"cubicles" poems
Lord, she's so beautiful,
but she's still my friend
I've done everything I can
to keep her safe from other men
Which isn't saying much
because this girl's so smart,
but what I've tried to save
is the innocence of her heart
With every bad man in her life
I just try to remain the same
because I've worked so hard
to have such a good name
and be someone that's reliable,
someone that she can trust,
but on my side of the coin
it's more than just lust
I throw her off my scent
by mentioning other girls
Little does she know
that she encompasses my world
How can she not know
that she's what I envision
when I think of the perfect woman
and provide the description?
**** any girl alive
that doesn't think they're beautiful!
Their heads are in the clouds
and their world's in cubicles
One day very soon here
I'll help her open her eyes
and maybe she'll realize
she's known the perfect guy
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
I was standing on a beach
in pitch black
when I realized I wasn't special.
Your entire childhood,
your dad tells you you're the smartest child he knows
and your mom tells you that you have the kindest heart
and your relatives tell you you're the most beautiful girl in the world,
And it isn't until your heart has been broken
by a boy who called you the one
or your best friend has stopped talking to you
for reasons you'll never fully understand
that you realize the only loved ones telling you the truth
were your brothers,
who pointed out your flaws
and tore apart everything you found beautiful
and destroyed every ounce of pride you had.
This is the only truth you can find.
On a scale of the universe,
no single star can be considered unique.
You spend your whole life
thinking how unprecedented you are
and how different your life is from everyone else's
And you're going to be different when you grow up,
you're going to follow your dreams
and live an amazing life
and you're going to travel
and have a one of a kind wedding
and your children will have unique names,
And one day you're in your dad's office
and you see all these people in cubicles
and you realize they all thought the same thing.
You may be a star
but the universe is infinite
and there are billions of stars
and no matter what your parents tell you,
Trust your brothers.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
There's no health benefits
to fasting: still.
Your body responds
in some paleo-way;
calcium leaks from bones
to balance lost ones
escaping during the ***
Always this homeostasis
while peeing. A setpoint.
There are those who fast
because that is what's left
to them, a prisoner in cell,
on the street, sitting in cubicles
feeling rightness with the same
wrong skin as e's fellow mate.
E does the daily pet cheats
too, until e's tired of it all,
until e wishes that there WAS
a great fallen Leader
to blame, or a giant green Tank
to stand against rice's grain
while holding defiant plastic
shopping bags.
When even violence
has been taken away:
still. We believe in peaceful
God and fast, fast or set ourselves on fire
because the concrete doesn't burn.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 9:18 AM UTC
Fever-flushed children and
Broken bodies
Litter hospital halls like so much
Human refuse
….Wondering why
their need for care is treated so tepidly by a
Society which worships
Profits
Power and
Prestige
….Waiting while
they wallow in anguish as
Privacy
Paperwork and
Payment are
Debated by bureaucrats in cubicles
….Wanting to be refreshed and
restored to some measure of usefulness
….But
Free to Pursue Life on their terms in exchange for
Silence
Acceptance and
Despair
Huddling for warmth and in
Fear of discovery
they assemble in rag-tag formation
having scaled formidable fences
Seeking freedom from
Poverty and oppression
Searching for work of any sort
….No matter how
Humiliating or
Hard
….No matter the
Cost or
Conditions
Disparaged and despised they labor
in hope that their children will have a chance for success
instead of suffering a similar fate
…..But
Free to Pursue Liberty
in a land where their presence is
Ignored if not Denied
Unkempt in camouflage
One-legged and
Vacant-eyed
he rolls his rickety wheelchair along grassy median with muted effort
displaying cardboard sign
childishly scripted
in one weather-worn and gnarled hand
while clutching a decapitated jug in the other
Forgotten
Forlorn, and
Discarded veteran
Victimized far more by country than foe
….But
Free to Pursue Happiness while
Begging on street corners as
Upright citizens dispense
Unwelcome opinions or
Pocket change with equal
Self-righteousness
Life
Liberty and the
Pursuit of happiness….
Ideals that slowly incinerate on the
Altar of Capitalism
….Songs forever lost in the
Cacophony now
Played on the
Instrument of Politics
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone.
Facebook, Twitter, Vine, Gmail, and Instagram.
Shampoo, soap bar, toothbrush,
toothpaste, temperature, and time.
Shaving cream, razor, running water,
advertisements, sensitivity, precision, and cuts.
Burned tongue, empty stomach, loose tie,
missing shirt buttons, beating the clock,
wallet, briefcase, and car keys.
Ballpoint pens, scented trees, fast food wrappers,
loose change, lighters, citations, ***** clothes,
CDs, and napkins.
Red lights, pedestrians, homeless people,
newspapers, billboards, pets on leashes, sewer
grates, crosswalks, skyscrapers, and garbage.
Faxes, printers, memorandums, break room,
prestige, cubicles, customer service, paperweights,
filing cabinets, stocks, and corporate.
Wipers, streetlights, rain coats, dive bars,
and home.
Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
Tortured people tell themselves the past never happened.
They sit and reminisce about memories that they created.
Their hands are brown and worn down,
looking like a sibling of the ground that will eventually be a tomb for their bodies.
The teeth are fake and so are the smiles.
Hair falls off like rusty leaves brushed by a breeze, warning of the death of winter.
Limbs turn into string, ******* hang, and guts grow; like pregnant, stray cats.
Whenever they die, their houses will be eaten by their children, and not even a piece of gristle or a picture frame will be left.
The house will be nothing but a sun-dried ribcage:
a discarded postcard with the address marked out.
The children will sit and talk of their parents, repressing the abuse and the inability to meet expectations.
The children will work in sterile cubicles, thankful that their hands will not be stamped by calluses, yet knowing their fathers would not approve.
The children will open up the dust-blanketed boxes and stare at old family pictures, not able to recognize the people who smile and have perfect posture.
The children will lay in bed with their spouses and say, to no one in particular,
'Why was it never enough?
What did I do?
Was it me?'
The children will be tortured by these words,
by lives that weren't in technicolor,
by the paranoia of being tolerated instead of liked,
by the anxiety that a paid-off house
and nice car couldn't alleviate,
by themselves.
The children will retire and will have realized that they worked their entire lives just to enjoy ten years.
Their hair follicles will let go of strands and locks,
like a dandelion being stripped by the wind.
The enamel on their teeth will corrode and, before long, they will be thankful for the sensitivity of their teeth because the coldness of senior-citizen-discounted ice cream will be one of the few things they will be able to feel, let alone put a genuine smile on their face.
They will sit on their recliners, stare at their keyboard-kissed fingers and tell themselves the past never happened.
Because that's what tortured people do.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
An airplane crashes into an uncharted island and hundreds of people die in the burning debris, and somewhere a group of boys and girls are taking selfies as they stand next to a burning office building.
Thousands of teenagers sit on the couch and eat ice cream until the buttons on their pants explode off.
Kids light themselves on fires as if they were monks from the Tiananmen Square, trying to gain acceptance, their dreams of stardom translated through a series of YouTube comments.
We can't afford books for college because the tuition is ridiculous, but these glossy tabloid magazines are only a few bucks; pick one to set the course of your life.
Middle-aged people spend their lives indoors, away from the thirsty, hungry, withering children, and check how many likes did their photos receive on their smartphones.
Pornographic images in front of our tired faces, our eyes locked to the screen and we do not blink as our memories become embedded with objectification.
So we don't look up and see the chaos transpiring.
Cat memes and colorful gifs hold our attention while our parents slave away at their boomerang-shaped desks, trapped in clustered cubicles.
I saw a post on Facebook of a girl who was sexually assaulted at a house party and now her name was being hashtagged and kids were posing in photographs, laying on the floor, legs and arms sprawled out, left and right, trying to mimic the injustice.
We swipe right to find our future hookups, but what if our future husbands and wives were on the left?
Society spends millions of dollars on drinks to numb our conscience, until our brain cells are wretched like the homeless guy on the street corner drinking liquor from a coffee mug.
Israel and Palestine battle each other day after day while our generation gossips about Solange Knowles beating up Jay-Z with her patent leather purse as if that news conquers every other bit of information out there.
The world will always be corrupt, but it suffers more from the apathy that belongs to us.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
There are some things you will never see.
But you wish you could. You wish that there were other worlds
Close enough to brush with your fingertips.
You wish that others' dreams, their syntheses of sound,
Would make sense to you. You do not live
In this world of cubicles and blinking lights,
And if you do, you live it a hundred thousand light years away,
On the surface of some other planet.
You're not ever going to grow up. All your life,
You'll keep on imagining worlds beyond the one they swear is real.
You must have your writing because you understand
That life, even this one, is not linear. Life is not
Birth to death, and in between survival.
For now you are surviving.
But you know there is so much more than that.
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC
I lay on the ground below
the curved hips of the hills at sunset
The aperture of my eyes, my *** my eyes
and the narrow escape
of mind from body
I am ten again
and they’re calling me falsey
“Big **** No bra!”
Shoving them into the lockers
of Holy Name’s pool
My eyes? Brown. My hair? Brown
My body? Invisible, lean and “Leave me alone!
or I’ll punch your lights out!”
Meanwhile, Mom is mortified
but not cause I’m banned from the stupid pool
All I want— is to run bare to the waist
Ride my bike, maniacal
Be a bird
Swipe ice from the milk truck
Marvel over maggots in garbage
Catch toads, caterpillars, pollywogs in jars
Later, sell lemonade— get rich!
…and pretend…pretend…
till the litany of our names, hollered from the porch
till the street lights come on….
*****
“This is for something you haven’t got yet”
says the matron of the fitting room
Bones in a bathing suit?
What I haven’t got?
or they haven’t got?
will never get—
in their worlds of curtained cubicles
Cause of death:
Strangulation by measuring tape!
*****
In my plaid two-piece
sunburned shoulders, wind-wild hair
By sweat and the afternoon’s imaginings
I built a fortress of sand and stones
to endure forever….
But she— shook the blanket
at the tide’s full reach
Peppered the air with an epoch
Clouds darkening
the wind-torqued sea
Finding my flip-flops, we—
trudged off…
into the changing… changing
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
the filth of the alley is kind
it is the dust of the office
that coats the brick cubicles
here stands the curved beauty
presented and elegant
as if carved to physical perfection
she sways the men who pass
hoping to tickle the primitive weakness
that steeps within
like a corporate jungle
they compete for position
to meet the daily quota
among the urchins and minions
they are the forbidden fruit
they’re bouquet fills the air
bringing suitors
who choose the exceptional
these retched sales are precise
they’re instrument is physical
product of flesh and pleasure
the red light markets this reality
teasing curious souls
into the cubicles
giving into the primitive weakness
they leave them stripped and bare
cradled by the alley
covered by the filth
the transaction filled
she stands
the curved beauty
and begins this ritual again
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 9:57 PM UTC
you will forget
the colour of my eyes
and the way i turn to the back door
instinctively, when i hear the click
and how, unlike you all, i do not yell across the cubicles
the way i crushed boxes for two hours, then
and how i cry, too easily
the six pack of strawberry milk (fresh from the fridge) that only i drank
the smell of fish and chips that wafted through the office and-
-you will forget my love,
my loyalty,
and soon enough,
you will forget me.
i don't want to forget.
"don't want to?"
no. i can't.
i cannot forget the christmas decorations that must be down by now
or the perpetually-unmanned front
or stale, recycled, air-conditioned oxygen that tasted like bliss
and lemon stained fish and chips, and salad that came out of a tub,
and scalding heat against my palm
and tears.
i cannot forget the way she laughs
like an orchestra of the wind beneath the branches
or the way you shook my hand
and made me feel like i belonged and
how you, you, my love, you are bothering to go to the trouble of sending me registered mail
so it doesn't get lost
the way i do, in her eyes
i cannot forget how you are different. special
and how you refuse to take selfies that are glamorous
because you have a sense of fun and
the first time you ever saw me, drenched
dedicated, yearning, and already in irrevocable love.
i cannot forget the strike i scored
with my eyes on a screen instead of a lane and
the cookies, the vouchers, the games
the screwdrivers, shoes, and sushi
i cannot forget the goodbyes i never said
in case i never say them, the next time i can
that once upon a time-
i belonged.
i cannot forget beauty and goodness and strength and
laughter and belonging and teasing and acceptance and
loyalty and experience and diversity and determination and
passion and teamwork and friendship and family and
love.
i cannot forget.
because you will.
you know what they say
if nobody remembers something any longer
did it really exist?
when i was young and foolish i thought that was so ridiculous
because it's happened- so it must exist
mustn't it?
and now i see why
the philosophers say what they do
and why people doubt.
i am so afraid to forget
because if i can,
then others can (and will), as well.
but as long as i remember (even if it fades from the collective remembrance)
then it will always exist
even if only
in the land of memories
and dreams upon our dreams
where we can never set foot upon again.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC
few new words, here.
just the punk scene-
feral, free.
and the accompanying
knowledge that
others battle the tide, too,
mouths as salty with sea water.
others
giving to become,
dancing in the trenches,
transported beyond classroom cubicles
by the music of
celestial fabrics,
of me,
of me meeting you,
of whispers from the lips of
God.
we all set up shop there,
use intermittent sunlight
to grow and sell our bluebells,
our quirky flower children.
we all capture
the poetry of moments,
all maroons
in cozy sanctuaries
rich
with the music of
intuition, of
loss of pride, and
old book smells.
How Much Time
do i need for me,
really?
i want to sleep nights on Central Park benches.
i want to buy a bookstore.
i want to feel a horse between my thighs.
i want to drape myself in Moroccan silks.
Simple Solutions,
i'd like you to meet
Bureaucratic Barricades.
is there real need
for the two sides
to every coin
buried in bank vaults
and sock drawers?
but vessels to be
filled.
i want to reform the public education system.
i want to become a nun.
i want to be in the darkness with you.
i want to see unicorns.
just being (t)here,
lost in idealism
and the lines on my palms.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 7:00 PM UTC
in the backs of cabs that reek of stale *****
blue salt specks are dragged against their will to rest in the ridges of the floor mats.
fluorescent confused cubicles of light flashing by-
your mind fighting to make shapes out of the blur.
it’s january, this is everyone’s mood.
fingers folded into fists, stuffed into nylon pockets,
catching your breath and watching the scenery swirl past
like the entire horizon is made of melting wax.
you’re replaying day old conversations, analyzing cryptic eye movements
and body language of those people that strike you so suddenly.
those strangers that have pushed and shoved every defense and nestled themselves
into every fiber of your being. you sicken yourself with these sappy adolescent romantic bouts
but they’re the only thing keeping you alive.
you don’t know these people.
you don’t even know yourself.
the cab driver mumbles something over the radio and your attention is brought back to the present.
he’s on the phone-
that’s illegal.
you’re a little concerned-
your life does lie in the shivering hands of a stranger who boredly grasps and curves a wheel, after all.
but you play it cool, you turn to nihilism- it’s easier this way.
death is fine.
the cab driver is passing your house while you’re swatting at questions.
you uncomfortably raise your quiet voice for a few hesitant notes.
“Here is fine!”
you urge to the driver while a fumbling hand shakes down your pockets for a twenty.
there’s your house- standing just as you left it
through the white mystery patches on the back window.
chock full of memories and problems and decay and warmth.
everything seems to rest so calmly in the palms of the bittersweet.
tell the stranger to have a goodnight.
he returns the favor.
everyone needs to hear these things-
it’s january, after all.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
“Where am I?”
Have I been transferred to hospital during the night?
I raise my head. Before me is a seemingly endless row of cubicles, each containing a bed upon which some person lies. Each person wearing a helmet and wired and piped into the back wall.
To my right is the side-wall to my own cubicle. To my left an identical wall. Some male doctor is sitting next to me, to my right, and to my left there is a female nurse.
Doctor: “Welcome back Paul.”
Me: “Where am I?”
Doctor: “Reality Paul.”
Me: “Reality???”
Memories of “The Matrix” and comical “Red Dwarf” flash across my mind. MMM. Yes, I’ve still got a mind.
Nurse: “Relax Paul, everything will be all right.
Doctor: “Paul, you just died from old age, very old age, in your sleep. Best way to go.”
Me: “Really???”
Doctor: “That’s right. You really bought it didn’t you. I’m sorry, but that was not Reality! This is. And you have not really died at all. In fact, Paul you are very much alive.
Earth, The UK, London…they are all fabrications. All fiction. And all that history and science those experts told you, it was all wrong. Only this is real!”
He gestures at everything around us as he speaks. But now he reaches for a dial on a console next to my bed.
Doctor: “When we put you into ‘Earthworld’ Paul, all your memories of reality were temporarily erased. But now it’s time to debrief. Now it’s time for you to Remember The Truth…”
And he turns the dial…
Paul Butters
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 4:15 AM UTC
There is something to seeing small towns at night time.
Unpopulated it seems and yet,
there people are.
Asleep,
watching tv,
dreaming or awake thinking of life,
love,
travel.
The unfortunate ones occupied with
work,
loss,
stress.
You are there unbeknownst to them all,
on the other side of so many man made giant cubicles
out living your life.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 4:23 AM UTC
You can’t see me,
But I’m here at my desk,
In a gray swivel chair,
In a sea of cubicles.
But you can’t see me.
And you can’t see
My colleagues
Over the shoulder
Concerned faces.
Or their quiet looks
Of sympathy.
And you can’t hear me,
Because you’re too busy,
Screaming.
And I know
You’re scared.
“My loved ones are being taken advantage of“
You say,
But this is a one sided conversation.
So I let you talk,
And I let you end it.
“Go **** yourself,”
I say to a dead line.
And I go out for pretzels and beer.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 12:30 AM UTC
The memories are becoming extinct,
her dust has become not so magical
swept up in the corner of the dying tree
that once housed the imagination of
millions.
People are forgetting how to get back to Neverland.
Youth being torn out of their chests
with the force of Grendel.
Forts made of sheets and dining room
chairs transform into blank cubicles
with a broken fax machine.
Another day in the life of the
"wireless people", constantly living
in our technological limbo.
Second start to the left, straight on till' morning.
But the second star is missing and morning
never comes.
People are forgetting how to get back to Neverland.
Live fast, burn out... right?
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
I’m the type of girl who will write you love poems in the middle of the night because I can’t sleep
Because every time I close my eyes I imagine yours staring back at me,
I can feel your arms wrapped around me, hand on my waist, skin to skin
Instead of the screaming below
The screaming of my parents, my brother’s cries for it to stop
The screaming of demons I hold inside but my grip sometimes slips and I cry too
So I think, instead, your voice inside my head
I hold that hand, your hand in my memory so tightly because right now I want to bite my nails
I want to bite down the cubicles and peel my skin down to the knuckles and keep in place so
I cannot scream myself when red drips down my palm, across my wrist mimicking the shapes of veins
Red. Red is blood, ribbons, hair. Flame. I think of candles and the ghost they leave behind
That trailing scent of not-so-happy birthdays and old perfumed women with a failing sense of smell
Smell is a powerful thing, almost a phantom of memories. Never in my life have I smelt sawdust and not thought of my father’s garage, his eyebrows pinched not in anger
Whenever I wear your jacket, I am constantly breathing in the scent. Never am I not reminded of your bedsheets, my fingers through your hair, quietly listening to each other breathe
I wish I could breathe that easy now, lay back straight rather than hunched over the white of a screen
This position is starting to hurt; the way I’m sitting, where I’m at, my future direction
I can't move without giving in to listen
And I can’t leave without saying goodbye
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
Cubicles are the best places
to dream, to dream about us.
In this boring location,
you are totally encapsulated,
hidden away,
lost in a dreamy state
& when the boss is not around,
out enjoying their own life,
I envision romantic evenings
at chic restaurant locations,
forgetting about
the hustle & bustle
with you.
You sitting pretty
across from me,
wearing your
most seductive dress
& using your sweetest
demeanor on me,
to devour me with
fine steak and Merlot.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
My father always
taught me to
pick my battles,
physical
or otherwise.
To choose
very wisely
what exactly was,
and was not,
worth fighting for.
Years later
I still struggle.
My eyes are black
and swollen
while my father
sits back, laughing
in his sales pitches and
stock options,
bartering cubicles for
candy bars.
"Keep it up, son"
he says,
"keep it up.
You’ll
win one,
eventually.
Keep blowing chances
and closing doors,
don't worry,
you'll grow up
eventually."
Yet I’m still here.
Street cornered with
broken bones
and gutted pride,
late nights spent
throwing fists at
passing shadows.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 1:34 AM UTC
Marble black bark grow bed sheets of parchment attached by
strings. Spillage of pink arises from the abdomen. Fused clothing fibers substitute layers of bark.........
The vivid aroma of rot and feasting maggots harmonize...............
A cadaver drilled by burrowing insects. Beetles, flies, pismires, and parallels. A carcass crammed with 200 seeds. Bulbous seeds in the nose. Deposited bulbs rooted in brain tissue. Thick specks of white nuzzle into flesh emerge. Squirm out of the cubicles. Insects feasting simultaneously............
A figure emerges from the edge of perception. Routinely gorging the cadavers vital delicacies. Amid spouts of fainting spells.......................
Grabbing lumps of brain matter. Shoveling it towards his gaping hole. Ravenously consuming the bland ashen chunks. Gripping the cranium and sipping the diluted ***
Sliding two slippery marbles into his gullet. Then suddenly publicizing his medals amid his fangs. Deteriorating into slush immediately........
Piercing the stationary ticker with talons. Shortly guzzling the dense scarlet metallic droplets. Promptly the sticky liquid cerise matter slithered into his craw. Hurling the white speckled rims simultaneously in glee. Than consuming the exterior synthetic.........
The corpse is convulsing..wheezing..........chest withering in pain. Man devours his own living corpse, neglecting to swallow his toes. A daily phenomenon……to devour yourself.
What of the toes? Looted by a motivated businessman the next day. “Oh the painstaking horror of humanities hunger,” the motivated businessman then asserted into thin air.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 6:53 PM UTC
Rows and rows
Brick by brick
Cubicles and doors
Everything is happening
The moon is the same moon
The sun is a shared one
Every story is different
Each room differs
By oceans
Vast interconnectedness
The walls keep us together
Appearing to keep us apart
Feelings shared
Never at the same time
Or at the same thing
Turning turning
Spinning sputtering
Smoothly now
We eternally go
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 3:49 AM UTC
The planet it wobbles a lonely path
On the background of distant stars
So constant and locked into their relative places-
They did seem so very happy.
It leaves its solemn red footprint
On the pitch black night
The astronomer's eye is caught by a passer-by.
Embarrassed at his distraction he turns back to his telescope
And cannot see the faded mark it left behind
Only the endless void
And he raps his knuckles on the railing wondering what he had been looking for.
And there is a glint of gold in the evening sky and blue smoke from a chimney-top
And the sharp-dressed men and women in their black jackets
Are too focused on the sidewalk
Cracked, Beige-gray,
It was recently cleaned for their viewing pleasure
And it leads them to their cubicles and coffee-shops.
And then their houses where they burn away the night in small silent hearths
And awake again the next morning with each minute planned ahead
Only to find out the schedule they had followed-
and adhered to the entire day-
Was not written for them
or for anyone
but just as another man's joke meant for nobody else to see
The toil she felt in the armchair constructed,
such a constant lock in place
that she collapsed
and they looked admiringly as she had worn herself out working hard at her job all day-
And I looked at the map scrawled at my feet in a different man's handwriting
"I'm lost," I said after a pause.
"I do feel rather lost"
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
Crystalline gliding.
Clippin' cuticles in cubicles
& itching for a kaleidoscope
dance
with The Phantom
sidling ridged in the ceiling's fold.
Glazed eyes from a friend.
honey crueler.
Polymerization twists coffee sweats with briny tears
& my pores breath the calcification.
Beet red eyes sting like molten hiss
& pollen still buries it's way deep
into the tree trunk,
Bleeding like a sour calf
just to stroke a
coconut leaf
in the musky village.
I live inside a cantaloupe
so I can't elope with status quo.
Sipping puddles & licking groggy mud spots
so the Queen calls me swamp belly.
She looked like she was carved out of rice.
bitten & frail steps
with gentle linger
teased soft grass
in the concrete canal
where the streets glistened
with mustaches drenched
in honey brown ale.
His brain is a tickled cauliflower
encased in Papier-mâché,
Lima bean boogers
&
nicotine stained chestnut shells.
Gears torque and crudely animate
his sluggish form and peanut butter
body.
Diabetic eyes,
that bark like a sloth &
lay a thick layer of custard over their
last nerve,
intrigue mine own to stare
into the vague emptiness.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC
Since I started full-time employment,
I have been seeking out moments of release
amongst the wreckage of the working day.
Looking for that kind of place to meditate,
somewhere to find a peaceful completion.
I have turned my attention to toilet cubicles,
scrawling verses over awkward thighs,
ankles bound by the descent of my boxers;
pockets of inspiration flourish as the by-product
of Newcastle Brown Ale and work stress
pollutes what's left of the open air.
But I don't care.
I never had a sense of smell.
And there's ******** flying everywhere.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC