"dischord" poems
We are like two guitar picks
They are all so unique
Different shapes
Different sizes
Different textures
Different smells
Different feels
Different beings
But we
We are identical
Just like each other
And we play music that is so different
No one gets it
No one figures it why
But so it is
And only we can get what flows out of it
Strumming along in dischord
And harmony too
You’re just like me
And I am just like you
But we have our own guitars
And that is where our melody flows
The music all so complete
All so perfect
That it makes you just not believe
Coz things cannot be perfect
For nothing ever is complete
For beauty lies in incompleteness
And imperfection
And we with our guitars
Are just so ****** perfect
That it bleeds me to see us that way
If only guitar picks like us
Were left alone with each other
And never touched or disturbed
We wouldn’t get around to do anything
For the two of us
Are of the same kind
We can’t get music out of us
Or each other
Coz we are no guitars
And we won’t have them
Or anything else
But just each other
Two guitar picks
With the same lives
Touch
Smell
Shape and design
The only two unique
That no one else can match
That no one else can get
And there we lie together in the corner
No one to ruffle us
Just left to ourselves
And we lie there
By our sides
And we can’t play no music
And we can’t strum a song
Coz we are two guitar picks
Without nothing else
Without no guitars
But only ourselves
Which is just so ****** incomplete
And so imperfect
So mighty beautiful..
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 12:01 PM UTC
plead your case. the silence that follows will deafen your prayers... it will eat your rain.
tread where smoke has layed eggs in a nest of flames.
use your thoughts nimbly, and thereby, climb the ladder madly
humbly gone by love, my love.
humbly gone
by love.
these are not the words in my mouth. they are god's frogs. a soft plague of cecil b. demille with ampibians and barbedwire. these are not the fickle neptunes in dischord. you are not the last unicorn. only the basilisk in my zodiac. my marvelous queen.
these are not the feathers of a proud crane. but a wrecking ball reassembling a dandelion with a leather whip and a chair. they tumble from my limbic intimacy with your private lies. i bring genuine venom to cure blindness; but i leave an antidote under my tongue should your kisses beg to be a fool.
i won't say what this is.
i have bruises where your name left a dent in my kevlar.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 8:47 AM UTC
Screeching dystopia
Static dischord
Flashing images of the horde
war famine anger disease
I brush these off with relative ease
to paint a picture ever clear
of a life once lived
-with pressing fear
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 6:44 PM UTC
Relatively senile
the memories in my mind
fade as new ones replace
the broken past
Watching the lovers
as they stroll along
the rainswept streets
of connected
bliss and dischord
Looking around
at the silence
tasting the futile attempts
like ashes on a cold day
Feeling
the chill down my spine,
my quickened pulse
as you enter the room
Eyes brighten
as they think of you
Ever so noticably
Slipping into a drugged
state in which coming back
isn't a desirable option
Poetry laced with
an intoxicating poison
slowly saturating my senses
blinding faults, impurities
Grasping at clarity
and finding none
only your arms
folding around me
pulling me deeper into
the abyss
Apr 4, 2010
Apr 4, 2010 at 12:11 PM UTC
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh. Creation is groaning.
Its beauty is losing its wonderful face.
Tears there are streaking and staining its liberty,
Yet there’s the Spirit of Truth in His place.
F = ma and G = gravity
falling at 32’/s/s.
Natural law doesn’t change from its infancy.
Earth was made perfect and that’s on the record.
Why then this fracture of precious inventiveness?
How does it happen that something went wrong?
Was it intended, this frightful disaster?
Why this dischord in a beautiful song?
Earth waits in agony for re-commissioning,
Blood on the ground. It’s the spirit of death.
Yes he was placed here to sort out the heartening
Souls of creative men tangling with Truth.
Creation is groaning ‘cause Truth is the soul of it.
Those who embrace her inherit the earth.
As for the others, when death’s reward comes to them,
They’ll know the Truth, but destruction’s their path.
One day the Son will arrive to inherit
This earth, and restore it to vigor and Life.
He’ll have no party with lies and their consequence.
King of the times He’ll just rule out that strife.
Then will the earth once again reach its majesty.
Then once again mighty mountains may dance.
Then will the joy of the great restoration
Complete the perfection, the longed for romance.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
Sometimes,
the sound of your snoring,
makes me want to run you through,
with a knife.
That atonal rasping and gagging,
penetrates every board,
every beam,
until this old house vibrates with it.
My rage is palpable,
a living,
pulsating thing,
It thrums alongside your ragged breath,
Dueling frequencies of dischord,
Your tortured sleep,
and my tortured nerves,
inexorably linked,
You choke yourself awake long enough,
to look through me,
Emit a vaporous moan,
and turn over.
I like it better when you're working,
and I'm more perfectly alone.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 10:41 PM UTC
Slow globular crawl:
Dischord's mis-shapened body.
Mindless / Self Divides.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 7:47 PM UTC