pan. (Glass and sand) Sizzling in this artificial sun Created by brainwaves soaked in ****** and LSD and yellow cake uranium Ghostriding patterns erupting like Stop. Fail. Restart. Detecting equipment... No input present. How will you communicate? Try again. Restart. Password required. Why don't you eat? These tears are making my face numb. Put this in your arm. Trust me, you'll love it. You'll have Tesla coming out of every orifice. Dancing physics, matryoshkas. You can deny the existence of a God and live, But if you deny the existence of gravity... Well, just try and walk off this cliff. "These thoughts are so scattered. I don't even think they're mine." Those memories? They're not yours. They belong to your master's daughter. I must be dying, I'm only this awkward when I'm dying. Connection timed out.

0

Jan 14, 2011

Jan 14, 2011 at 12:53 AM UTC

Cyborg/Replicant

Blindsided by a rhinoceros. Tendons, muscles, unraveling. I can't do this any-- Glitch, system failure, shutdown Restart, blue screen, flashing cursor Epileptic shock. Epinephrine injected Command line. Run: Beautiful flying objects thrown violently. Don't open this door! Kiss me hard And not in a good way (if you remember how), Like when fishes try to breathe on dry Land on jagged Rock Climbing without Gears spinning and clanking *** and pan. (Glass and sand) Sizzling in this artificial sun Created by brainwaves soaked in ****** and LSD and yellow cake uranium Ghostriding patterns erupting like Stop. Fail. Restart. Detecting equipment... No input present. How will you communicate? Try again. Restart. Password required. Why don't you eat? These tears are making my face numb. Put this in your arm. Trust me, you'll love it. You'll have Tesla coming out of every orifice. Dancing physics, matryoshkas. You can deny the existence of a God and live, But if you deny the existence of gravity... Well, just try and walk off this cliff. "These thoughts are so scattered. I don't even think they're mine." Those memories? They're not yours. They belong to your master's daughter. I must be dying, I'm only this awkward when I'm dying. Connection timed out.

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HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR Auden & Isherwood strolling in China trying to soak up The War by the process of osmosis staining it with words observe (at first what seems) green horses but turns out to be only white horses painted green for camouflage purposes. That evening in Canton also offering them the futility of two men trying to put a rat into a bottle a woman who lived in a beehive pouring water into a sieve. War knocks over the inkwell spills into men’s lives covers the white pages of their wishes makes the idea of Hell ...all too real. The spilt ink eating the words of men who send letters home and die in pain never to return only in other’s memories & useless dreams marble memorials while green horses champ the grasses the bridles & the bits clanking & glinting in the hot sun of Now. as this last lost evening dies.

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Nov 15, 2015

Nov 15, 2015 at 5:46 AM UTC

HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR

HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR Auden & Isherwood strolling in China trying to soak up The War by the process of osmosis staining it with words observe (at first what seems) green horses but turns out to be only white horses painted green for camouflage purposes. That evening in Canton also offering them the futility of two men trying to put a rat into a bottle a woman who lived in a beehive pouring water into a sieve. War knocks over the inkwell spills into men’s lives covers the white pages of their wishes makes the idea of Hell ...all too real. The spilt ink eating the words of men who send letters home and die in pain never to return only in other’s memories & useless dreams marble memorials while green horses champ the grasses the bridles & the bits clanking & glinting in the hot sun of Now. as this last lost evening dies.

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i should have known that when your hands crept around me and i did not pull away i should have known when the particles in my neck yearned to have your fingerprints tattooed upon them that you could not possibly wash over me as anything more than acid for my eyes have always sought out people that have cliffs inside of them and empty auditoriums echoing full of a thousand empty ***** and a habit of leaving things void objects in the mirror are more broken than they appear and the car wreck that is the mess of my heart burns white hot in the aftermath of the inferno that was our time together i was left blinded by the sight of a closed door and the sound of the lock clicking behind you robbed me of my hearing and i wish for once i could have a love that did not leave i wish i didn’t caress the mouths of broken bottles i find on the beach like i was looking for a pair of lips i could put a name to and kiss the lips of glasses filled with whiskey and regret before letting a man’s breath pour over me like liquid courage and yeah, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, so is it really a surprise that my attempts to get over my ex lover depression and my drunken **** suicide and my friends with benefits anxiety are usually a direct route to a city whose bulbs are not broken and whose skyscrapers will hold me tight enough to squeeze out the insanity if only for a night because the only times i can forget my ex lovers face is when i’m gazing into the bottomless eyes of a bottle and the only time my hands stop squeezing my own throat is when someone holds them tightly enough that i cannot break away so i may break the only times my old friends with benefits does not knock on my door with a shaking hand and clanking knees is when someone else is already inside

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Jan 31, 2016

Jan 31, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC

in a world where we **** to forget

i should have known that when your hands crept around me and i did not pull away i should have known when the particles in my neck yearned to have your fingerprints tattooed upon them that you could not possibly wash over me as anything more than acid for my eyes have always sought out people that have cliffs inside of them and empty auditoriums echoing full of a thousand empty ***** and a habit of leaving things void objects in the mirror are more broken than they appear and the car wreck that is the mess of my heart burns white hot in the aftermath of the inferno that was our time together i was left blinded by the sight of a closed door and the sound of the lock clicking behind you robbed me of my hearing and i wish for once i could have a love that did not leave i wish i didn’t caress the mouths of broken bottles i find on the beach like i was looking for a pair of lips i could put a name to and kiss the lips of glasses filled with whiskey and regret before letting a man’s breath pour over me like liquid courage and yeah, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, so is it really a surprise that my attempts to get over my ex lover depression and my drunken **** suicide and my friends with benefits anxiety are usually a direct route to a city whose bulbs are not broken and whose skyscrapers will hold me tight enough to squeeze out the insanity if only for a night because the only times i can forget my ex lovers face is when i’m gazing into the bottomless eyes of a bottle and the only time my hands stop squeezing my own throat is when someone holds them tightly enough that i cannot break away so i may break the only times my old friends with benefits does not knock on my door with a shaking hand and clanking knees is when someone else is already inside

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I find myself locked in a chamber of blocks I'm not sure of the time since I don't have a clock And it might have been days but my head's in a haze Hell it may have been weeks since I entered this maze My route might be round and I'm hearing these sounds That suggest maybe soon my own death might be found There's clanking and groaning, I just heard a hiss This shrub with a face looking awfully ****** I dismissed of the notion of friendly emotion The plant just exploded and caused a commotion There's lava and gravel just fell on my head If I didn't fall sideways I'd likely be dead But I fell down a ledge and another live hedge Snuck up and demolished some half of the edge So now I'll dig up but I don't have a pick It's awfully hard since the stone is quite thick And my friends are all ***** and they don't hear my screams From this pit in a cavern knee deep in a stream So please take my advice 'fore you dig in the earth It's more likely than not going to not be quite worth it

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Mar 19, 2016

Mar 19, 2016 at 2:41 PM UTC

Why I Don't Mine

I find myself locked in a chamber of blocks I'm not sure of the time since I don't have a clock And it might have been days but my head's in a haze Hell it may have been weeks since I entered this maze My route might be round and I'm hearing these sounds That suggest maybe soon my own death might be found There's clanking and groaning, I just heard a hiss This shrub with a face looking awfully ****** I dismissed of the notion of friendly emotion The plant just exploded and caused a commotion There's lava and gravel just fell on my head If I didn't fall sideways I'd likely be dead But I fell down a ledge and another live hedge Snuck up and demolished some half of the edge So now I'll dig up but I don't have a pick It's awfully hard since the stone is quite thick And my friends are all ***** and they don't hear my screams From this pit in a cavern knee deep in a stream So please take my advice 'fore you dig in the earth It's more likely than not going to not be quite worth it

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And this place our forefathers made for man! This is the process of our love and wisdom, To each poor brother who offends against us— Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty? Is this the only cure? Merciful God! Each pore and natural outlet shrivelled up By Ignorance and parching Poverty, His energies roll back upon his heart, And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison, They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot; Then we call in our pampered mountebanks— And this is their best cure! uncomforted And friendless solitude, groaning and tears, And savage faces, at the clanking hour, Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungeon, By the lamp’s dismal twilgiht! So he lies Circled with evil, till his very soul Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed By sights of ever more deformity! With other ministrations thou, O Nature! Healest thy wandering and distempered child: Thou pourest on him thy soft influences, Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets, Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters, Till he relent, and can no more endure To be a jarring and a dissonant thing Amid this general dance and minstrelsy; But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, His angry spirit healed and harmonized By the benignant touch of Love and Beauty.

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2.5k

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

And this place our forefathers made for man! This is the process of our love and wisdom, To each poor brother who offends against us— Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty? Is this the only cure? Merciful God! Each pore and natural outlet shrivelled up By Ignorance and parching Poverty, His energies roll back upon his heart, And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison, They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot; Then we call in our pampered mountebanks— And this is their best cure! uncomforted And friendless solitude, groaning and tears, And savage faces, at the clanking hour, Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungeon, By the lamp’s dismal twilgiht! So he lies Circled with evil, till his very soul Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed By sights of ever more deformity! With other ministrations thou, O Nature! Healest thy wandering and distempered child: Thou pourest on him thy soft influences, Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets, Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters, Till he relent, and can no more endure To be a jarring and a dissonant thing Amid this general dance and minstrelsy; But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, His angry spirit healed and harmonized By the benignant touch of Love and Beauty.

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Melodious moonlight thy clear liquid spreads painting all in lavender hue and moistening lips wait for the kiss of your words, muse You sing through her parted lips your cryptic hymns and poetry, words wound together in strange nightly meter that twist together and shift like tree limbs tangled and petals cast down the stream To bathe in the rippling water and wait for clarity to wash away the rough edges of the mind let the stones become smooth and mind like bowstrings, taughtened. But the crowds protest in collective indignation all members chained together by common trepidation lest altars crack under the weight of strange words and the diety's light grows dim they sharpen what was dull and loose arrows in laughing mirth into bodies' crooked minds uninhibited and feet unshackled The ones in the crowd yell with groans and laughter but they groan also with the pain of what is constant death and birth... they are resigned to their tradition's lies and perish ten thousand times. Nascent generations yell out in incredulity until voices become hoarse and skin turns gray, resign themselves to murmur their insolence in dreams as they whither slowly away. But the one who, in nighttime, sings and bestowed by muse's mind, from human lips part words and strange poems spoken blaspheme will live but once and one day rest by the shifting branches and on grass by trickling stream and not by chain's clanking arrest.

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Oct 9, 2018

Oct 9, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC

The Muse and the Crowd

Melodious moonlight thy clear liquid spreads painting all in lavender hue and moistening lips wait for the kiss of your words, muse You sing through her parted lips your cryptic hymns and poetry, words wound together in strange nightly meter that twist together and shift like tree limbs tangled and petals cast down the stream To bathe in the rippling water and wait for clarity to wash away the rough edges of the mind let the stones become smooth and mind like bowstrings, taughtened. But the crowds protest in collective indignation all members chained together by common trepidation lest altars crack under the weight of strange words and the diety's light grows dim they sharpen what was dull and loose arrows in laughing mirth into bodies' crooked minds uninhibited and feet unshackled The ones in the crowd yell with groans and laughter but they groan also with the pain of what is constant death and birth... they are resigned to their tradition's lies and perish ten thousand times. Nascent generations yell out in incredulity until voices become hoarse and skin turns gray, resign themselves to murmur their insolence in dreams as they whither slowly away. But the one who, in nighttime, sings and bestowed by muse's mind, from human lips part words and strange poems spoken blaspheme will live but once and one day rest by the shifting branches and on grass by trickling stream and not by chain's clanking arrest.

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troglo-what? look it up, those who do not know the word for I am a lover of words obscure exotic esoteric poetic pedantic petty greasy slimy odoriferous clanking cacophonous melodious odious arcane archaic all a primal pleasure to hear, to write, to read when perched in the right order and place to take flight and allow me to soar above or hide below the massed multitudes of monkeys who share my deoxyribonucleic acid (and you thought I would simply say, DNA) for they find solace in the day shared with simian soul mates but I, the true troglodyte of Texas prefer the singular scent of words on trackless trails over the sound of lovers and their breathless tales

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Jan 24, 2013

Jan 24, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC

a troglodyte in Texas

troglo-what? look it up, those who do not know the word for I am a lover of words obscure exotic esoteric poetic pedantic petty greasy slimy odoriferous clanking cacophonous melodious odious arcane archaic all a primal pleasure to hear, to write, to read when perched in the right order and place to take flight and allow me to soar above or hide below the massed multitudes of monkeys who share my deoxyribonucleic acid (and you thought I would simply say, DNA) for they find solace in the day shared with simian soul mates but I, the true troglodyte of Texas prefer the singular scent of words on trackless trails over the sound of lovers and their breathless tales

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You hold me gently Letting me slither down your throat You feel the burn of my venom Slowly drifting you off into another life I'm that bottle of jacks you cracked open I'm the two cubes of ice Clinking and clanking against the glass I'm the condensation dripping off the glass Onto your black satin pants I'm the midnight stranger You have one night stands with Just to ease your problems You hold me tightly Letting my edges run across foreign skin You feel the sting of my tip Slowly rowing you off into a fantasy I'm the blade you hold with pride The drops of blood Dripping and puddling at your feet I'm the scar that wont go away Hiding under ******* and bracelets I'm the midnight stranger You have one night stands with Just to feel relief from yesterday You hold me shaking Letting my every fiber run around your neck You feel the tightness of my grasp Slowly release you from reality I'm the noose you tide awkwardly The black and blues Bruising and beating on your neck I'm the first resort you run to Chasing off your worries along with the oxygen I'm the midnight stranger You have one night stands with Just to get away from the depression You hold me sweetly Letting my cold steel hide behind your finger You feel the weight of every bullet Slowly sending you off to slumber I'm the pistol you're afraid of The silver and gold Sparkling and shining in front of your face I'm the last option you ever think of Killing your thoughts with the pulling of a trigger I'm the midnight stranger You have one night stands with Just to save yourself from tomorrow These are my confessions as the midnight stranger Always witnessing you leaving me behind Rushing yourself out the door in the morning No trace that our love ever existed Even when I loved you like no other Because I was the only one to ever love you But you never shared love with It was always hate Pain we both endured together As you forced me to take away your depression Forcing me to **** the only friend I thought I could make I'm the midnight stranger You have one night stands with Just because I'm all you ever had

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Oct 25, 2014

Oct 25, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC

robert-guerrero

Confessions of a Midnight Stranger

You hold me gently Letting me slither down your throat You feel the burn of my venom Slowly drifting you off into another life I'm that bottle of jacks you cracked open I'm the two cubes of ice Clinking and clanking against the glass I'm the condensation dripping off the glass Onto your black satin pants I'm the midnight stranger You have one night stands with Just to ease your problems You hold me tightly Letting my edges run across foreign skin You feel the sting of my tip Slowly rowing you off into a fantasy I'm the blade you hold with pride The drops of blood Dripping and puddling at your feet I'm the scar that wont go away Hiding under ******* and bracelets I'm the midnight stranger You have one night stands with Just to feel relief from yesterday You hold me shaking Letting my every fiber run around your neck You feel the tightness of my grasp Slowly release you from reality I'm the noose you tide awkwardly The black and blues Bruising and beating on your neck I'm the first resort you run to Chasing off your worries along with the oxygen I'm the midnight stranger You have one night stands with Just to get away from the depression You hold me sweetly Letting my cold steel hide behind your finger You feel the weight of every bullet Slowly sending you off to slumber I'm the pistol you're afraid of The silver and gold Sparkling and shining in front of your face I'm the last option you ever think of Killing your thoughts with the pulling of a trigger I'm the midnight stranger You have one night stands with Just to save yourself from tomorrow These are my confessions as the midnight stranger Always witnessing you leaving me behind Rushing yourself out the door in the morning No trace that our love ever existed Even when I loved you like no other Because I was the only one to ever love you But you never shared love with It was always hate Pain we both endured together As you forced me to take away your depression Forcing me to **** the only friend I thought I could make I'm the midnight stranger You have one night stands with Just because I'm all you ever had

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Musing at my bedroom window proscenium to the street scene parents in the back room snoring St. Michael's sandstones frowning at poor sally shambling shuffling from secret shadow to moonshine bottles clanking - guilty glancing bulging stout bag - liquor dancing. Standing at our poet's corner spectators pilgrims commentators. Ectoplasmis streams rise and flare hot heaving lungs to cold dry air. They stare - prepare explanations poltergeist premeditations.

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Jul 2, 2015

Jul 2, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC

Runcorn: The Byron Street Poltergeist

Musing at my bedroom window proscenium to the street scene parents in the back room snoring St. Michael's sandstones frowning at poor sally shambling shuffling from secret shadow to moonshine bottles clanking - guilty glancing bulging stout bag - liquor dancing. Standing at our poet's corner spectators pilgrims commentators. Ectoplasmis streams rise and flare hot heaving lungs to cold dry air. They stare - prepare explanations poltergeist premeditations.

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I can no longer eat them A bag of cookies We ate them The day of my first kiss We were at school Of all places for this story to start In the college office Whenever we were in there Clara put on headphones to block us out I now know that she did it Because she couldn’t stand to watch This, all of this, happen to me But I digress We sat in the college office You, me, and Karol You said you had to go To clean your room But we could come with So we followed you home I hadn’t been up there before But it’s all burned in my brain The door opened Clothes thrown across the floor Two beds, one for you the other for your brother A shelf packed with stuff A TV sitting on a stand The dresser in the closet and another under a window Karol and I sat on your bed as you cleaned the room You brought up the cookies and apples Set them on the dresser You handed me two rings Just too small for my fingers I still have them, somewhere They sit in a box alone I wish I could put these memories with them When the room was clean Karol left to go sleep in the van Leaving us alone We moved the furniture The beds rotated to a new wall The dresser sat between them The TV and shelf sat in an alcove They fit so perfect you would think it was made for them Then we laid on your bed We put on American Dad on Hulu The one where Stan had to put his kid’s best friend in the witness protection program And we laid there for hours Eating this bag of animal crackers that you brought up for us all to eat You held me as my back fit in against your chest I felt your cheek against mine I turned to look at you And we kissed like nothing else mattered Then we sat there like nothing happened But of course it had I remember your tongue Wrestling it’s way into my mouth Our glasses clanking together as lip met lip We shed them and we laid there together eating the cookies But now you’re gone And I can’t eat them without thinking of you

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Jun 17, 2019

Jun 17, 2019 at 1:43 PM UTC

A bag of cookies

I can no longer eat them A bag of cookies We ate them The day of my first kiss We were at school Of all places for this story to start In the college office Whenever we were in there Clara put on headphones to block us out I now know that she did it Because she couldn’t stand to watch This, all of this, happen to me But I digress We sat in the college office You, me, and Karol You said you had to go To clean your room But we could come with So we followed you home I hadn’t been up there before But it’s all burned in my brain The door opened Clothes thrown across the floor Two beds, one for you the other for your brother A shelf packed with stuff A TV sitting on a stand The dresser in the closet and another under a window Karol and I sat on your bed as you cleaned the room You brought up the cookies and apples Set them on the dresser You handed me two rings Just too small for my fingers I still have them, somewhere They sit in a box alone I wish I could put these memories with them When the room was clean Karol left to go sleep in the van Leaving us alone We moved the furniture The beds rotated to a new wall The dresser sat between them The TV and shelf sat in an alcove They fit so perfect you would think it was made for them Then we laid on your bed We put on American Dad on Hulu The one where Stan had to put his kid’s best friend in the witness protection program And we laid there for hours Eating this bag of animal crackers that you brought up for us all to eat You held me as my back fit in against your chest I felt your cheek against mine I turned to look at you And we kissed like nothing else mattered Then we sat there like nothing happened But of course it had I remember your tongue Wrestling it’s way into my mouth Our glasses clanking together as lip met lip We shed them and we laid there together eating the cookies But now you’re gone And I can’t eat them without thinking of you

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coffee, so delicate, yet so simple. it can give you the highest of buzzes, to the deepest of thoughts. coffee is a blank canvas. the drinker is the artist. splashing vibrant coats of sugar and milk, creamer flowing from brushes. spoons clanking and stirring a beautiful picture. creating one of a kind work. to each cup of coffee his own.

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Aug 6, 2012

Aug 6, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC

alicia-d-clarke

thoughts from within a mug :)

coffee, so delicate, yet so simple. it can give you the highest of buzzes, to the deepest of thoughts. coffee is a blank canvas. the drinker is the artist. splashing vibrant coats of sugar and milk, creamer flowing from brushes. spoons clanking and stirring a beautiful picture. creating one of a kind work. to each cup of coffee his own.

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I prefer water over air. Before my parents divorced, I was kept alive in my mother's womb by water before air even made a home in my lungs. I was born and baptized in water, water that the Catholic church labels as pure, pure like the tears of joy that ran down the faces of my parents on their wedding day. Growing up, I told them I wanted to be an astronaut so they took me to the community pool and I was almost convinced I was floating in space, but I could still hear their rings clanking though the water. Water kept the flowers alive in my mom's backyard and provided something to wash my dad's dog with Water brought him back when he went overseas and water was the only thing that could short-circuit his phone, where the text messages were sent through air. You see, air gives the privilege of flying away, air passes through my dad's lips when he whistles a song I don't hear anymore, it gives him the voice to say, "I love you" to his new family. My fondness of water grows from seeing old family beach photos, the ocean is captured like the smiles on their faces, air isn't visible Water makes the sky blue the same sky that ties together our broken family It keeps the wetness in my mouth so I can pronunciate the words "mommy" and "daddy" Water makes me float in zero gravity like their astronaut again Water is the familiarity in the old pipes of our house Water is mixed into the church wine we went to on Sunday's. It was my mom's safe substitute for alcohol when my dad left. Water quenched our family, but I guess drowned my dad.

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Nov 30, 2014

Nov 30, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC

I prefer water over air. Before my parents divorced, I was kept alive in my mother's womb by water before air even made a home in my lungs. I was born and baptized in water, water that the Catholic church labels as pure, pure like the tears of joy that ran down the faces of my parents on their wedding day. Growing up, I told them I wanted to be an astronaut so they took me to the community pool and I was almost convinced I was floating in space, but I could still hear their rings clanking though the water. Water kept the flowers alive in my mom's backyard and provided something to wash my dad's dog with Water brought him back when he went overseas and water was the only thing that could short-circuit his phone, where the text messages were sent through air. You see, air gives the privilege of flying away, air passes through my dad's lips when he whistles a song I don't hear anymore, it gives him the voice to say, "I love you" to his new family. My fondness of water grows from seeing old family beach photos, the ocean is captured like the smiles on their faces, air isn't visible Water makes the sky blue the same sky that ties together our broken family It keeps the wetness in my mouth so I can pronunciate the words "mommy" and "daddy" Water makes me float in zero gravity like their astronaut again Water is the familiarity in the old pipes of our house Water is mixed into the church wine we went to on Sunday's. It was my mom's safe substitute for alcohol when my dad left. Water quenched our family, but I guess drowned my dad.

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You know that moment that most classify as your heart "dropping"? When someone tells you something or you start thinking too hard And suddenly you can feel your chest just stop? Someone's holding your heartstrings so tight that they stop vibrating. They stop making the music you've grown comfortable with And make it start throbbing and makes your knees weak. For me, and many people, it gets really bad sometimes. Sometimes it gets so bad that you can't breathe quite right. Like when your fiance tells you how worthless you are when you thought things were just looking up. Like when your mother tells you the news that he left you with nothing but your anxiety attacks in the middle of the night. sometimes you can't help but wonder why. I know I wasn't perfect but I did everything I possibly could. So when you hear the news he's going to be a father your world stopped and your heartstrings try to sing but They can't Because as he walked out he dragged them behind him As if holding you there forever is such a possibility. As if you'd follow him forever. With your back breaking and knees clanking and palms sweating You'd stay there just for him. You'd deal with your anxiety attacks. Youd try to no avail to silence the voices that have done nothing but break you down bit by bit. You know that moment when your heart drops and you can feel your heartbeat in your toes? As if that's where your heart has lived your whole life? As if stepping on the veins that circulate every blood plaitlet in your body didn't hurt as everyone stepped on it. As you stepped on Because darling one of these days you're gonna take a wrong step and crush your own ******* heart. So pick it up. Pick your heart up from the soles of your feet. Place it back inside that cage you call a chest and just keep trucking like you always Because time does in fact heal all wounds but God you wouldn't know that because you don't stop dwelling on the subject to let Father Time do his work. Pick up your sharp edges and twisted senses. Pick up the pieces of your broken mirrors and safety nets. Baby it's time you learned how to fly and stop loving your life underneath the surface. Pick it up. Spread your wings. Fly on the songs of your heartstrings And never let Your nightmares turn to reality

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Jun 19, 2017

Jun 19, 2017 at 2:01 AM UTC

backgroundcharacter

Heartstrings and Attacks

You know that moment that most classify as your heart "dropping"? When someone tells you something or you start thinking too hard And suddenly you can feel your chest just stop? Someone's holding your heartstrings so tight that they stop vibrating. They stop making the music you've grown comfortable with And make it start throbbing and makes your knees weak. For me, and many people, it gets really bad sometimes. Sometimes it gets so bad that you can't breathe quite right. Like when your fiance tells you how worthless you are when you thought things were just looking up. Like when your mother tells you the news that he left you with nothing but your anxiety attacks in the middle of the night. sometimes you can't help but wonder why. I know I wasn't perfect but I did everything I possibly could. So when you hear the news he's going to be a father your world stopped and your heartstrings try to sing but They can't Because as he walked out he dragged them behind him As if holding you there forever is such a possibility. As if you'd follow him forever. With your back breaking and knees clanking and palms sweating You'd stay there just for him. You'd deal with your anxiety attacks. Youd try to no avail to silence the voices that have done nothing but break you down bit by bit. You know that moment when your heart drops and you can feel your heartbeat in your toes? As if that's where your heart has lived your whole life? As if stepping on the veins that circulate every blood plaitlet in your body didn't hurt as everyone stepped on it. As you stepped on Because darling one of these days you're gonna take a wrong step and crush your own ******* heart. So pick it up. Pick your heart up from the soles of your feet. Place it back inside that cage you call a chest and just keep trucking like you always Because time does in fact heal all wounds but God you wouldn't know that because you don't stop dwelling on the subject to let Father Time do his work. Pick up your sharp edges and twisted senses. Pick up the pieces of your broken mirrors and safety nets. Baby it's time you learned how to fly and stop loving your life underneath the surface. Pick it up. Spread your wings. Fly on the songs of your heartstrings And never let Your nightmares turn to reality

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Crooked bones, coal, steel, clanking and deafened with laboured breath, that heaves up and hacks out as we crawl and ache and sort and hunch and collect our black diamonds, as we mine down, down the rocks and the darkness until we can erupt into the sun like worms haggard with dust and rot and breathe. Again. As each vertebra recoils from being wound tight. We are the pit. The ancient shapes in the Davey lamp chiselled from the coal itself. And the song in our voice is hammers and dynamite. We will be here, always, under your feet.

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Jan 21, 2013

Jan 21, 2013 at 9:15 AM UTC

Crooked bones, coal, steel, clanking and deafened with laboured breath, that heaves up and hacks out as we crawl and ache and sort and hunch and collect our black diamonds, as we mine down, down the rocks and the darkness until we can erupt into the sun like worms haggard with dust and rot and breathe. Again. As each vertebra recoils from being wound tight. We are the pit. The ancient shapes in the Davey lamp chiselled from the coal itself. And the song in our voice is hammers and dynamite. We will be here, always, under your feet.

Continue reading...