"forefront" poems
This is past due like the rent paid on the thirteenth
Late better than never-- and I got this here forever
Flow like rain during any kinda weather
Keep this here close to my heart
And when the block comes, I don’t know where to start
Beat-beat Thump-thump
I'll just let the words flow from my heart
But you ain’t feelin me’-- You ain’t hearin’ Queen
So I got to bring you back to the forefront with my so⋅lil⋅o⋅quy
I remind you of all the things that had you fearin’ me
This Army of One, brighter than that star He created we call Sun
Under its blaze, us two can become one
(lets make our Son under His)
While I lay with fragmented words.... spoken
Promises I made to myself remain unbroken
And my gift is as natural as the slender ducts of my abdomen called fallopian
I am Woman
The prototype made perfect and pure
Whose prose is as tight as my kegels allow my femininity to be
Wrath your ******** may not be able to endure
Thought you knew a good Woman and tight ***** make you surrender on your knees
And dream dreams about your seed taking root in this royal vessel
I am Mother Earth
And this is my Gift—my Gyft
I am Myself and such a present I present to thee
For I AM Queen Poetree
So when I seem silent
When you think you hear nothing but your heart beat
Nothing but the cool air enraptured in the breeze
I am the Life that flows from you
I am the Wind rustling the trees leaves
I am the fragrance left in the air you interpret as another
I am the overwhelming sensation made between two lovers under duvet covers
I am the softness of lips and the sensation made by the flick of a passionate tongue
I am that empty space you try to fill with another one
So when you think you hear nothing
When you think you’re all alone
I am every word, every adlib of your favorite song
Every stroke every morning when you brush your hair
I am your deep breath because, baby, I am your air
I am everything pleasurable—every pleasure experienced since your creation
And it all stems from the balance of my concentration during this poetic intrapersonal conversation
I am everything virtuous
I am the eye of the storm
I am your hope, your future
I am the pages of your favorite novel whose cover is worn
I am air, I am sky
I am the clouds, and the Sun’s heat
But most importantly, to my core
I am Queen Poetess B…
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 5:53 AM UTC
It’s weird how one vaguely remembers important days,
Like a friend’s birthday.
But I’ll remember one day,
And no, it wasn’t my friend’s birthday,
But actually, it was mother’s day.
I’ll always remember it,
Because you said you were cooking for your mom
And I remember thinking:
“What a gentleman!”
I’ll remember it because you were at church that day,
And I laughed because the idea of you being at church,
Made me believe for a while that you were actually a “Good boy”- a gentleman.
Most of all though,
I’ll remember that day,
Because you practically asked me If I liked you.
I remember saying to myself: “He’s a genius!”
Because you twisted it up,
But to be frank, I would have done the same thing too.
Instead of saying : “Do you like me ?” – (like a normal being);
You asked : “Is there a boy that you currently like?”
I also remember thinking ,
“How awkward”
Because my feelings for you were as clear as the sea,
But here you are asking, if I liked you.
I’ll remember that day, because I imagined how misty the smoke would look as it forced its way out of your lungs,
After a deep inhalation of the one you called: “Marie”
I’ll remember creating scenes in the desert of my mind
Of how it would feel to meet you for the first time –
if you’d hug me and smile,
Like a gentle man.
I’ll remember that day because I kept wondering:
“What if our first encounter was bad? “
“What if he doesn’t like what he sees?” –
I remember laughing because thought it was funny.
I’ll remember thinking that I should stop building feelings for you so fast.
I’ll remember it because I made my imaginations get the better of me –
I imagined us in the place where my only use for that place is to sleep.
I’ll remember that day because trying to get you off my mind failed once more-
Because when I fell asleep you were at the forefront of my mind
And when I woke up,
You still were.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
Breathe in and blow everything out of proportion
A manic artist versus the abstract composition
In my head this all looked as perfect as imagination
The challenge was blending the line between fantasy and reality
To get the inner critic to agree
Worlds colliding this one into the next
Dreams manifested to the forefront
of a visionary gone inside himself
Throwing myself against the walls of my mind
In an attempt to think outside the box.
Even in our own heads they've got us on lockdown
With the chemical constraints constricting creativity
These straightjackets of sorts
Straightening out the free-thinkers
A fourth wall broken
Pretentions are high
On the artist's plane
Subjectively selling ourselves out to a shallow medium
The mainstream
The water we should be walking on
We're drown out in.
Drawn into the background of the bigger picture.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
I find myself changing as nature does- recklessly and suddenly without notice, and nature is what I come back to in order to heal.
Fires are often looked at as destructive forces,
And they surely can be, but they can also
Rejuvenate. Contrary to popular belief, fires most
Often leave a beautiful aftermath. Some examples
Being that certain plant seeds only germinate after
A fire, new growth is accessible to animals for food,
minerals are returned to the soil, and
Although many animals are stripped of their
Homes- this vacancy creates suitable areas for
New species to settle. Similar to how a fire
Cleanses the land it nearly destroys, a traumatic life
Experience allows an individual to undergo a necessary
Amount of growth and change. Whether what we take
From a situation leaves us aching or allows us to reflect,
We will always unknowingly benefit from the pain. I do
My best to keep this at the forefront of my memory when
Reminded of the baggage I carry. My healing will continue. and I will make a promise to myself that for every new fire that disseminates through/over my life, I will make amends with it
And allow for it to change me in the best way possible.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 7:55 AM UTC
Even if the season of lust blankets loneliness in a tight wrap
smothering those fragile emotions in the winter months
of a lifetime of cyclical wants and needs
waiting for the summer to send its life giving mantras
deep into the ****** soil of waiting,
the hibiscus waits ready to grasp the first finger of sun drenching
warmth to burst out into beauty
above ground and spread its dense green leaves
with crimson flower and trumpet shape
into the minds eye of acceptance.
Soon the valley changes hue as altogether
the trees spring to life shedding their softness
into every nook and corner, crabbing into crannies
and leaping wings of delight into welcome air.
The hibiscus will soon take ownership
of the entire valley bringing to the forefront
our own wanderlust.
Author Notes
Changeover between summer and sunshine.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
My father was always one notch on his bedpost close to hypocrisy
and my mother was a couple notches shy of getting there-
she never dabbled in multiracial relationships like my father did.
You see when I was growing up
I had a crush on the little mixed boy down the street
and I was afraid of telling anybody
but it wasn't because of his skin-
but because ew, feelings. Right?
I never saw just black and white,
skin color was never a forefront
it was all just background noise-
to me it was all just gray.
There's no handbook about who you connect with
and there's no color scheme that's gonna show you who to trust.
I realized that because before I had a boyfriend
No black people where allowed at my house
not because they didn't want me hanging out with black people-
but because they were afraid I would end up with one.
Segregation was my father's second nature
and I would like to blame it on the era he was born-
even though I'm really not so sure.
And now that I have a boyfriend everything is fine...
It's like in their mind the more melanin the more sin
I'm sorry father and mother but there is no color coordination
to this thing we call life-
I never grew up afraid of colors because I loved rainbow-
I never grew up scared of the skin that wasn't like mine
just because of all the stories these white folks like to tell-
But the funny thing is
it was a white male, and a white female that molested me....
And my parents probably would've warned me
about the mixed boy down the street-
so really? who should we be afraid of?
Everyone. Equally.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 7:50 AM UTC
No one is here and I feel at ease;
I feel the recesses of my imagination
spring forward as ideas are at the
forefront of my mind,
yet I cannot put them down on paper.
I feel the neon pinks and blues and greens
that I know strongly resonate with me,
but to my dismay,
nothing ever comes to fruition
as much as I hope.
That cliché phrase of, “The sky is the limit,”
drowns me as I realize
parameters and prompts are what guide me
to what I truly want;
the idea of freedom gives me anxiety,
as I am a clueless ant on this plane.
As I look at a solitary trashcan
of impossible black,
this idea of suffocation
truly
encompasses
my mind, inescapable, unreachable, and unattainable.
Yet at the same time,
limits **** darlings.
With this seeming paradox
of open-endedness and limitation,
I set forth on my prompt,
however mundane it may seem now.
This task seemed at first simple,
but it proved difficult at times,
like most mundane looking venues.
My mind is not unlike
a checkerboard stone table:
cold and calculating;
I feel my imagination dies
when my fingers touch keys,
when pen hits paper.
“The sky is the limit,”
drowns me over
and over
and over again.
I look out of my peripherals
and glance at the red building signs,
wishing there was something
as obvious as that for a sense
of direction in my life.
My imagination truly hates me,
my imagination truly loves me;
it is an indecisive companion.
I wish I was alone, but my mind
wishes otherwise.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
Pyres of cityscapes burn contingently in the distance
ever drunk with blood of a mother, a nurturer who asks
nothing of the morose, self-consumed existence
she cares for. Her brow cocked,
wrinkles descend like
rain that tears down
a window.
Pain.
You're bleeding out! But she'll never put herself
forefront. How could she? Sitting, reflecting.
Tormented by incompetence, her soft
voice silently flutters the leaves.
Drearily an extension of her lips, the words
escape the cusps like a cautious prairie-dog.
Smog obscures
the senses, a haze
darkening the pupils of your celestial eyes.
I still see You
drooping in the rocker under a hard light. Retaining know-
ledge of past and present, through spectacles.
Her deflating **** secreting
concrete into the sucklings, cementing fate,
as the clock that hangs above her falters. I shutter to think of the
future that's afore. When the one who's raised me is not.
No more.
Your timber limbs look awfully thin. Restless and alone,
she's tired. "Abandoned"
we're all alone,
but your company means more to me than a sustainable
stone.
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:31 AM UTC
At my high school reunion
Years from now
In the old gym
They'll ask, whatever happened to us anyway
I won't have an answer for them
It'll be a shoulder shrug
Upward palms
And a colon backslash face
They'll move on to my son
Or work
Or school
Or some distant memory which will undoubtadly begin with, "remember that time"
And most likely end with, "those were the days"
And while they move on with their conversations
I will still have a colon backslash face
And my mind will be in a completely different time machine than the prom queen and the class clown
I will
By the end of it all
Have devoted what I can only imagine to be significantly more time than alotted
Thinking about what did ever happen to us anyway
And when I go home to what I anticipate being a beautiful, intellegent, loving wife, girlfriend, fiancee thing
She will
For a moment
Or possibly two moments
Not measure up to you
And I hope she won't notice my colon backslash face
That she'll end up smiling until she falls asleep
The morning after my high school reunion
I will stand in front of my mirror
And for much longer than two moments
I will not measure up
To the man you could have made me
And I will notice
I will start by ******* in my gut
Running my hands through my hair to try and imagine myself with a different style
I will analyze my wardrobe
And half way through auditing my music collection I will fall to the floor
I will cry
And with you in the forefront of my mind
I will
In true movie scene fashion
Whisper to no one
Whatever happened to us anyway
And worse than not having an answer at the reunion
I won't have an answer for myself
In an empty living room
Because I really don't know whatever happened to us anyway
One day we were
The next day we weren't
It was so adult
I was so civil
Even our break-up will be the best I ever had
The day before my high school reunion
I will cut my hair
Trim my arm pits
And clip my beard
I will iron a suit
Pick a good tie
And I imagine
In front of a mirrror
I will
Be proud of the man I have become
In the years going forward
And leading up to that high school reunion
I will
As a matter of life's course
Have no other occasion
To ask myself
Whatever happened to us anyways
But never the less
One night
Years from now
That question
Will leave me paralyzed
Scared
Heartbroken
Lonely
And even if
I am not alone
My pillow will remember
For one night
Or maybe even two nights
How to smell like you
And my arms
If only for a half a moment
Or possibly one whole moment
Will
With no luck
Reach for you
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 6:47 PM UTC
Here I go again;
putting you to the forefront of my mind.
pushing these words back and back, endlessly
...simply because you opened your eyes.
is beauty more important than art?
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 1:51 PM UTC
The casket was coming up, swaying and wobbling
Like a novice skater’s layover spin,
The workings proceeding apace,
The stillness of the August heat
Punctuated by disinterested growl of the backhoe,
The occasional out-of-place jocularity by the excavators
The creaky jingle of the chains holding the muddied box
As it proceeded skyward in its clumsy poor-man’s Resurrection.
The affair was being observed by an elderly couple,
Old enough to be of no particular age.
Their car had Carolina plates,
But their inflections, their casually-tossed idioms
They noted that ruefully The grass needs mowed)
Marked them as natives.
They’d returned (Last time, most likely,
The wife uttered mournfully)
To take their son with them; he’d drowned when was five? six?
(The years will do that to a body, apparently)
In Kinzua Creek some half-century ago,
Back when little boys weren’t under a mandate
To be safe from themselves, as it were.
He was our boy! We’ve never forgotten him!
The old man said, the words snapping off
In a manner that spoke of something else altogether,
How the whistle at the Montmorenci
Went off at three and eleven for second shift,
And your *** had better be there,
As those were good jobs that didn’t wait for bereavement leave,
Because there was always someone
Just itching to take your spot on the line,
And anyway life went on,
At least in the sense that television screens went all to snow
And tires went flat and fuses blew
And eventually a dead child
Is not always in the forefront of your thoughts,
Only tiptoeing in when the Press ran a picture
Of the Montmorenci Area Class of whenever,
Or there was an item about some other family
Who opened their front door
To a grim sheriff’s deputy with his hat in his hand.
Eventually, after some time
And in defiance of both the odds and gravity,
The casket was settled into the back
Of the undertaker’s huge old black Caddy,
And the couple cane-toddled back to their car,
Following out the through the old spider-like gates
And onto the main road.
The brief procession fading from sight,
Until there was nothing left to see
Save the hillsides covered in old growth pine.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
Pajama pants
milk in glass
watching clocks that don’t move fast
enough.
Leftovers
&
the same.
Microwave myself away
past the unsettling thoughts
into the very daunting forefront.
May I never sing like an angel again
For you, and no one else that cares
for more than a drink and a meaningful stare.
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 2:05 PM UTC
Dear Sanity,
In the night, I wake to find myself without your company, but the warmth of the chain about my neck keeps you at the forefront of my mind. The heavy links rake across my flesh searing your disapproval; pulling me to your ankles so that I might kiss them for mercy. Branded at the chest by this heart of yours, though, I am the very antithesis of your will. I was seduced by the comfort of your homogeneous masses and tempted by the fruits of my curiosity. Yet, it is through fire—the deep passions of my essence—that I will be reborn. And you, who I loved through the eyes of others, will HOWL at my betrayal! Then stand upon your mountain peak and bludgeon me with reason so that I might know what your light looks like.
To what end? So that I might cling to this chain, this keepsake, which I did not need until you bestowed your judgment. Yes, judgment, though you would have me believe it is your friendship, your safety, your sympathy. Like the swelter of a thousand suns you oppress me saying, “Keep quiet your ***** yearning!” So who would know better, the hour of my discontent, than you who watches me, unblinking, during the day? It is here, at the tween of night, that I shed the scales from my eyes and throw off your burden of want—the goals for which you leave me always pining, but never appeased. Is this shirking to seek the dark? So be it. I will cloak myself in blood—for all that I am wrong—and dance in the pale light of the unassuming.
—Pandora
--------------------
And the faces of the homogeneous masses drew forthwith to witness dawn.
In a drawer,
There was found,
A locket with
A minor crown—
Of leaf: laurel,
And shaded night.
When opened up
All succumbed to fright.
For found inside
Was a broken light;
Pandora’s hope
Had lost the fight
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
my body is a topic that trails the mouths of a family at dinner
it is the trail of saliva that leaves shortly after breaking a heated kiss
always leaving a bitter taste
but when did you taste me?
when did I crawl into your mouth full of cavities?
existing as I am cements chains in people's root canals
a topic for discussion
my life to debate
trans people being the forefront
it is so inconvenient and sinful
and yet its the flavor on their seething lips
kissing one another trailing more saliva
knowingly trading hate with ones mind and lips
integrating more citizens and normalizing their behavior
transphobia is the topic for discussion
Jun 18, 2021
Jun 18, 2021 at 1:25 AM UTC
He calls me baby, he tells me that he loves my big brown eyes, he says that my lips are one of his favourite things. He spends his days reassuring me that I have nothing to worry about, that he cares for me and that he loves me, he says that he can't imagine his life without me. That, between the hours when we're not talking I am at the forefront of his mind, he doesn't understand that within each second that he is not in the forefront of my mind he is on my lips, and vice versa. He doesn't understand that the distance between us physically, is more than I can take emotionally. Sometimes he calls me selfish, he says that I only think about myself but I don't think he understands, that everything I want for me, I want because it means I will be his selflessly. He sometimes calls me impatient, but how can I be patient when every day I'm not with him feels like wasted space. He calls me baby like it's my name, when he kisses me it feels like the last time I ever want to be kissed every time. When he puts his hands on the small of my back or the nape of my neck feels like his hands are the only thing keeping my spine from collapsing. When I wake up in the morning and his eyes are the first thing I see it makes me understand why people say there is nothing more beautiful than the sunrise, because it rises in your eyes. I have never known love to be this easy, I always thought love was meant to be complicated and long and serious. He calls me baby like its my name.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
If I let myself slip, I’ll never make it back out of that state.
I’ll never wake up and perhaps that’s what my subconscious mind desires, but my forefront thoughts don’t want my time to die,
At least, not just yet.
I am self destructive and lonesome and prone to sadness,
Yet I bring this all to myself.
I gamble and win but instead of engulfing the money in my arms, I wrap my hands around burning sobriety chips and self destruction
Comes knocking back on my door and I let him in like he always had a right to come back.
Like he hadn’t crept up on me in my most vulnerable state,
Like he cared about me.
My mind unwise and my life unfair and my thoughts tangled into spaghetti string before I cut it up
Before I make it easier for me to swallow
What is wrong in my life.
What is wrong with me?
I tend to whisper to myself before my eyes close and the tears fall out the edges onto my pillow, leaving a residue in the morning to remind me that I am not as mentally stable as I want to be.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 7:08 PM UTC
The photo reminded her of bruised fruit. Well first and foremost:fruit.
Her body, curled around itself, sheltering the fibrous crunchy pit of her, her body white and frayed looking, rounded buttock, calf gently sloping, feet modest, willowy toes toenails like shale
face blurred, questionable dark spots where her eyes could have been. they closed as the shudder buckled, her mouth sagged open, lip lolling to one side, brow ancient furrowed like folds of sand nudged by a lazy tide. None of it concise, only guessing. Her knees brought up, squeezed against small
crunch-able chest. Full, heavy with pulp (stringy sweet, what snags on the teeth) but what if it were to fall from an appreciable height? Filmy is the flesh. Daring the looker to look closer, see what mite be hidden there.
Ripe:questionable. Sweet like nothing, pouring from the corners of a mouth: what a bite it would be.
That first bite.
The bruising comes in when she thinks of the brain beneath, that open, limitless figure so pale and forefront and brimming with intent, so crush-able with careless fist, so lovable with thirsty mouth. But what of the mind that put her before you, that turned her vulnerable, shameless, open for discussion?
Put her before you. naked.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 1:01 PM UTC
Withered through these relinquished lips,
softly lays an embellished, embroidered, carcass.
Torn across flesh-like soil
caressing gently into this impermeable being,
you're only human.
So allowing in the presence of indigenous, oblique thoughts
slanting into the belly
never feeling so bare
the hunger deprives.
The nails of your eyes piercing into the forefront of mush you call a brain,
feeling the earth distinctively tremble with each step you chase closer to the ledge
Clutching onto the white knuckle breast
your hands pounding at your fingertips
its electric running through your veins
feeling it at the core
so helplessly, lost.
Your throat knots into one-thousand splinters
splicing relentlessly between your core
the wedge of your mortal body becomes noticeable to your soul
detaching,
jumping.
Slithering one step closer,
pull the rope
you leap
you rot
one more inch closer,
you can feel it
separating your surroundings from comfort ability
picking up between each breath
shaking at your own wake.
there you have it
at the brim of the edge
you've push yourself this close
whats one last jump out of this skin?
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 6:20 PM UTC
.*pre-scriptum alternatives... either a bus-driver... or a garbage-man... ha ha... Leibniz... was a ******* librarian!*
a zookeeper,
a warden in a prison...
or some obscure,
accolade role
in an asylum...
i'm being pushed the role
of a chemistry teacher...
mind you... i know that the best
way to pet cats,
is to "ignore" them,
let them play their
solipsistic hide & seek game
with plain view of the target...
but i'm thinking of 3 dream jobs...
horticulture isn't an option...
must be the sort of man
with a floral pattern
rather than a sky-scraper
in my underwear
to provide gender
exclusive role play...
whatever the hell the means...
but teaching children
chemistry?
d'ah ****
i want to be on the forefront...
a gorilla zookeeper,
a prison warden,
an accolade
for what's the upper tier
of nursing,
namely, inside an asylum...
but i won't ever get a chance
to prospect myself for such roles...
hence the poetry...
given that i'm a chronic drunk
in England, but a sober
sparrow in Poland...
come to think of it...
i'm ever only drunk,
when i start talking...
alone, drinking?
i can catch a judge
play-thing sober...
but those are my dream
jobs...
and in all three instances...
none, are advertised for
potential applicants...
like a safe pass into a business of
past, trans-generational funeral homes...
just like they said:
it's not what you know,
it's who you know -
unless of course there's a merger,
and you're thinking
about emperor Nero stabbing
himself in the neck...
within the confines of a self
acknowledgment, "question".
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
Yesterday’s thoughts like white-water crashing
These are fainter today, like a babbling brook
Not quite abated but more still.
Allowing thought and deed to harmonise,
Even for an hour, I’ll take it.
The image of my loved ones etched,
My child, now a woman, forefront always
The absolute best of us personified
Love is the unbreakable bond between us
Come feel, hear the quiet and smile with me.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
*Kindred spirit, the privilege is mine, it's just that I,
I never finish because there is nothing going on, nothing to go on.
All right, all right, all right,
you're right,
I don't write as much as I used to,
but in all fairness (to myself)
I feel a bit more loose.
Never mean to,
but I guess I argue
a lot in order to hide
how much I really don't care;
Celina said it's not okay
but
that at least I know
it's insulting.
I only want to be in my body
when your feathery fingers graze my spine.
That tone an angel loaned
to you can ripple through
the void, make a soft,
translucent puddle out of reality,
can you see me
on the other side?
Don't say I'm angry,
it's just that
no one has ever really tried
to impress me, so I'm scared
I guess.
Remember you are here,
don't be weird about the types of things
sentimentality will bring,
will string along to the
forefront of an open sore;
no one pours the sink a whiskey
drink until the girls are crying out above the stars,
better yet, stirring them from afar
for their own faults, for being
fickle with love
and their own hearts.
You know I don't sleep much,
You know I don't dream of such
pretty things but I could imagine
how you, in a different life,
were gifted eternal wings.
Those that brought you to me.
I would weep
if I wasn't made of stone.*
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
Hate and ridicule comes to the forefront. Anyone who disagrees is a bigot you see. Differing opinions must be silenced, that is just how it has to be. Hiding behind children used as human shields, to deflect attention from the problems that are all too real. Spreading lies and fomenting dissent, that is the mantra they live by everyday. Dissenting at the ideas of cutting a budget or project, that uselessly gives tax dollars away. Individualism is overrated, on government you must depend. If you dare to move off of the grid, you must be insane. A disease for the unwashed masses who walk around like a heard of Lemmings. Liberalism, the modern incarnation of Marxist communism.
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
Innervation kidnapped reality
Stark vibes nimbly scoured verity
From the hands of universality
Innervation kidnapped reality
At the forefront of totality
Paradise delivered clarity
Innervation kidnapped reality
Stark vibes nimbly scoured verity
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
Grandpa melted two squirrels together using the fat from their bodies after skinning the skin from their bellies. They were dead before he began this project, of course. He's a taxidermist.
Grandpa is surely to blame for many a nightmare–
The jars of eyes and teeth collected from years of scraping corpses off the highway.
But as the Buddhists preach, I've found some blessings in his macabre pastime.
Most of my friends shy away from the undesirable aspects of life;
Death bringing up the forefront.
I feel that grandpa's melancholy menagerie has helped me
Cozy up to the idea that despite life's bountiful beauty,
A dark side coexists intertwined-
But darkness is not always
A bad thing...
Is it?
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC