"grafts" poems
A duality of elan vital, two people
Spectres of emotion
Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon
Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts
Helixes of snot, **** and lymph
Boy & girl
As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse
A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end
Always was, always is
Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips
Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic *****
Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential
Corpus Callosum
An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration
Theory of mind, looped & bound
I will water the thought
Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala
Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity
Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago
A neuron dipped in nylon
Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation
Ghosts in the machine, your macro god
The sympathies of fractional distillation
Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere
Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears
Commodified, sold out and bought
Stretching, from purple, white and black
slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape
brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic
Monetised flesh god
An eternity bathed in starlight
Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy
Divided dimensions of energy
Fleeting and intangible
No longer a delirium of seperation
All semantics become light
As a rusted vehicle passes overhead
And all the worlds questions fade out of existence
Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice
Sinew flayed, integrated towards information
Our minds shared
In circuits and resistors
Photons and electrons
We radiate
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
I
Our ****** dreams, all seedless in the light,
Of light and love the tempers of the heart,
Whack their boys' limbs,
And, winding-footed in their shawl and sheet,
Groom the dark brides, the widows of the night
Fold in their arms.
The shades of girls, all flavoured from their shrouds,
When sunlight goes are sundered from the worm,
The bones of men, the broken in their beds,
By midnight pulleys that unhouse the tomb.
II
In this our age the gunman and his moll
Two one-dimensional ghosts, love on a reel,
Strange to our solid eye,
And speak their midnight nothings as they swell;
When cameras shut they hurry to their hole
down in the yard of day.
They dance between their arclamps and our skull,
Impose their shots, showing the nights away;
We watch the show of shadows kiss or ****
Flavoured of celluloid give love the lie.
III
Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which
Shall fall awake when cures and their itch
Raise up this red-eyed earth?
Pack off the shapes of daylight and their starch,
The sunny gentlemen, the Welshing rich,
Or drive the night-geared forth.
The photograph is married to the eye,
Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth;
The dream has ****** the sleeper of his faith
That shrouded men might marrow as they fly.
IV
This is the world; the lying likeness of
Our strips of stuff that tatter as we move
Loving and being loth;
The dream that kicks the buried from their sack
And lets their trash be honoured as the quick.
This is the world. Have faith.
For we shall be a shouter like the ****
Blowing the old dead back; our shots shall smack
The image from the plates;
And we shall be fit fellows for a life,
And who remains shall flower as they love,
Praise to our faring hearts.
3.7k
*we are witness to atrocities
committed by regime
over its peoples
over time*
1.
we are witness..
shattering glass of reality arranged into chosen shard-feeds
like omni-gov surveillance into meticulous mind-grafts
spluttering eternal-stats for public mind control
spewing mini-truths of perpetual war raids
disillusionment of history forever rewritten
control supply-and-demand
create dark-cloaked dilemma and monitor shortage and famine
make-believe elements so well played to auto-frenzied latch
thinking is degraded and actions.. well, less said
2.
diligent and loyal yet harbour secret-hatred
feed visions stilted by politrix
deception and manipulation
propaganda is the oleaginous-game by wand-over-mind
totalitarian is the kingpin-holder of cards
and yet, who is really being played!
eternal marionettes on a conveyor-belt
can't even play with yourself alone
your **** your **** your every move..
watched - surveyed - and studied
by that ubiquitous-bulge eye you cannot escape
right opposite your low hard-bed
you're broken into popping-parts
that YOU won't recognise!
thoughtcrime-police is gonna accost ya
get up, comrade.. get UUUUUUUUP!
3.
we are witness
life-tube covered in darkened vapour-swirls
we are witness
children conditioned to watch their parents.. too closely
we are witness
truth so smothered, now re-fed by repeat-metaphor
we are witness
dictata.. dictata..
we are witness
austere existence in a tacky one-room flat
we are witness
subsist on black-wheat and imitation-repast
we are witness
regurgitate the party-dialect on and on and on
(after a while, we end up half-believing.. )
*only the clock which strikes thirteen
can smell the charred-reality
as leftover-truth is shoved
into incendiary obsolescence*
tick-a-damn-tock
and that would be..
one
S T - 26 sept
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 11:53 AM UTC
People held hostage, always living in fear,
The barrel of a weapon, is always near.
Riding the train, a blood curdling scream,
A deafening noise, and a bright light beam.
A violent shock wave tears open your flesh,
The lucky ones, receive skin grafts with mesh.
Your arm torn off, artery bleeding is profuse,
A dying thought is, what was the use?
What was the purpose, to **** all these people?
In the name of Allah, perched on a mosque steeple.
Radical extremists don't care about life,
By murdering people they increase human strife.
Wasting resources, bringing the Earth gloom,
Look at faces on a plane, many filled with doom.
The last thirty five years I don't understand,
Middle Eastern countries, together they band.
Bringing terror and hatred towards cultures of the west,
We accept the need to feel your ways are the best.
Pray all you like, cover up a women's face,
Stop trying to change America's philosophy and place.
Once the oil is gone, and the land again bare,
Back to living in tents, flowing robes you will wear.
Your tactics are old, soon you may feel,
The burning of skin, this inferno is real.
A nuclear explosion will end years of frustration,
No longer putting up with terrorists indignation.
Revolutions reveal, the world ending in flame,
Enough with this nonsense, put an end to this game!
Visit poemsbypaul.com
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
your heart pumps kerosene
to your matchstick veins,
& maybe i imagined things,
but i remember your eyes as ember rings
& i can't wipe my memory clean
of the dingy debris--
the delicacies of your legs & knees--
this fire's not extinguishing!!
those ashes you disguise as eyelids
won't keep me from the iris
i know i'll find inside them
& i'll skim past your skin grafts
to your smoke-smothered stomach
then plummet to your flame-engraved pancreas
((scarred from swallowed promises)).
these propane x-rays
can't scan the barcodes
on the charcoals
that the holes in your heart hold
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 7:57 PM UTC
King come down
The King come down
There's not a single frown
As the King come down.
The people run just like they die:
With a sudden silence
And a cease of non-existent existence
That ends the accepted fiction.
King come down
The King come down
Not a single frown
Oh, the King come down!
Nine, nine, nine
Two, four, zero
Two and eight
Pause. Wait.
Ignore the grafts.
Don't speak or make sound.
Ignore the grafts.
The King come down.
King come down
The King come down
Your people do not frown
THE KING COME DOWN.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
He lives in his farm house by the hills, his
quiet life of contentment, seeking, creating,
discovering; Oh he’s a scientist, and
he grafts his poem trees; Beautiful plumes do
they grow for flowers, which fly out eastward
every morning; Well now he does, the sweet
fruit of these: eat poems to live? Silencing
those who asked him once. Oh and some of the
plants can talk: beyond our hearing, ultrasound.
Penetrating objects our eyes otherwise.
see not: stones; metals; oh don’t we carry
venoms of hatred in metal tubes of
veins crossing our hearts, conveying darkness
across the seas? These poem trees, talking, can
see through. And tell, when some leaks out, causing
fires, and deaths in a school or train station.
Quiet life of contentment, seeking, creating,
discovering; Living in his farm house
by the hills. His work at http://dreamtube.stream
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
Going home from visiting a friend
I have walking this same path
Walked this way, countless times
Up a slight hill of a lonely street
To a desolate alley in summer darkness
But I need to take a call of nature
So I start to relieve myself
To **** against a unyielding wall
And I am blind to those behind me
Two youths of eighteen or nineteen
I feel the liquid pouring down my leg
Then in seconds it is a ball of flame
My left leg, burning in pain, agony
I turn and they are running and laughing
Leaving me alone and I feel the skin burn
I kick the right shoe off my foot
And intend to take off these burning Jeans
But the foot is a ball of orange flame
The liquid had not travelling down the leg
It had gone into my shoe, burning from inside
I am shaking, in my shorts in night summer heat
I try kicking this fire out against the wall
The agony has taken my mind, insanity takes the pain
Unknowing, three toes snap as I continue to kick
But the fire burns on, with the smell of burning flesh
No one is there to help me, I only want to sleep
Concrete steps keep me from reaching safety
From this alley up to the waiting maisonettes
So I hold the rail, and force myself to climb up
And still the left leg burns and the pain returns in fury
I make it and there is someone in the kitchen
The first maisonette that stands on the corner
He sees me and he sees the flames that hurt me
He looks at me in horror, and then there is screaming
The screaming is coming from me, I can not stop
The man comes out with a bowl of water
He throws it over the burning foot and I pass out
I awake and there is a neighbour holding me
I see people all around me and I try to remember
The pain and memory come rushing back
Firemen are there now, hosing my leg with water
I hear a crackling and realise it is the leg
The screaming starts again, and it never stops
Coming deep inside of me, for this madness to end
And again darkness takes me as my mind shuts off
I am in an Ambulance, but I do not feel safe
They are out there and could still come for me
Why did they do this? What did I do?
I never even knew who they were
And the horror etches deep into my head
That was years ago, and I still carry the scars
The leg was saved, full thickness burn
Skin grafts rebuilt it, but it still breaks down
Three toes amputated, the big toe and ones next
Yes it still haunts me now and it always will
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 3:24 AM UTC
The Saturday night crowd, all here to see Dave Van Ronk,
sit huddled in the fashion of Antwerp diamond cutters,
sipping cinnamon/marshmallow coffee at the tables.
Caffe Lena is Saratoga's happening place in the 60's and
we're here to forget the war and civil strife in the ghettos.
Sister Mary Katherine, sans frock, is the warmup act,
but no one really gives her any mind,
as she struggles to seat herself upon the stool
intended for the six-foot plus Van Ronk.
Joan Baez prepare to eat your heart out!
Without so much as introduction, she
breaks into a high soprano Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues.
Heads pivot like synchronized swimmers toward the stage.
Her silken voice emits notes blinking
into reality from quantum fluctuations in space/time.
Every quivering high-C grafts the audience together.
She's spinning veils of sound,
the like of which our ears are unfamiliar.
The quavers in her throat match the tremors in my coffee.
In the back of the cafe a drunken Van Ronk passes out.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 8:49 PM UTC
wouldst you in the mist of my confusion
have me become a white mosquito boy
that by a grafted tongue would
mould powerful changes
around bliss and ecstasy
that by garb and candor grafts defying gender roles
causes by his spaces openness
a sexuality, moulding, mounting new and explosive intimacies
and yet my fevered brain
hotter than the hottest summer
wishes to embrace a white mosquitoe boy
become the cannibal of his dimensions
be subject to his unremarked experiments
Oh, will I become a native of these everyday practices
a white mosquitoe boy
evolving into a public ethic
a dangerously obscure central truth
the ink lies still wet on y confused thinking
while the white mosquitoe boys call me ” Le Mome”
shall I enter their grand boulevards
the ink drys, it speaks
its beautiful wondrous notation
says “YES”, yes it says, it says yes
you don’t become a mosquitoe boy
YOU ARE BORN ONE
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
2 years of separation
leads to reunions & dissections
of the shared heart we once betrayed
split symmetric down the chamber veins
& drained into a vacant maze
of muscle-coated misdirection:
from a gory war of self-destruction
to a boring morning-long discussion
on the proper functions of affection,
a lecture on the subtle pressure
of stitching missing years together.
so we descended through the memories
of manipulation tendencies
& our blended lungs breathed in relief
at our splendid self-discovery:
you're a different you & i'm no longer me;
thick skin grafts & habit transplants
transformed us to an image abstract
from a former siamese attachment,
our blurry split from commitment
carried independence infinite
& we soared more weightless through the clouds
with our orphaned organs on the ground
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 6:41 AM UTC
You’re an arsonist, baby.
You’re an arsonist, dabbling
in the arts of fire.
And love is your fuel.
My heart was inflamed.
You left me to smolder
But I stoke those flames
because I’m a pyromaniac.
Your flames licked at my flesh.
And I kinda liked it.
The heat, the burning,
I thrive off of it.
You’re an arsonist, baby,
and that’s okay.
Because I like the fire.
You lit me up, ignited
my thirst, my hunger,
my passion
I inhale your smoke.
Taking you in.
The smoke left me in a haze.
My vision, my thoughts,
all left unclear.
Your fire left nothing untouched.
You scorched my heart.
Consumed me. Refined me.
You sought to finish me off,
burning for you from within.
I tried to hide behind others.
Beneath their skin.
Not even grafts can hide
the damage done.
You left behind your mark,
on me.
Branded me with your ashes still visible.
Dose me in your precious love.
Open the flame. Light me
Up. I’m a dancing tongue of fire of your creation.
Watch me burn for you.
Watch me perish because of you.
Watch me love you with
Everything I am.
You’re an arsonist, baby.
And I’m a pyromaniac.
What’s the number for 911?
I need a firefighter.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 12:41 PM UTC
I want you to rip the messy sutures from my stitched-up heart and
I want to love you with my chest wide open.
I want the icy air to whisper across my bared arteries and scoop the black from my lungs
I want you to kiss me so hard blood runs down my teeth.
I want to taste the salty crimson on my tongue and know
I am still breathing, that
I still have a pulse.
I want your eyes to burn holes in my skin & the cauterized nerve endings to emit a single sharp scream
I need your sweaty palms to take away the sting.
I want you to wake me from this gray unending dream.
I know meteorites always hit the sun or crash to earth, but
I want our comet to blaze through the night sky for a few bright seconds before the freefall.
I will ignore the craters you'll carve from my bones.
I know
I will end up lying in a hospital bed with skin grafts and bleeding bandages, but
I want the rose-tinged words that will leak from my eyes like saline-tipped blades.
I want to slowdance with cyanide.
I want to tiptoe on a razor-littered sidewalk.
I want to swim with sharks;
I want to dip my hand in fire;
I want a gradual descent from a cliff with a tattered parachute;
I want to toss my heart into your freckled arms.
I want your fingers around my neck before
I realize it.
I want you to destroy me.
I want your smile to eat me alive.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
Glance and write.
Apparently this is technique
of a writer.
Glance and write.
My type-
writer,
hear it roar.
Hear it clatter.
Glance and write hard;
write hard and write always in the same font.
Write yourself rules like wait for patience,
wait for ideas, don't wait. Ever.
Wait, don't ever wait for ideas ever,
or don't buy ****
never stray
from the same font.
Rules are ideas about font and stray dogs carrying **** or waiting on
a patient waiting about font and stray dogs and waiting.
Many things seem to go
in circles.
Glance and write.
Feel inspired by
invisible thread. This is meaning.
This is meaning something else.
Store-bought
meaning.
It's a ********* string.
Glance and write.
Find the truth before it's base,
let's smoke base. Let's smoke base and let's be happy that we got it.
You are important cargo.
You are cover up; pants
a forever scenario.
Cover up with
skin grafts. ****** faces.
Crabcake faces.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 6:44 AM UTC
I wrote you a poem, about why I'd write a poem for you. You caught me one time trying to tame my mind with lines of rhyme, when I told you it was about a woman we both knew you said, next time... why don't you write about me? I said because you don't inspire me. The easiest excuse for writers block... I need to be inspired. I need to be hotwired into a matrix of men and women who are driven by every feeling they are giving. I need rhythm and words. The pen is a decipherer and the page a treasure map where we will write our way to gold. We sold ourselves on the belief that we could... write smiles onto people...
So we write. Muster our might and write light into the dark times. Stitch beauty into the scars of the harmed, arm ourselves to the teeth against those who act beneath what is considered humane. With ink in our veins we write like we fight. Unafraid of a broken bones because the next blow we throw will be through our throats. We are mouthy poets, and the most powerful weapon in arsenal is our battle cry. And should one of us die on the field we'll uproar, we'll outcry, we'll encore and we'll breathe life into what remains of our fallen and give them the best ******* send off ever.
And when we finally reach home after our time together ... We'll keep writing. We'll write worlds out of words. Write instructions to the sky and orders to the ground will write love notes to sound and have this all down before the next sun swings around, with metaphors abounding and similes astounding we don't clown around with the words we've found.
We write in skin grafts. We talk the hollow into wholesome entice oppressed into the inspired and paint the lonely as lovely. We fill in the gaps. We are the ifs the ands and the buts following the 1 word answers to the big questions. Do you love me? What are you angry about? How do you feel?
And we'd say, yes! If I was terminally ill and have the doctor prescribe me you, because you make me feel more alive than I've ever felt!
We'd say, everything. Sometimes I just feel trapped in my own skin like the society that we live in has made jail cells out of my skin cells!
We'd say... Okay. I feel like his smile told me, he'd catch me if I should fall. We write so we can say it all.
We write in passion and love, we write an apology, we write in admiration, and affection. We write in absolution as much as uncertainty. We write in purpose as much as apathy.
We don't write because we should. We write because we can and It's everything we are and everything I am.
This!.. Is why we write.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
I read about death and violence
I proof read,
and top up
and eject
and print
and scan
and hand in
and sometimes I get full marks.
Mark.
Marks
Marks on the body.
Mark my words.
(Mark my work.)
Karl ************* Marx
The communist who launched a thousand memes.
My oh my.
//
The necropolitical is like a funnel
a filter,
a sieve.
Like baking,
only you didn't forget to put the oven on
and people are inside the oven and so are you.
It's not like with the toaster
when ur mum tells u to scrap the black crumbs into the drain.
It's not like you can unburn the burnt.
Oh and the skin grafts?
There's a waiting list for that.
The waiting list?
There's a form for you to get on that.
The forms?
You need to print them out.
The printer?
OUT OF ORDER.
Buy your own.
OUT OF STOCK.
Your bank balance?
FUNDS INSUFFICIENT.
Your bank?
Sorry you have reached us out of outside of our operating hours.
Outside
Outside of our
Outside of our operating
of our operating hours
operating hours
and hours
and hours
and hours
Thanks for holding! A representative will be with you shortly...
[Dave Dobbyn music continues playing through the phone]
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 2:48 AM UTC
This repetitious revery is fluffy and flowery but LOVE is REAL...
It's formed by us and fitted to our forms. By us. But its form is defined and real.
It may have started off as fluffy as the air we breathe, filled with light and butterflies. But now it's mostly solid. It fits to me and fits to you and it doesn't float away when you blow it. It has weight and substance.
I think real love is a practical thing. Love is a miner, not an artist. It works hard. It grafts. It digs deep into you. It gets ***** but it keeps going. It's honest and straightforward but at the end of the day it still wants a cuppa 'n' a cuddle wi' its Mrs.
Love does change. It grows... but like a bramble, not a rose. A rose gives up too easily. A bramble pushes through, even on hard ground. It works it's way into every nook and cranny until you feel totally loved. It may die back in a hard winter, but it always stays strong and true and bears enough fruit to make a good pie at the end of a hard day's graft down t' pit.
Love is a feeling but it's more than that.
It's knowing that when I'm a stress head, you're concerned but not stressed.
It's knowing I make you smile.
It's when you text me in a morning and say exactly what I say to you.
It's that even though we're miles apart and haven't got a *** to **** in, we still make do
It's when you watch me sleep... and don't complain about me snoring
It's knowing you want tos duck me as much as I want to duck you
And our kids...
Our kids get along. I think yours are ace and my kids like you.
But it's even more than that...
I don't feel scared now. Not now I've got you love. Not now I've got you.
Because I love you **
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
Ink wounds sketched on her wrist
Prophetess unfurled her diamond proboscis
Hungrily ******* the pollen muse from the lyrist flower
She bounces her piety on the edge of her eyelids
Her azoic eyes flashing
Like a chrome apochromatic
Phonetic voice spinning a tune
Stylus fingertips dancing on a spinel canvas
Outlined on her metal stomach
Though eccentric
She is sterilized with intelligence
Tilting diagonally on insanities thin line
She is straitlaced
Self absorbed
Cryogenic
With upside down crosses imprinted on her throat
While her proselytes unthread dreams
From her coliseum heart
Bowing down to the collage God
Sacrificing sacrifices
“Pull more, pull more!”
Proselytes cried
Sunbeams painting their ash faces
As they pulled more dreams
From between the Prophetess lashes
Her hips becoming a petal chakra
Her vertebrae evaporating into bone butterflies
Fragments of every churchy elements
Pinning themselves to her skin
Her leather wings flapping a nursery rhyme
She spins out of control
Her musical clavicles creating a glassy chemical
Which shimmer and shake
Tattooing her pearl bones
Infusing her thoughts
She grafts herself on the minds
Of her Proselytes
They worshipped her life
They worshipped her body
They fed on her lies
Until one day
Error religion snatched her out her skin
Turned her into sacral fiber
Planted her whispers deep in a field of shredded dreams
And stretched her moon soul
Across the sun stained sky
For all to see
Her star spangled faith
Misshapen into unbelief
She had become her own religion
Her own personal god
But without any meaning
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 5:01 AM UTC
The hatchets swings from right to left
cutting sway in magical arc glittering acidic polish
labourers strive in whimsical grafts and melliferous distune
the gods in Olympus stand akimbo watching meddling mortals
No demigods in hazey disquietude sees
for those the gods forsake wear the laurels made for Pompeii
time will tell come the days of transmogrification in Cosmos Paths
the oracles files litigation before the gods against impostors vile
The seven tongues of the seven headed dragon
flicker between the dawn and dusk, between mist and flames
salacious visions mired in morbid delight cooked with arsenic dew
a cauldron boils for givers and takers, a chalice of retribution awaits
Apr 7, 2019
Apr 7, 2019 at 3:43 PM UTC
I walked into a cave,
And I felt as though my fears
Were like living parasites,
Strange biological grafts,
Growing, pulsing, slimy things,
With Gross and hideous shapes.
Yet affixed to my back,
Dug into my very spine,
Like murderous lichen,
Or grotesque gothic primordial ooze.
Rising, Creeping, Slithering,
Wrapping mouths, eyes and tentacles
Around me,
Weighing me down.
These things,
Grafted on to me,
Hissing, belching and moaning,
Daring me to look at them.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
you walk your bike on the sidewalks and ride in the street
the asphalt calls to you. i'm not dumb,
and i know the skin grafts have gotten to you.
you scratch too much.
(are they bruises or just skin discoloration? are you hurting yourself or are you rotting from the inside out?)
this hurts more than it is supposed to (is it supposed to hurt at all?)
i can feel it in my stomach, i can feel it crawling down my spine and it rests on my hips
maybe this is my fault
i never grew up
and i walk like im delicate
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 2:57 AM UTC
A ninety mile per hour fastball
Straight from the pitch
An oncoming pair of headlights
The crunch of my bones
As she shatters my walls
I thought I worked so hard to build
My blood on the pavement as I pour out
My battered and bruised heart
In all of its tiny pieces
She is needle and a thread
The stitch in my veins
The Paramedics won’t be here anytime soon
The last choked bit of air I’ll breathe
Will be full of you
A song I will never finish singing
But love the notes I’ve heard time and time again
They will call a time of death upon arrival
The road was your kiss and I wanted to be all over it,
So the rash is worth it
The skin grafts, my mistakes from previous times
I am patchwork at best, half a man, more parts to be used than a full package
My lungs were blackened from the smoke, but I’d give you them anyways if you asked, tear me limb from limb as you tell me you love me, brutally and with such cold tone
The metal twists my insides as I connect with the hood, my legs off the ground, kind of like how I feel when I’m with you, floating through the air, waiting for the fall.
The last cigarette in my pocket will never be burned, I never got around to telling you how I really felt. I knew the words, like a vice, would be poison to your lips
Sirens will line the street, the sole witness to a love letter unspoken in the rain, my blood washes down the ditch and soaks the grass. No one saw it coming
Feb 27, 2023
Feb 27, 2023 at 1:32 PM UTC
Consciousness overwhelmed
by Astral formed lightning swells
Gamma ray
sent fone alarm
Tone torn to apart
too much light in the well
Armored up, shoulder helm,
You hear that music as it swells
In the well worn wardrum wrecking wrath
In our forlorn eardrums shaking grafts like hell.
The walls turn to lattice-like
Vision tell me prophetic sight
The whole world ; We all together
Wearing our give-a-fuck hearts
bright against That neon orange
Trump wall just tryn-ta-rip-the ***** apart
But No idea based in hatred
can flesh the good
No, Understanding is an art,
Operate clean, never landing
poison darts
But Next
I’m a poison frog to those
who **** Got my bois in the bog
ready to retaliate
But an for an eye makes the whole world blind
Such that cliche points stale rhymes.
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
The fire and brimstone in their pall
Are the cloak and cloth of sin
Whose tyranny the mind appal
When it fathoms deep within
And o'er those gates so rancid wrought
With blood and flesh and iron
When after that fate one, we, hath fought
We turn up still, all hope be gone
The stench of death dank, all around
Suffuse the climes from sky to ground
The King of Hell who seldom grafts
For anything, yet seldom stops
His command to torture, down the shaft
As to every level hops
Spreads black wings and glides above
His victims as he, gruesome, gloats
Anathema to turtle dove
Who on divine zephyr of heaven floats
His presence ever torturous still
When reign dark from ****** lordly hill
He sees the scuttling victims run
Away, cruel let loose for game and chase
A beautiful mirage of sun
To taunt the soul abased
Hells hills trees grow putrid leaves
No mortal could brace the sulphurous stench
Under canopies the victim weave
As they shiver, shudder, blench
As torturer catches up, apace
Him testament to time's disgrace
By his vainglory employed
That ******* of the angel boys
Treats people, world, as things and toy
Seduced to do his bidding, ploys
But justice, freedom will uproar
Angels of Hell link arms, uprise
For Heaven they have wanted more
Than sooty, oppressive, obsidian skies
**** the devil, his ****** lies
Hear us rise, sing God's reprise
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 11:48 AM UTC