"fistful" poems
If I was dead,
And my bones adrift
Like dropped oars
In the deep, turning earth;
Or drowned,
And my skull
A listening shell
On the dark ocean bed;
If I was dead,
And my heart
Soft mulch
For a red, red rose;
Or burned,
And my body
A fistful of grit, thrown
In the face of the wind;
If I was dead,
And my eyes,
Blind at the roots of flowers
Wept into nothing,
I swear your love
Would raise me
Out of my grave,
In my flesh and blood,
Like Lazarus;
Hungry for this,
And this, and this,
Your living kiss.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
With porcelain features, I drowned in her sight
Dominant I control her, she submits to my needs
I punish and tease her with preferences of sinful greed
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
She lashes and thrashes but I control this fight
Blindfolded and gagged, aroused from my touch
Candle drips between her hips; she loves this so much
Strapped to the bed with a fistful of her mane
She enjoys pain and pleasure; I love this **** game
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
My fledgling fun toy I command her tonight
She moans with pleasures and screams when she’s bad
Electricity attached, her fears makes me glad
Vaginal to **** play, or no *** at all
A new ******* kit arrives; I’m bouncing off the wall
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
Under the bed restrains, ****** clamps, and leather cuffs in my sight
She’s cuffed, restrained, clamped and all ready
She needs me it feeds me and keeps me rock steady
She gives me her all in suspended animation
Together we are driven by a powerful lustful twisted sensation
For Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
You’re my favorite present, my fix, and my all through the night
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
.
The waves spilled the rising tide
back into the scattered footprints in the sand
deeply entrenched in life’s mystery,
receding into every breaking wave
A stiff sea breeze put back every grain of sand,
elements of a larger object gathers,
gravity firmed, into the silent shoreline chasms—
a beheld essence washed out to sea
by the fugitive tides and retreating sea-foam
Soon all trodden traces visibly vanish;
unmarked mileposts on a metaphysical pathway
slip away back to a windswept shoreline
and elapsing summer tide
Seabirds glide in slow-motion,
held sway into the shapeless gusts —
as if feathered puppets hovering,
hanging from the rafters
of the burgeoning orange sky
There's an uncommon peace in the renaissance;
effervescent crisp ocean air filling
the indefinable emptiness
marooned within each heartbeat’s echo
Each new breath inhaled, disappearing within
the unhealed hollow of every thing once believed;
fully aware this life is unholdable as time,
yet feeling many things deeply retained
in each passing moment—
slipping away like a handful of sand
sifting through all these hands once held
Presence becoming wreathed in a miasma of stillness,
space that levitates like an unpredictable fog
that seeps into the gnawing voids
of an unsated hunger
harlon rivers ... August 1st, 2018
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 8:34 PM UTC
Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
Thistles spike the summer air
And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.
Every one a revengeful burst
Of resurrection, a grasphed fistful
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost ****** up
From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.
Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.
7.5k
His fist scarred, beat-red fistful of intention
Rugged, crass unchiseled wonder wrapped in a gentle smile
A bear of a man, broad shouldered hulking bent
Stuffed-fluff heart tattooed with the echo of love
The times he grappled in sweaty- slick tangle of arms and drew blood blooming bright-crisp-apple-red upon white mat.
Beat, Beat, Beat, down
Tap, Tap, Tap, out
White knuckle-grasp uppercut
Full mount, disengage
Joint locked, feet hooked, Triangle hold
Submission.
The times he brought grown men to their knees, and humbled himself on his own
The times he never gave up and the times he gave in
To the fight
To the system
To the sweet draw of relief
The times he fought not for the thrill but to make it by
Rage hot-red facing the injustice of poverty
His steel spine riddled with the rust of life, the rust of reality
The corrosive sludge of hate, and words left unspoken.
Busted well-worn hands held soft smooth skin
Grooved fingers and velvet mouth
The scratch of bearded stubble, red-lined skin prickled with goose flesh, slick coated in sweat
A new fight, wrapped knuckles cushioned with the promise of forgiveness
Of acceptance a force to be reckoned with in her own right.
Broken hand, dreams stunted, depressed-mind-numbing
Lost in his own thought, out of the fight
Desperate to be back in the game mind and body
Envy-red, drawn to the fight of others
Soft smooth hands, short-small-painted nails calm bristled hair
Growling bear, baring teeth in silent-wounded pride
The time she bandaged pride, and encouraged humility
The times she scalded his senses the raw-red liquid fire of love
His shade in the heat of a red-blistered sun
Cooling, and igniting inspiration
The time she became a fight worth winning.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
With my face over her hair fallen neck
sending through my lips
what I’ve dreamed of compiled tastes
One arm wrapped her waist
The spinal curve of her back
Give-way my others embrace
In my palm falling slowly
with surrendered hold
Her reclining body takes plunge
A body wondrously dreamt by the Gods
but never to beholden
For that vessel has since long belonged
And in a quiet covet,
the Gods continue to sin
Over and across the bed
Released from my grip
Upwards into her hairline
a sweat spreading mist
Grabbing a fistful of mane
I’d lay down on the runway to attain
this flowing coat between my fingers
For the length of time
her hair has entwined me in cuffs
Pulling harder
I gladly yield in acceptance
this braid given stain
a permanent scar
Slow let go of her feathers tangled
In her neck I’m keeping
a burrow in repose
Seeing buttons undone in sync
to expose
The destination of my lips next imprint
like advanced shadowing hints
In a mechanical motion
Hair pulling emotion
Triggers upward
her chest and chin
Two spotlights on the ceiling what her ******* up send
Shaping her back an arc
like a half moons descent
When she finishes her unbuttoning
Next for my belt she reaches
then the unzip I’ll never forget
She takes me in invest
I take her in continuous shooting
All the unfastened
unclothed
Now Firm
Quake
Earned
And Shake
The peak is reached from this encounter
defined by a collection of far to many lustfully seductive
mental hive of trapped aches
Then I kiss her lips in return she kisses me back, felt...
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 7:08 PM UTC
on the green
hole 8, and five over par
southern california sunshine numb
leaning on a putting iron
leaning on a fistful of xanax
i had given up on the game a long time ago
just didn't know it yet
my friend was strung out on speed and coke
"breakfast of champions", he said
he had been aimlessly whacking the ball for the last hour
"fifty bucks to whoever hits Brian Wilson" he suddenly yelled!
sure enough, there was Brian Wilson,
standing by the mexican food-truck,
waiting for a taco or burrito or God knows what
i felt xanax confident
so i walked over and shook his hand
i told him thank you,
and that his music probably saved my life
"probably" he asked?
"yes" i said, and walked away
i told my friend to take some xanax and chill out
"xanax is just xanax spelled backwards" he said
and i could not argue with that
we never finished that round of golf,
but somehow i still feel like i won
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:34 PM UTC
The identity is not correct,
God’s people dishonored
and in a state of aggression,
Geographically topsy turvy,
the history is miseducation
Blasphemy spits in the
face of the Motherland
like mocking the wrath
of a silent Beast…
Like scorching the sky for Thunder…
We’re provoking Divine Intervention…
AND SO IT SHALL BE…!
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 4:16 AM UTC
FLASHLIGHT
If you stumbled onto it
It would underwhelm you
In its common stature.
Four and a half inches.
No more than
A fistful of
Black aluminum.
I found it on his shelf
As I was cleaning out
The apartment.
I'm still taken by the things
That were of value to him
And the care he gave
In the preservation.
It was his grateful heart
Taking nothing for granted
Protecting tools with consideration
Not unlike the way
He would care for his friends.
It immediately meant something to me.
Like the orange pocket knife.
(Orange
His favorite color,
Knives
His collection.)
This small utility
Reminded me of him.
Understated, yet powerful
Easy to handle but efficient
Erasing darkness
Wherever he went.
I rolled it in my fingers
And the tiny beacon
Called to me...
I possessed it
as he possessed me.
The diminuitive tool
Lays among the other
Integral neccesities
Of my blue collar
Bread winning
World.
Intentional or not
I find myself
In more dark places than
Before
Just so
I have excuses to use it
And say his name
Every occasion that I pick it up.
Inside the dark recesses of a water heater -
Devon.
Underneath the leaking tub -
Devon.
In the closet of burned out motors
Impossible to reach bolts
And rusted designs -
Devon.
Then sometimes
Standing at the door of my van
A daydream breaks
While a light blinks in my eyes,
My fingers sending Morse code
Involuntarily
From my soul -
Devon, Devon, Devon, Devon.
Regardless the darkness
It has no power
Over the light
So I reach for him
And roll him around
In my memories
And the blackness
Is beaten back
By his goodness.
Every closet of the spirit
Brightened in that indelible smile
Where sadness slumps away
Ashamed that it even tried.
Selah.
(You are the brightest one, my son.)
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
(... And i like you.)
We never tire
Of trying to fit everyone
Into the shape of voids
Our hearts have carved
And that's fine.
It's still not something I'd do to you.
(..And i like you)
Love has made a ghost
Out of the best of us
And we anchor to the memories
To save our entities.
And honestly who am i to judge?
But you knock new air into my dead, dusty lungs
(..And i like you)
We ache,
And we mould our ache into arts.
Abusing and devouring love,
Like scorched land tasting the first rain drop.
And I'm one of the many inked hearts.
I would leave my pen though, you make me want to.
(..And i like you)
We all have been loved,
And we all have been lonely,
Some of us feel the presence,
More when it starts to ebb.
And I've always felt myself overstaying my welcome, even before arrival.
But I'd leave my pieces on your door, as an excuse for you to call me.
(..And i like you)
We are always
looking for a replacement.
Disguising our sadness with a new skin
Trading one addiction for another; a vicious cycle.
All these temporary fixes and the perpetual sadness.
But you could be a detour from this dead-end I'm leading to.
(And i like you.)
Fistful of mosaic desires,
Confessions barely held in by my teeth
Future is easier to swallow than salvage
Your intoxicated lips smirk in agreement.
All these loving hearts with eyes askance.
But something tells me if i showed you my palm, you'd understand.
(..And i like you)
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 4:33 AM UTC
"Good girl!"
he said, as she took her first steps.
he gave her a hug, and she was proud.
"Good girl!"
he said, when she answered the question right.
he gave her a gold star, and she was proud.
"Good girl,"
he said, after her fifth shot.
he kissed her slow, with his hand on her thigh, and she was embarassed.
"Good girl,"
he said, with a fistful of her hair.
he pushed her head down, and she was numb; she stopped being proud a long time ago.
"Good girl,"
she told herself, when she finally got
it right.
she gave herself a pat on the back for realizing she alone held the key to her own self worth.
and she was proud.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
You make me feel at times
like a putrid scent that lingers
or the fistful of unwanted dimes
jangled in between your linty fingers
But I guess you keep me in your pocket anyway
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
The moment you were brought out from the hospital room
and I saw your soul open its eyes for the first time and
the drums of your heart start its beat
all my troubles, all my cares, all my worries fell apart
and at that moment I decided
that I would teach you to live.
You were born in the age
where to write is vintage
to think is ancient
and to love is prehistoric
but I will rewrite history for you
and make sure that you live in the past
before buildings that block out the sky
before someone decided to take time’s hands and spin them ‘til they whipped like a tornado
before people had to start paying for oxygen
because the air had become too polluted with chemicals and greed and so-called innovation but in reality every nation was just trying to be one cent richer than the other.
You were born in the age where
books are only found in museums
and flowers are only found pressed in between those books
but I will make sure you grow up with a garden of words and wildflowers
I will teach you to treasure every letter, every seed, every fern
because there's no better remedy to anything
than a good old paperback and a fistful of freshly picked lavenders.
I will teach you to walk
in a world that tells you to run, to glide, to ride
the latest, the fastest,
I will teach you to walk
not to be late for school, but to be early enough
to see the city opening its eyes
to see the machines hum to life
because there’s nothing more beautiful than beginnings
and to see the morning sun push and pull
push and pull
push and pull you away from the strobe lights
away from the stench of loneliness and lost time
I will teach you to walk so that you will be forced
to slow down, breathe, and think
because it seems to me that your generation hasn’t heard of that word before.
You were born in the age
where people look at themselves as gods
but I will teach you to see beauty
without mirrors and empty words
I will teach you the wonders of the heart
I want you to know how it feels like to watch something grow
I want you to know the joy of licking a homemade ice cream cone
but I also want you to know failure
to know how it feels like to struggle and strive
to know the pain of losing someone
because no matter what those empty advertisements and
neon screens tell you
life isn’t a dream, and the pain
shakes you and
aches you and
breaks you
reminding you that
you are alive and there is still so much to learn and
there are a million other things I want you to learn
but most importantly
and I swear to you
I’m not leaving this earth
until you learn how to live.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC
I've never had a fistful of love,
because my fist is too full of dirt
from digging graves.
And the greatest fist I've ever known
is the one leaving bruises all over my insides.
But that fist has graduated
and been granted tools to be used as weapons.
And my insides which were once diamonds,
are now nothing but sawdust.
And I can feel the knife.
I can always feel the knife.
And stab me just for kicks
because it tickles my fickle chest
and makes me feel like I'm living in a French city
with a quick and fickle tramway system
that can take me anywhere I want to be.
But instead I'm always going to a town
a mere hour away
and sitting in traffic
in a stuffed automobile,
wishing I was where the trains are.
Because the trains that have always sang me lullabies
whisper melodies to me all the time now,
through smoke and haze and swirling lights.
I can feel the knife.
I can always feel the knife.
Call me Miss November
because I'm the first snowfall after the best time of year,
and I cut the world with my icicle sword of a soul.
Can you feel the sword?
I hope you can always feel the sword.
And I will leave and the world will be warm and happy,
and upon my returnal,
I'll give you beautiful sweater weather
and stab you with my icicle sword when you least expect it.
I can feel the knife.
You can feel the sword.
It tickles.
Me and Miss June sing a sister song,
making harmonies with our weaponry.
My icicle sword, her scalding torch.
Just call me Miss Emmy Lou November.
I'll sing a duet with you and depart for almost forever,
and leave with my sister, Miss June.
Wake up.
It's November.
I'm here.
Wake up.
I won't be here for long.
I was born red all over.
Never knowing if I'm meant for love or anger.
But angry leaves fall in November,
getting their revenge.
But nobody listens to anger
when it's falling to the ground so gracefully.
So come to my November house jam
and we'll all be angry and loving
and cold and happy and dreading
the latter end of my company,
and I'll be wishing sister June was with me.
I'm a blackhearted lover.
I'm a blackhearted grave digger.
I'm a blackhearted skinny lover
with skinny arms that'll never be able
to cover anyone from my frigid aura.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
Eyes blinded by passion as you grab my hair
Claimed as yours, you display proudly
And I cannot hold still
Desire burns hot
You stick your fingers through my smile and make room
Room to claim me as yours, once and for all
A fistful of hair positions you inside of me
Eyes water with depth
Trying to breathe, I squirm
Held gently but firmly in place
A naughty smile and a Twinkle in those hazel eyes
No, you will not win,
Not this time.
For I am not yours
You are mine
My rod of molten steel
My elixir of life
Mine
Hold me in place and take it home
My eyes never leave yours
You watch intently as you disappear, repeatedly
I can't help but smile, though I have no room to do so
Warm and wet i take what you give
And when I am released
I find myself sharing the joy
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
I remember one time, way back when I was ten years old
I was watching my friend do his homework
His mom trying to balance cooking and helping him out
Racing between the oven and his side
And I recall sitting there and staring at his paper
Excitement and intrigue was filling my mind
Envying his prestige, just a few grades ahead of me
I couldn’t wait to do homework like that
A fistful of years fleetingly flew by
With my fists closed, I would wait at bus stop after bus stop
Until I was at the same one as him
But I wanted to grow up so badly and be like he was
Instead I lived ahead of the present
Waiting at the wrong bus stop for a bus that would never show
One filled with experience and insight
Now I just have a blank paper in front of me that’s white.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girl who rhymes
But I’ve got no rhythm tip toe around the precision of other writers
I get lost easily in the waves of patterns and structure
Rupture my skin in the process
Destroying words and phrases in the mess of my skin and blood
Dragging myself through the mud I am a jumble of words that don’t even fit together in sentences
My types of fetish’s aren’t feet or latex, but poetry
Supposedly everyone can rhyme but
My fingers can find the time from the space between pen and paper
Maybe if i cover my room in wallpaper made from failed poems
I’ll finally get there
Rip out all my hair
I’ve never successfully written rhyme worth sharing
I’ve been in this despairing state for a while
Ran miles on my tongue
Wrung myself dry from all my creativity
Found I have a bigotry towards everything I write
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girls who rhymes
I ask for an example
Sample sounds on paper
Ending up with ample amounts of couplets
But its never enough, its always going to fall short
Someone needs to take me to court I’m copying the sound of other writers
Profound thoughts never said eloquently enough
It’s rough to be a writer that doesn’t know how to write
But I’ve never been the type to give up
Cover up all my failed attempts at rhyming with free-verse
Curse me, Or even worse
Coerce me into thinking I know what I’m doing
Because whats worse than blissful ignorance
Hand my a fistful of advice and set me free
But I’ll never be the girl who rhymes rhymes
My fingers will never find the time lost between pen and paper
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girl who rhymes
Sometimes they nearly get their wish
But all dreams parish in jumbles of words in phrases
Blaze through whole journals trying to write two poems
Crumbling my own thoughts in my too fast thought process
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girls who rhymes
I still with pencil and paper
Set out on this caper
With a website that gives me words that rhyme
I’ve decided to let people get their fix
Try my hand at rhymes
Take my time
And slow down my too fast thought process
Soak up all my creativity
A rid my mind of every bigotry I ever had
Because the girl who rhymes
Will always be the girl who rhymes
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
you're standing there...
if waiting were a statue,
and night sudden release.
i slide up behind you--
take a fistful of hair and
drape it over your shoulder.
press my lips to the back of
your neck, and ask with searingly
hot breath: do you know what
you've done?
you throw your head back as if
being impaled...you always knew
i was there.
i snake bite your listening ear--
for the Shakti of my poetry to enter...
and never exit.
do you know what you've done?
this is cosmic...and twin the flame.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC
Oh! Woe to the poor captivated lover
Being trapped in love, but beloved gone
Oh! The moment I'm sitting as tulip alone
In my heart's blood, she is gone as wind
The voice of ax didn't come from Bistoon
Shireen is gone to Farhad's dream tonight
Oh! I will inform you of my painful alas
The day my enormous patience finally gone
Pity lover that flew your grapevine hair
With a hundred hopes come, gone unhappy
I am happy you abandoned all my rivals
Although, you left me as fistful of soil to wind
Mountains and deserts are mournful tonight
Lovers as Majnoon and Farhad gone forever
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 1:40 AM UTC
troll tooth
oger toe
flow stupid
fistful of shiny carbon lattice wilt
and a composted halo too
beautifully torn derivatives slid
from this orifice
oven timer set fer
office space wasted
noob cubed
these are exponential times we're livin in, sim
yer prolly obsolete, so tap the banner below
for more there's more
trends friend then interrogate
unfriend those has-been's for the win dim
naked lightbulbs swing from
threadbare strings faster than light plus **** too
there's ***** adorno
how right you were
this **** is almost criminal
art narcs on
the hole a' truth
so help me dog
im
the hominid
that stood up
this fiction.
slipstream hoolahoop no-show
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
A fistful of time...
Saw the doing and the undoing
of misguided hands.
A fistful of words...
Hurled in exchange,
like expended rounds that
drew more than they should.
A fistful of life...
Taken for granted
and traded in for
forgotten sands.
A fistful of heart...
Wrung dry by familiar digits...
Suffocating still...
Like I knew it would.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 9:12 AM UTC
Just now, laid out like your favorite uncle
gone before his time with auntie stretched out beside,
I woke to the perfect metaphor for the too-bad,
so-sad, too-fast nature of time—or maybe
was a simile, as in: the way month upon hour slips away like…
Like…like the runt daisy in the bouquet from
the ex-lover you never wanted to hear from,
least loved bloom among a fistful of beauties
never smiled upon at all—Yes—least of all,
this wasted flower, its whole-milk petals yellowing
And (like time, lest your forget) fluttering, broken-off,
to the coffee-stained and salt-strewn
countertop…like that, indeed, or something close.
That was on my mind as I half awoke—but stirring entire
the bundle of words
of the ideal image
died (yes, sad)
in its place:
I thought of writing some clever tale
how waking up the flash of a line
of the perfect literary device
some glowing simile or metaphor
(how time is the flight plan of a hummingbird
and before we can begin to grasp the next orders
barked at the co-pilot, the captain
has steered the thrumming craft from sugar water
to sheltered branch, and what moment passed between
is one of many such ticks and tocks, the aggregate
meaning that when we wake up
suddenly 30, 40, or
deceased like your dear uncle,
it never seemed like time was passing at all)
slipped away from me—wait, I’m getting there—
and the words’ escape and time’s escape
were somehow one and the same…
But no, I thought, too precious.
Besides, it’s for sure been done.
March 30, 2012 4:02 a.m.
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
Hazel. Hand in my hand, falling from great heights. My skin, my salvation. Hay-zelle. More a way of breathing than a way to pronounce ones name. Hay. Zelle.
He was H, just H on weekends. Haze in his business, teenagers calling on him to supply them with a haze of their own. He was ****** to his followers, 'whom God strengthens.'. But in my hands, he was always Hazel.
Was there someone before him? No. In fact, had there been previous exposure to one of his caste there would may have been no Hazel at all. Like muddled eyes his name refers to was he. An ocean inside of the mudslide in me. You can always count on the broken-hearted for a fistful of metaphors and similes that make nothing of themselves to you.
Souls and bodies, the ones that have chosen an orbit in the universe of me, this is what I loved like Hades to Persephone. Look at this sole pomegranate seed.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 1:52 AM UTC
Burning bridges,
so my make shift
bat-wings
can start flying
up and the ****
out of hell.
All the way across
the river
to the better side.
yeah, everyone's go some ****
to say.
Everyone is
full of it too.
You either need
a fistful of laxatives
or a fist in your face.
Talk ****
get electrocuted.
The Lord,
works in mysterious ways.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:29 PM UTC
Mike Arms--1 day ago
write a few lines, I'll match em. Can you do it ?
david badgerow--14 hours ago
banjo strings frayed by broken fingernails
fistful of downers to sleep this night away
i open my eyelids out of dream, singing ladies'
eyes downcast thru fear & tobacco smoke
wake up, roll joint, get this day started.
Mike Arms--10 hours ago
being pure ether ain't no ****** picnic
this september looks right at ***** smearing
its pale arms reaching clearly into murderers
lungs groping mute celibate
if you beheld her whole form means silence
david badgerow--10 hours ago
lying back on the car seat, her eyelids heavy
she breathes diamonds and pure electricity
in an endless velvet desert, radio warbles over a hill
"oh, if i were young again, legs spread leaning against a table."
hard labor, aluminum tubes between
continental divide
echo chamber vibrations plunging
their tiny lamps in and out of her eyeball
Mike Arms--8 hours ago
Hard Luck Man
crossing floods
inanimate intelligence
is assassinated
they cross themselves
a world deaf
*** revolution
worst gamble
you remain
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC