"dumbly" poems
Cockcrow harbour:
the gulls whining like tethered dogs
about rooftops
paliophobic cars and
grounded vessels..
Look:
on the hoary horizon
a glaucous strip
beguils
with backwater.
Not putting on a show
the frigid sea benumbed..
Easily,
with a tail of emerald jelly
skim a vanishing lane off that
lustrous sheet
and watch
the trailblazing mainland
scuttle.
Now,
Only scattered dreaming is possible.
In it's bachelor pad,
cradling over crinkles,
away from the meretriciosness
of validating the real by sharing it,
THE WIND
blusters off any veneer.
Here,
stale but spry,
fare your way around the inoffensive isle
to it's most shyest of harbours:
a mouth full of silver
saving it's breath.
The windows facing the sea
seem
black & white,
their wooden frames hooked to the wind,
the splattered gulls meow
your name
in a way
that's
personal.
Of course comes to mind.
The pines
are demanding a visit,
They're whispering
so you can hear them,
each as different as every snore,
these pines know
how to grow in the sand
and still reach for
the Nimbostratus with heads in unison.
The spaces
between their trunks illuminating
the blazing needles
raining down
painting the ground
familiar
to your lover's
skin texture:
Feel her closeness
from jilted borderwatchtowers
as she speads her mire
like no one's watching:
weedy and sugared
with bellflowers,
the waves in her shallow armpit
billeting a pair of white swans:
demurely they float
sometimes as pillows and sometimes
as question marks..
Go ask the seasoned locals,
they say the bones she parked
when she let her ice sheet melt
are portals
to her noble underbelly.
Hidden in the woods
reminiscent of your heart,
the red
tank-sized stone
is sealed,
but what the lighting reach cannot
the rain shall sluice apart
dumbly.
And though her hair has
come to be
the moss
black and hoarse
as sailor's beard,
there is still time.
The void says
her noisy neighbour is nothing
to die for.
The theadbear car with absent doors
incites
to drive her
in reverse gear
to the first few
days of holidays:
her golden locks a-blaze,
her arm around your
hind-sighted doppelganger.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 2:20 AM UTC
Done with thinking because that's for god to do
I am just this appendage of a greater consciousness
Ahab is blameless
in his small existence
Don't quote me
quote Herman and Freddy Nietzsche
They and their hermits
coming down from the mountains
to declare they ought to have
loved their fate all along
Amor fati
Why couldn't we have been stuck in the herd all along
guys who get love and happiness effortless
no need to spend their life in anguish
searching through tomes
found in tombs for eons and eons
enhancing their social aloofness
and their unremembered trauma
'till those sad souls give those pansies confidence
to leave an exegesis of their own
Too smart kid
that decried Christ and
the shadows of a god all around
only to find the search for truth was hopeless
Find a way to dumbly enjoy life again
and you only say again cause
that's all we can control
our memories
and we too often forget
our thought habits
the pre-neolithic mind tricks
on ourselves
Too many MLMs profiting off false mindfulness
missing the point beyond exercise
and short stress relief
Change your thought patterns to love your destiny
That's the best we have
to pretend to have control in this ̶h̶e̶l̶l̶ hole
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 8:49 AM UTC
i like to listen to bobby womack
sing "fly me to the moon"
while thinking of jeff's blue origin rocketship
exploding in the air
all his pride
crashing down in pieces
recorded for the whole world to see
because i have walked
unhappily down the streets
of soulless south lake union
where clueless people walk by
dumbly raising rents
congesting traffic
thinking they are off to change the world
crying about peter dinklage
yellowfacing herve villechaize,
their stupidity knows no bounds
always hard at work in south lake union
producing nothing that won't be obsolete
the second it is completed
purposely designed to make our lives unaffordable
**** jeff and all his tech bro henchmen
who do nothing but steal the sun from the poor
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 1:57 AM UTC
The seed-at-zero shall not storm
That town of ghosts, the trodden womb,
With her rampart to his tapping,
No god-in-hero tumble down
Like a tower on the town
Dumbly and divinely stumbling
Over the manwaging line.
