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neth jones Jun 2024
so..like what we discussed the other day
                                       'to feel so infect-able'
i mean, cool concept and all but                                            
               you said you get it   and-and that's how i feel
                                                          you know ; all of the time
... like my brain is open and unprotected                    
         floods of **** other guys say  or **** i read online
stuff doesn't even make sense
they're just chewing on a mouthful of teeth
                                                        and­ it imbeds
gets right in the jelly and sticks around  
and it has nothing to do with anything       
                 but  i'll spend the day with my mood crumpled                
about some nasty '*******' directors              
behaviour on a film set ... when ...you know
it's not even a film i'm interested in seeing
and-and there's so much **** right at our front door
     we could help with that                                         
 but.. it's this irrelevant stuff
                                                that's what i'm occupied with
am i just that vulnerable ?   i'm an adult..                                  
           i should function without this damage
... get back to me as soon as you can ;   i'm freaking man !…..
you know what ?                                                                ­        
        this is what's important        and this is why we talk                
friends .. in the real world .. you know  such as it is
...left mucking stale turns before dawning a birth
pleasing   as drawing in a vital breath or something...
...i just.. i just want it back
re-slee­ve me
i miss the world
why did it leave me behind ? remind me
i looked in on it and there's no **** hotel in here
no airport lounge / midnite swimming pool /          
                                 abandoned zoo / empty theatre
no hollow feeds of subway tunnels                          
no void on anything
where's my basic program ?                          
       not even a grid of human planted fir trees
                               or a giants causeway
   or some cellular honeycomb
                      or some mad carpet design
i lost the pattern tap
           i'm off the leash man
           it's all a mess
             a disarray
              organic chaos
                a foreign something
      that doesn't want me to connect
i want to live like i’m part of the solution
but   each day in struggle                                          
           it seems i'm increasingly an aspect of the problem
i need to be reigned in
        and reassigned a post   policed
police me        i croon for policing
                          i am untrustworthy
an emulsion of self deception          
            (what does that even mean ?)
         spinning turns in quick fix habits
i look at these hands
  and     if I could dream these hands
                 they’d be magicians of value
get back to me man ! i miss yupping with you
this is the important stuff
           
                                               ­             - message ends
Graff1980 Jul 2018
The soft egg shelled mind
is soiled and embroiled
by the terrible turmoil
of technological silence,
with a key board click
we once lost it
however now
in swift with sic stealth
the quiet imbeds itself.

Sorrowful seeds dropped
sowing painful thoughts.
Small sprouts
peek and poke out
through the surface
to catch us all
as unsettled earth
is disturbed.

Fierce floods of
painful stuff
erode the
fertile ground.

Stillness brings
crimson flowers blooming
and fruits falling
to rot on the dirt,
it hurts
but births
new verses,
till there is
poetry.
Faith Apr 1
It is the thing of bones –
****** dry of marrow –
That breathes ice and whispers –

You’ve felt It near
The warmest hearth –
That chill which twines
Up the back and settles
About the neck – choking –
Writhes Its way between vertebrae –
Imbeds within the spine –

You’ve seen how It drags
Its engorged belly over
Threadbare carpets
To rest Its head on wet kindling
During frigid nights –
Props open Its mouth
With stale loaves of bread
And waits –

You’ve heard It gnaws
On the nubs of bleeding
Nails – amputates fingers
With ground-down teeth
Flat and yellow in Its maw –
Cauterizes the wounds
With frostbite –

It will visit you
On your last bed –
Seeping through too-thin sheets
And stealing a face
You don’t recognize –
You’ll think you heard it say:
My name is –

— The End —