The seed-at-zero shall not storm
That town of ghosts, the manwaged tomb
With her rampart to his tapping,
No god-in-hero tumble down
Like a tower on the town
Dumbly and divinely leaping
Over the warbearing line.
Through the rampart of the sky
Shall the star-flanked seed be riddled,
Manna for the rumbling ground,
Quickening for the riddled sea;
Settled on a ****** stronghold
He shall grapple with the guard
And the keeper of the key.
May a humble village labour
And a continent deny?
A hemisphere may scold him
And a green inch be his bearer;
Let the hero seed find harbour,
Seaports by a drunken shore
Have their thirsty sailors hide him.
May be a humble planet labour
And a continent deny?
A village green may scold him
And a high sphere be his bearer;
Let the hero seed find harbour,
Seaports by a thirsty shore
Have their drunken sailors hide him.
Man-in-seed, in seed-at-zero,
From the foreign fields of space,
Shall not thunder on the town
With a star-flanked garrison,
Nor the cannons of his kingdom
Shall the hero-in-tomorrow
Range on the sky-scraping place.
Man-in-seed, in seed-at-zero,
From the star-flanked fields of space,
Thunders on the foreign town
With a sand-bagged garrison,
Nor the cannons of his kingdom
Shall the hero-in-to-morrow
Range from the grave-groping place.
3.4k
It's in the heart of the grape
where that smile lies.
It's in the good-bye-bow in the hair
where that smile lies.
It's in the clerical collar of the dress
where that smile lies.
What smile?
The smile of my seventh year,
caught here in the painted photograph.
It's peeling now, age has got it,
a kind of cancer of the background
and also in the assorted features.
It's like a rotten flag
or a vegetable from the refrigerator,
pocked with mold.
I am aging without sound,
into darkness, darkness.
Anne,
who are you?
I open the vein
and my blood rings like roller skates.
I open the mouth
and my teeth are an angry army.
I open the eyes
and they go sick like dogs
with what they have seen.
I open the hair
and it falls apart like dust *****
I open the dress
and I see a child bent on a toilet seat.
I crouch there, sitting dumbly
pushing the enemas out like ice cream,
letting the whole brown world
turn into sweets.
Anne,
who are you?
Merely a kid keeping alive.
3.2k
1.
Should'st thou, in grip of dread disease,
Foresee the day when thou must die,
With no more hope of life or ease,
But only, lingering, to lie
While torturing hours go slowly by;
Thy brain awake, thy nerves alive
To thine extremest agony,
And all in vain to rave or strive: —
O my beloved, if this should be,
Call me — and I will set thee free.
2.
****** And thou to judgment hurled —
Cut off from some few days of grace —
Thus will it be to that hard world
Which fits one law to every case,
And dooms all rebels to disgrace.
But to us twain, who stand above
Conventioned rules, unbound, unclassed,
A solemn sacrament of love,
More true than kisses in the past —
Love's costliest tribute, and the last.
3.
Thy grateful hand, unclenched, shall seek
The hand that gave thee thy release;
Thy darkening eyes shall dumbly speak
Of scorching pangs that sink and cease —
Of anguish drowned in rest and peace.
And I that terrible farewell,
Despairing but content, shall take,
Knowing that I have served thee well —
I, that would dare the rack and stake,
The flames of hell, for thy dear sake.
4.
The law may hang me for my crime,
Just or unjust, I'll not complain.
'Twere better than to live my time
Bereaved and broken, and to wane,
Slow inch by inch, in useless pain;
Alone, unhelped, uncomforted,
In mine own last extremity;
No faithful lover by my bed
To do what thou would'st do for me.
And I shall want to die with thee.
2.9k
314
Nature—sometimes sears a Sapling—
Sometimes—scalps a Tree—
Her Green People recollect it
When they do not die—
Fainter Leaves—to Further Seasons—
Dumbly testify—
We—who have the Souls—
Die oftener—Not so vitally—
2.7k
The
weight of the world sitting dumbly on
those fructose eyelids.
They, in turn. melt into the mummified
morning.
laying in the corner forever like a
favorite-shirt
ruined in the wash.
Every other stripe on you is stained pink
from
some cheap volunteer tee that ****** up
The whole load.
Each ray from the blinds
Takes some life away.
Searing past you- into the floorboards
with
quiet fury.
Time passes_
It shoves us down into compact spaces.
(but)
I thought of you
In a shoplifter's prayer.
(There is something left that evaporates out in the form of you)
I imagined you
Still.
But growing
Like
Crystal salts
Crusting up the pores of the earth.
Vapors fumbling upwards to rehydrate
My dry fingers_
We make decisions . that stick around.
We break off blisters. Rip little things that hang off our lips.
We take breaks before we need them.
Take too long to say
**** this.
Thoughtlessness.
*Somewhere out there, they are screaming loud.
Somebody either cares or
Doesn't.*
The marks on the carpet know better than
us
How to last forever
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
If I told you about the fifty mile trek I took,
with ice accumulating on my beard,
and shivering to sleep in the tiny hollow,
would you believe me?
What about the time they thought I was a terrorist
trying to assassinate the queen?
Or the time they took everything away from me;
my clothes, my hair, even my name?
Would you read it as fiction?
"That kind of thing doesn't really happen" you might say,
and I no longer care to argue my case anymore.
as you explain to me how, in a modern day society,
these kind of things things really work.
I wonder whether I should care,
as I nod dumbly to your every point,
telling me why you know, definitively,
that I am lying.
This is why my poetry shall refer only to emotions.
Nobody reads emotion as fiction;
you can feel it as they tug at your own-
A broken heart, a smile, a stray giggle.
Whether I made that journey is no business but my own,
but the cold I can describe perfectly;
Not biting, but stinging, and numb in every other sense.
The fear giving way to tears, which froze on my cheeks.
Besides, if this really is fiction, if I had really
made all of it up inside of my head,
would I still lie to you?
Of course I would.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 11:24 PM UTC
Walking, always walking,
Puzzled youth being funneled like cattle,
Seek shelter from the sun,
Jeer and poke at each other,
All from the safety of their cell phones.
Constantly seeking that one undesired retention
Of jukebox explosion catapults.
Thrusting us deeper into the mind/brain paradox
What is this?
What are these strange mutterings in the dark?
Babysitting wasp nests by electro shock railroads,
Disgust in the face of the many.
Where is this golden eclipse we’re all waiting for?
How can I not see the spiders on my windowsill?
Are these anguished, infantile youth truly desired?
Aggravated Neanderthal men
Try to impress pulsating goddesses of Light,
All to no prevail.
Sickening feeling in the gut,
Why aren’t you here?
Well I suppose,
Things have changed.
The Empress of the tunnel
Seeks out the empire halls
Of the tunnel-bound angst,
Musicians in the hall strumming
There thoughtless musings,
While the the debutantes watch and listen.
The intensity is unbearable to them,
They must seek shelter in their ipods.
Milk, must have it.
Watching them creep through the cafe,
May they one day find what they’re seeking.
Where are they?
Sitting here by myself,
Look at them jeering at each other
In their own jargons.
Have they seeked out the pleasure of life?
Dream-like meditations,
Well-rounded views of life,
Happiness within.
Dumbly smile at each other,
Seeking closeness,
Mind/body consciousness
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 1:05 PM UTC
Edgar Lee Masters. 1869–
Silence
I HAVE known the silence of the stars and of the sea,
And the silence of the city when it pauses,
And the silence of a man and a maid,
And the silence for which music alone finds the word,
And the silence of the woods before the winds of spring begin,
And the silence of the sick
When their eyes roam about the room.
And I ask: For the depths
Of what use is language?
A beast of the field moans a few times
When death takes its young.
And we are voiceless in the presence of realities—
We cannot speak.
A curious boy asks an old soldier
Sitting in front of the grocery store,
"How did you lose your leg?"
And the old soldier is struck with silence,
Or his mind flies away
Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.
It comes back jocosely
And he says, "A bear bit it off."
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier
Dumbly, feebly lives over
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,
The shrieks of the slain,
And himself lying on the ground,
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,
And the long days in bed.
But if he could describe it all
He would be an artist.
But if he were an artist there would he deeper wounds
Which he could not describe.
There is the silence of a great hatred,
And the silence of a great love,
And the silence of a deep peace of mind,
And the silence of an embittered friendship,
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,
Comes with visions not to be uttered
Into a realm of higher life.
And the silence of the gods who understand each other without speech,
There is the silence of defeat.
There is the silence of those unjustly punished;
And the silence of the dying whose hand
Suddenly grips yours.
There is the silence between father and son,
When the father cannot explain his life,
Even though he be misunderstood for it.
There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.
There is the silence of those who have failed;
And the vast silence that covers
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.
There is the silence of Lincoln,
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.
And the silence of Napoleon
After Waterloo.
And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc
Saying amid the flames, "Blesséd Jesus"—
Revealing in two words all sorrow, all hope.
And there is the silence of age,
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it
In words intelligible to those who have not lived
The great range of life.
And there is the silence of the dead.
If we who are in life cannot speak
Of profound experiences,
Why do you marvel that the dead
Do not tell you of death?
Their silence shall be interpreted
As we approach them.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
All so grave and shining see they come
From the blissful ranks of the forgiven,
Though so distant wheels the nearest crystal dome,
And the spheres are seven.
Are you in such haste to come to earth,
Shining ones, the Wonder on your brow,
To the low poor places of your birth,
And the day that must be darkness now?
Does the heart still crave the spot it yearned on
In the grey and mortal years,
The pure flame the smoky hearth it burned on,
The clear eye its tears?
Was there, in the narrow range of living,
After all the wider scope?
In the old old rapture of forgiving,
In the long long flight of hope?
Come you, from free sweep across the spaces,
To the irksome bounds of mortal law,
From the all-embracing Vision, to some face’s
Look that never saw?
Never we, imprisoned here, had sought you,
Lured you with the ancient bait of pain,
Down the silver current of the light-years brought you
To the beaten round again—
Is it you, perchance, who ache to strain us
Dumbly to the dim transfigured breast,
Or with tragic gesture would detain us
From the age-long search for rest?
Is the labour then more glorious than the laurel,
The learning than the conquered thought?
Is the meed of men the righteous quarrel,
Not the justice wrought?
Long ago we guessed it, faithful ghosts,
Proudly chose the present for our scene,
And sent out indomitable hosts
Day by day to widen our demesne.
Sit you by our hearth-stone, lone immortals,
Share again the bitter wine of life!
Well we know, beyond the peaceful portals
There is nothing better than our strife,
Nought more thrilling than the cry that calls us,
Spent and stumbling, to the conflict vain,
After each disaster that befalls us
Nerves us for a sterner strain.
And, when flood or foeman shakes the sleeper
In his moment’s lapse from pain,
Bids us fold our tents, and flee our kin, and deeper
Drive into the wilderness again.
2.2k
The bitter heart eats its owner
It's a fearful thing to love what death can touch
Their goodnight kiss felt like two blind animals bumping into each other in the dark
She felt in that moment that she loved him as much as it was possible to love anyone
What she felt was something like hard rain; violence
and brightness
and beauty
What formed in her mouth were the words,
Which of us is flawed?
He began to feel anger at the peace he found here and the complacency of the blue sky and quiet roads
His fists were in his eye sockets, his head exploding with the ruin of lives
As he set out, he felt a kind of happiness
He fell
and he fell,
and the earth that we call sweet became his executioner
There is a point when the body relinquishes its pain
and waits dumbly
The savage animal eating his heart would someday grow weary
When do you stop being
human?
When the body is so befouled, when you have groveled so deeply, when bitterness eats your
bones?
The birds move from one tree to the next, building nests
This is how we live
The wind erases our footprints as we move
And then one day, we are no longer alive on Earth,
And the footsteps are gone forever
The land is our blood, the clouds our hair
We are doorways, openings into something greater than ourselves,
Something that we don’t understand and will never understand
One cannot know why things happen as they do
We have nothing precious in and of ourselves
We are only precious that we are part of something too big to know
Every person alive thinks they are the center of the universe, that they are everything
When in fact each of us is less than nothing
Liquid, like a river
Season by season
Hope,
and hope again.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 5:13 PM UTC
Daily I listen to wonder and woe,
Nightly I hearken to knave or to ace,
Telling me stories of lava and snow,
Delicate fables of ribbon and lace,
Tales of the quarry, the **** the chase,
Longer than heaven and duller than hell--
Never you blame me, who cry my case:
"Poets alone should kiss and tell!"
Dumbly I hear what I never should know,
Gently I counsel of pride and of grace;
Into minutiae gayly they go,
Telling the name and the time and the place.
Cede them your silence and grant them space--
Who tenders an inch shall be ***** of an ell!
Sympathy's ever the boaster's brace;
Poets alone should kiss and tell.
Why am I tithed what I never did owe?
Choked with vicarious saffron and mace?
Weary my lids, and my fingers are slow--
Gentlemen, **** you, you've halted my pace.
Only the lads of the cursed race,
Only the knights of the desolate spell,
May point me the lines the blood-drops trace--
Poets alone should kiss and tell.
L'ENVOI
Prince or commoner, tenor or bass,
Painter or plumber or never-do-well,
Do me a favor and shut your face
Poets alone should kiss and tell.
1.9k
A crazy ************
got in my face
the other day.
"This is my shop!,
I put the work in this ************
see ya'll young people come in here
trying to mess up my shop,
this is MY SHOP!"
"Mmhmm," a fat ****
in the corner affirmed.
Crazy *************
are often your
barbers.
He's pulled this **** before,
I've seen him do it.
He'll just throw the clippers down
and get in somebody's face,
while they flip dumbly through
Sports Illlustrated.
It's funny as hell.
He had spittle
in cakes at the corners of his mouth
that wiggled
like eggs on an unbalanced beam
and fat lips that looked
like rotten peach slivers;
all brown and ugly pink.
He's in his forties and stumpy.
But all he ever does is yell.
I punched him
right in his lips.
His teeth were hard and scratched my knuckles,
but he backstepped,
gave me one of those crazy people
"I might just cut your head off" looks
and walked to the bathroom to clean himself up.
Crazy *************
think
they're the crazier than everybody else.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 9:28 AM UTC
church.
entering the body
after a stroke.
milk.
my shadow
made of grass.
cow.
dumbly regarding
another’s art.
...
radio.
grandpa cursing outside
then inside
the barn.
distance.
two babies on their backs,
one a boy and one a boy-
their mothers
one of them truthfully
says bingo.
pyramid scheme.
I am sleeping
on you, on your
insomnia.
protest.
a man without sin
and his two
******* birds.
unison.
proving
your half
is also
unicorn.
crow.
we don’t use the crow.
...
infatuation.
what a knee
has
for its other.
owl.
pillow
for which
the night
has long
been looking.
yawn.
moaning
into mother
my father’s
swimmer’s
ear.
high-dive.
or a very
private
room.
...
worry.
a thesaurus
the men
don’t use.
work.
for every right hand
a left hand
denier.
ants.
pieces
of hell
burdened
with pieces
of hell.
...
***
two
as if they fear
a third.
poetry.
thoughts
before I have them.
house.
where mother
took place.
father.
all gods
talk
in their sleep.
body language.
writing
about yourself
with others.
the future.
every now and then
one is given
now and then.
suicide.
might I record
this moment?
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 11:05 AM UTC
The time of year has grown indifferent.
Mildew of summer and the deepening snow
Are both alike in the routine I know:
I am too dumbly in my being pent.
The wind attendant on the solstices
Blows on the shutters of the metropoles,
Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls
The grand ideas of the villages.
The malady of the quotidian . . .
Perhaps if summer ever came to rest
And lengthened, deepened, comforted, caressed
Through days like oceans in obsidian
Horizons, full of night's midsummer blaze;
Perhaps, if winter once could penetrate
Through all its purples to the final slate,
Persisting bleakly in an icy haze;
One might in turn become less diffident,
Out of such mildew plucking neater mould
And spouting new orations of the cold.
One might. One might. But time will not relent.
1.7k
I'm sorry God, but they've taken you prisoner.
Their words indubitably once streamed from your lips,
as your fingers projected beams of light,
falling from the Heavens:
people dumbly read your signs so literally.
They've closed you in a book and recalled your name
when such mentioning benefited their own name,
hypocrites they are;
for there was never a hypoChrist
capable of making wine a commodity
and bread a demon,
unless it is gluten-free.
How your intentions are clouded in veils.
****** in your name.
To glorify you.
Pushing scared young lovers--two men-- against barbed wire fences
and insisting they are sinful, foul--better off dead.
Maybe the hate is right
because it wins ten times out of nine.
God, they constantly judge each other
when they don't believe in the "right" version of you.
And they represent a new hipper you for the youth:
they want to understand you, when really they just
want to be understood.
Some days I walk past strangers and wonder,
"Who do you want me to be?"
Am I not Muslim enough unless I cover my hair?
Am I too Moz-lim if I say Allah and mean God--
just God, not whatever inane misnomer you'll tell me I really believe
you to be.
I think you tire of our piddle paddle,
how we puff up our chests, only to blow out a tiny breath of air,
that in one instant you can extinguish:
the candle had no choice.
We think we give the world meaning.
We feel so special when we hear ourselves think,
but sometimes, I wish you'd speak instead of all these false prophets.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
I will sit here in my apartment on my bedroom floor
Writing and pondering many a thing, eyes darting from page to door
And as the pencil sings its scribble, a thought will come to me
That the only reason I am with you is to not feel lonely
I've written a million times about this thing we call "love"
Joking about how you and I are a pair of complimenting gloves
The fact that we bring the best out of each other no matter what it comes to
But my mind and heart scream in unison that I'm not in love with you
I stop my pencil for a second to see what I've written
Feeling as if my heart's in my throat and rubbing my neck as if bitten
Not knowing how to digest that you are simply just a pawn
Sighing in what seems disbelief, but still I write on
Wanting to feel the feelings that you often share with me
While dumbly nodding and playing the part so that you will not leave
Furrowing my brow and wishing the epiphany would cease
Yet knowing even if it's buried in lies, the truth has found a crease
Here I sit with a heart in one hand and a pencil in the other
Knowing the truth is evident in the soul, cover to cover
And I will apologize a million times before this day is through
When the tears well up when I say I'm not in love with you
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 3:51 PM UTC
Misty Morning, tunnel exit
Radio blaring. Yet more Brexit
Shipyards looming in the mist
Coffee. Top of this checklist
Distantly spied, Golden Arches glisten
Dumbly calling those who listen
Desperate homeless huddled outside
Callous addiction stealing his pride
Inside the feckless locals gather
Of nameless baby dads they caw & blather
No sign of insight, syns nor points
Weight of burgers on their joints
Red-eyed middle management jostle for WiFi
Ketchup spilt upon his tie
Spreadsheets, targets, bonuses forgotten
Awareness at last. This lunch is rotten
Light bursting inside his head
Realising how easily he's been led
A new day. A Golden New Dawn
A middle-management minion reborn
Now with joy. Now with flourish
New skills, his mind does nourish
Never Stop. Ignore what they say
And make this day. Make this day. Make this the day.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 6:40 AM UTC
And my nerves
Are like useless hands
At the edge of an
Argument.
My foot had a fight
With a brown brogue
And lost,
And it pays for its defeat
With nakedness.
I carry a jaundiced bag
On my hip,
Like an oversized yellow blister,
And I empty it
With a tremored hand
Against the cistern.
Half of my face
Went numb and
I dumbly
Stared into the bathroom mirror,
Astounded that I
Could still smile.
My most meaningful relationship
Is with laxatives!
I romanticise my gut,
Where the flora lives,
Because you have to
Love your body,
Somehow -
Don’t you?
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:21 AM UTC
Last night I witnessed the deterioration of our current generation. Talks of shots and girl's tight tops, which beats are sick, which beers have hops.
A dance floor full of bodies doing nothing more than rocking; simply swaying back and forth letting their bare skin do the talking.
Girls are laughing loudly, flirting dumbly without pride. Boys are softly grabbing, trying hard to get inside.
I'm not under the impression that a club is good for sessions of intensive conversation; but there's a line of crossed digression 'tween a dance or delicatessen and if these young kids don't lessen their completely bared obsession with finding a *** connection I fear loss of life, regression and required intercession so we may stop this great depression and procede with the progression of these young children's ascension to the spiritual dimension.
They owe it to themselves to see there's more to life than spells of boredom bleached by alcohol and music loud and dollar bills spent carelessly on swaying wills of little girls who get their thrills all fully spilled out of tight clothes and popping compact coloured pills.
And as I danced to pulsing beat, seeing all eyes know not discreet, feeling an overwhelming stream; an ocean trying to break free, behind the dammed up river beds all dried up in the drunken heads, I felt much higher, even hallowed, for while you're playing in the shallows, I know exactly where I'll be, diving into the open sea.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
Senlin, walking before us in the sunlight,
Bending his small legs in a peculiar way,
Goes to his work with thoughts of the universe.
His hands are in his pockets, he smokes his pipe,
He is happily conscious of roofs and skies;
And, without turning his head, he turns his eyes
To regard white horses drawing a small white hearse.
The sky is brilliant between the roofs,
The windows flash in the yellow sun,
On the hard pavement ring the hoofs,
The light wheels softly run.
Bright particles of sunlight fall,
Quiver and flash, gyrate and burn,
Honey-like heat flows down the wall,
The white spokes dazzle and turn.
Senlin, walking before us in the sunlight,
Regards the hearse with an introspective eye.
'Is it my childhood there,' he asks,
'Sealed in a hearse and hurrying by?'
He taps his trowel against a stone;
The trowel sings with a silver tone.
'Nevertheless I know this well.
Bury it deep and toll a bell,
Bury it under land or sea,
You cannot bury it save in me.'
It is as if his soul had become a city,
With noisily peopled streets, and through these streets
Senlin himself comes driving a small white hearse . . .
'Senlin!' we cry. He does not turn his head.
But is that Senlin?--Or is this city Senlin,--
Quietly watching the burial of the dead?
Dumbly observing the cortege of its dead?
Yet we would say that all this is but madness:
Around a distant corner trots the hearse.
And Senlin walks before us in the sunlight
Happily conscious of his universe.
1.3k
the comfort of her personality
sofly rocked me to sleep
to be honest, in all actuality
I was dumbly fooled by this dream
I hung off of a rock face
and right when I started to fall
I heard the door close behind her
and that was my wake up call
I lied motionless, but content on the bed
my mind is cluttered land
and there's a forest in my head
growing with memory of every kind word she says
I was riding a bicycle in a cul-de-sac
wearing myself out
until I was in the grass lying on my back
staring at the clouds
and there were plenty around
I stood up and noticed my shadow
it was long, making me look tall
a feeling I felt but never acted on
the sound of thunder carried on
then I heard the door close behind her
and that was my wake up call
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 2:39 AM UTC
as the mornings darken, I imagine the paperboy’s mother will soon be joining him. if my wife can stand her, she doesn’t say. what she cannot stand is living here. the paperboy’s ******* mother- what a dilemma. I’ve seen that boy with his fingers in his mouth as if something is there to explain the purple chore of his being. I’ve seen his black teeth. I’ve seen dogs bite his elbow once then leave him alone. I’ve watched his elbow heal a day at a time not once adorned with bandage. seen him crack a dive bird to ground with the rolled up paper of my neighbor. who prayed over the bird and raked it to gutter. whose cat brought the bird to my step, yawned, and dropped it. seen that boy look dumbly at a mosquito on his arm and I’ve seen him let it finish and remain fixed on the spot minutes after. hours even.
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC