"monoliths" poems
I reflect upon the Father's love -
monoliths in Yosemite.
The eagle screeches far above
a song, "Your love's extremity".
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 1:14 AM UTC
.
I wish I could fade,
lay back,
close my eyes,
and fade...
through the continuum,
to a desolate place,
where peace reigns majesty,
and birds sing me awake,
as dawn paints the starry sky,
over a silver mountain lake,
clear as a mirror.
Stone monoliths rise to peak,
feet on moss and grass
make electric natural connection,
the smell of fresh air
and the scents of the flowers,
isolation tastes like honey,
sweet as a dream.
I wish I could fade,
lay back,
close my eyes,
and fade …
never to return.
© Pagan Paul (01/09/18)
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC
building purist æsthetic
proselytizing solar-powered heliolatry
commemorating historic concert
sensing dark forces
fokken lekker antwoord
pumping sensory overload
featuring high-tech dee-jay
admiring gelato micro-truck
laxing laying lazing
"doing something nasty"
continuing quality content
entering another cathedral
journeying without borders
"exactly one year
since visiting vatican"
appreciating full-time gigasphere
awaiting pyongyang performance
depicting unlikely crowdsurfer
foreseeing exponential improvements
furthering esoteric agenda
sensing profound incompatibility
data-mining people's infidelities
anticipating futuristic caffeine
perfecting invisible propaganda
researching mind-control techniques
polishing psycho-social weaponry
sensing social embargo
flourishing frantic fanfare
admiring longitudinal monument
parodying marketing slogans
cycling through österreich
eyeing dystopian disneyland
streaming crosswords extended-play
herding glass kittens
deleting idiosyncratic fragment
loremipsum-ing laconic loudmouth
receiving ultramodern telegram
eigo-ga wakarimasu ka?
guzzling duck-fat fries
encouraging panic selling
(juxtaposing past incarnations)
getting black-and-white privilege
renewing boutique account
relishing cinema poutine
re-entering hibernation mode
opening old windows
continuing zoo motif
absquatulating excessive excesses
nullifying originality claims
proliferating protean persona
disappearing sidewalk alphabet
shrugging opprobrious moments
enjoying vertical alignment
re-entering cyberpunk paradise
approaching island sun
soaring beyond monoliths
trivializing extraneous argy-bargy
decreasing character limits
dumping generic accounts
uglifying commit message
escaping into idiosyncracy
moonshining great lake
exuding idiosyncratic propaganda
living nineties' dreams
making occidental cuisine
envisioning idiocratic president
expropriating your time
ascending homely helix
singing fat lady
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
Ground zero again. Ghost ties to old moods
now that you have found happiness,
or at least the line of best fit.
Lips interlocked incessantly on the astral beach,
over the September permafrost
where I held up the chains of my cell
just long enough to kiss you.
Chambers of blue blood, of blue feathers
interspersed in the lining of our pockets:
I felt I could fly when I finally met you.
Heard the callousness, the human history of suffering,
when the chains overwhelmed,
when I fell back to the ground.
You were my fortune in the wishing well,
but now our tongues are rearranged,
all passions now platitudes,
another name or witness to wish me well.
Ground zero again. The foundations exposed
on what might have been love.
Monoliths of steel and scorched earth.
Broken vessels sail by in the night, influence of wine;
words are tempered but the intent remains.
You remain. Extinguished shadow in the skyline,
phantom limb of loving arms. I cannot find the stars.
I cannot reach out to anyone in the space you left behind.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC
I’d Love to go to France
And sail upon the Sine
I’d love to go to Germany
And Sail upon the Rhine
I’d love to see the castles
Of England and of Spain
To see the royal Princess Kate
And her lovely husband William,
Oh, to have Prince Charming as a mate
And then the rain that stays mainly in the plane
Having traveled there in luxury by lavish gilded train
I’d love to see the mountains
In Switzerland and Austria
And see the vast rice fields
In Countries like Korea
And drink frothy bubbling ale
From a tavern near a windmill in the Netherlands
And climb a tiny mountainous hill
In enchanting charming Whales
I’d love to see the canals
In a Gondola in Venice
Or maybe go to China to watch some table tennis
I’d love to see the pyramids
Of Egypt and Peru
And see the Ancient Monoliths
On Easter Island too
And feel the spirits of Celtic and Norse Gods rise inside of me
At magical stunning Stonehenge
While far off in the distance Scottish Bagpipers play for free
But Alas, Alas sadness ensues
These things I’ll never see
Poverty always haunts me
And I won’t win the lottery
I’ll never see the breathtaking things
That others take for granted
Though they will always be here
Part of this amazing planet
I’ll have to take in what I can
And not hope for what cannot be
I’ll have to imagine all these things
In my own special way
and see all I can see
Watching shows like, “Rick Steve’s Europe”
Scheduled to air, everyday
On PBS TV
Sarah Hall Minks Copyright 4/28/12
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 11:12 AM UTC
On the mud flats of Padma Delta
where the mighty Ganges slides
into the Bay of Bengal
ships come to die.
Rusting oil tankers,
container ships from Panama
passenger liners,
and cargo ships from Zanzibar
North Sea fishing boats
research vessels and mother ships
anything that floats
each one has made its final trip.
Steel Leviathans
low tide beached
oil-slick stuck.
Metal monoliths
****** deep
into black sand.
The people of Sitakunda
come marching, ants
across the slippery surface
of diesel sand
to pick the carcasses apart.
Barefoot, with only blow torches
hammers and brute strength
wrenching rivets, nuts and bolts
breaching beams and deck
splitting welded seams
until the hulls are gutted
ribbed struts broken down
and torn from the edges of shape
Bit by bit
they scour and empty
right down to the core.
Bit by bit
they carry *****
to the waiting shore.
Where melting pots are kept boiling
giant stock pots stewing goodness
in a broth
but metallic flavours and oily spiced stench
hang in the misty bleakness of the bay
Skeleton hulks shift and ride
lurching, lifting with the tide
rolling, dangerous still
collapsing, with groaning creak
to maim, to crush and ****
the daring, the slow and the weak.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Cascading pixels,
trickling over the arcade,
Eight bit drops-
Tiny blocks,
clumping together rise-
Digital monoliths.
Soaring up:
***** structures emerge;
Falling down:
begins to breakdown;
as the lines dissolve underneath
multiplying scores manifold!
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 1:25 AM UTC
The sky is solid, gray, motionless.
Shuffling bodies with obscured shadows
Make haste for shelter
From the stark, lifeless outside
With its grass that only lives if watered,
The always leafless trees,
And the carcinogenic air.
Looking upward,
Through the smoggy haze,
One sees the neon silhouettes
Floating in the sky,
Atop the glass and steel monoliths.
They speak to those below,
Of subtle, clandestine oligarchy.
Subconsciously belittling the anonymous masses,
"We are Titans, you are rats."
Say the towers,
As the populace quietly passes over stained concrete and asphalt,
Wearing breathing masks,
Saying not a word to the thousands they pass.
We make haste in this world.
We cannot afford to help a stranger,
To make a detour with a view,
To get your child that gift they really want.
So fiercely we have been strangled
That empathy is illogical.
"What a world" we all say,
As we avoid eye contact with the hungry;
As we change the channel from the melodramatic infomercial
About starving, disease-ridden children somewhere else;
As we console ourselves with hollow entertainment and intoxication,
To keep the guilt at bay,
To keep the thoughts at bay,
"Just do what's best for you,
Don't step out of line,
Shuffle in,
Follow the queue.
That's all you can do."
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC
Torrents of vapor ridden wind, snatched at her hair.
Below, rattled the rapid, riotous and vast, rippling sea.
Churning, like a chewing, charming serpent's lair.
Once long ago I knew her; with time she left me be.
On the edge she was, with will to leap t'wards the horizons.
The brittle cliff would not give way, for even it was curious.
Dare say all of nature reacted for the most prurient reasons.
Even the sky descended to watch, with a lightning so furious.
She beheld no fear and the sky wept with thunderous applause.
Her bare marble-like features glistened in the gleaning of the gloom.
Why she stood there, triumphantly, tempting, terror, for what cause?
It will never be known, for she never was, in a time before this doom.
The earth shook like the hands of a beleaguered, berated old man.
It erected monoliths. Volcanoes, pluming molten magma skyward.
The red glow brought heat; earth thought to please her, or so was its plan.
The elements wrestled for the better view of that beauty stalwart.
Never had a sight been so majestically violent, so mightily tame.
Where she stood, should and would forever more be a sacred place.
The tempest of the elements raged on, though none would win the game.
A silence, softly, settled the rambunctiousness, and halted their race.
The skies parted with a sad and lowly somberness.
Every elated, embittered, element safely put to rest.
As the sun swept aside all their postulated, pettiness.
Rays of the sun showered her with bright white zest.
The lady, she moved with unfathomable grace.
She tilted her perfect head up to the skies.
With the slightest of a smile shook her face.
Like all before, she left them there surprised... and forever, there she stood.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 3:21 PM UTC
You make my body burn slow,
like a stricken match in a film noir;
our legs intertwine
like muscular vine,
chests pressed so close
we can synchronize
our heartbeats, every artery
and vein pumping
like speed-of-light projectors.
You bend my senses, make them
forfeit heir coherences, force
my limbs to misplace
their native tongue
within a simmering puddle
of submissive bliss.
Your tongue sliding up my back?
Fosse was never so graceful.
I want to play back your moans
on speakers the size
of monoliths.
I need to pleasure you
until the wave
becomes a tsunami,
one ready to swallow all doubt
and shame and apprehension
until all that septic negativity
is trapped within our jaws,
drowning in our slithering tongues
until it dissolves as quickly
as sugar in a boiling cauldron
and there is nothing left
but our sweat and our panting
and the excitement
that these dunes of ecstasy
will repeat themselves indefinitely.
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
The Empire State Building is a giant middle finger
Concrete is broken, NYPD, taxis racing, red light green light
I enter the hand of the city through it's capillaries breaking mad concrete
Warm gusts of **** grime, and transportation swallow me
The city feeds off dreams and hope which we personally, willingly give up
We all somehow learn to accept this fate
The passerby no longer human but broken mirror
The hand inundates my eyes from breezes of tomorrow
The spacy apartment, and the affluent career and the acquantanceship
Of the handful of New Yorkers that run the hand: all questionable plans today
It's as if the hand's grasp, although sharp and brick, would venerate your intellect, guaranteed
If that's the case, I see wizards of wisdom everyday snoozing on concrete and cardboard and plastic
Bearded, black with dirt and skin, threads ripped by a world inferrior than the one in thier minds
Empire "Middle Finger" State of intellect, scrapping billion dollar clouds
Sardine can subways, escalators, elevators, high on crack **** speed of sound
The cash nerve system meltsdown into golden chips to feed the pigeons
Glass and steel craft spaces for modernity to be sold like a Washington Heights *****
You can feel the growth of the hand at the end of your intestines
It's a warm, uncomfortable vibration revealed in your ********
Foreign tongues buzz through the air, through your hair for 19.95
New York needs a haircut, some profound discipline so we wake up from this bizzare life of welcomed pain
You once charmed me with hopes of culture, open minds, connections, real connections, love and laughter
Yet, Today I am hungry in Murray hill
I am cold in Chelsea
I am broken in Union Square
I ***** in SoHo
I have fallen in the East River
And I bleed on financial monoliths
Someone have mercy on my wills
It is an intention trying to be fulfilled
But failed when it became self-aware
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 11:44 PM UTC
I stared catatonic nonstop and could not pull my eyes away or scream
except for the great internal scream and I felt like death was upon me, or nearly so.
And my body asleep but my mind twisted and my eyes awake wide-open
and no dream this was but real things and then my thoughts put outward
and all these things terrible formed into death-shadows
and flowed down through the fabrics above my head.
Flesh undulating in darkness that creeped
and I found ten seconds of courage to sit up and stare
at the wall as the rippling fabric became a thousand black snakes
crawling down from the ceiling and out from my dreamcatcher
that did nothing at all but release these terrors from the wall.
And I thought it was sordid wind that came in gusting through my window that made my sheets become like a mechanical sea
but it was not so, and these vile snakes poured out like *****
from some gaping maw above and went underneath my bed
and all through the floor to the four corners of my room
and then came together again above on the center of my ceiling
and murmured death-talk and horror-faces from the walls and ceiling
and even closing my eyes would bring nothing but flashes
of demonic children and things with no jaws or eyes
hollowed out and terrible ghosts I procured and almost choked out laughter because this was it and I've finally gone and gone mad
There was a man at my closed door wearing my jacket that hung on a hook
and his face was the face of a skull that hung above my door
and from the corner of my eye the man with the door on his back with the coat still attached walked with silent step toward my bed, and I turned to look at this figure
and instead of snapping back against the wall like all nightly visions should;
he stood there, and as I stared at him I saw slow moving black legs receding against the wall
but the horrors of his feet were ten thousand worm bodies and black leathery fingers of bats and crawling things
and my carpet floor was no longer static but a creeping madness,
and my body trembled as if it were being continuously dropped
from heights a hundred times over and great odious black
pillars and monoliths slid steadily up the corners of my room with arms
that then burst out to the middle into nothing but a smiling cheshire grin
and I could not move anymore and just stared until my mind went numb
and like the first sunlight upon the last fog before dawn, I awoke.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
I am in love with you sometimes
like when I am riding the bus
beneath luminous buildings stapled deep
into the polluted black of the sky
that sadistic monoliths so horribly scrape.
Then there are times when I want you dead.
I scream loud into my pillow
then press my ear to the cotton
but after my punches it is too scared to reply
so all I hear are the echoes of my scream.
You ought to be ashamed for what you've done.
I am a strong, resilient, independent young person
and you blank face, you liar,
you slaughterhouse chief...
You ought to be ashamed.
Does your heart beat like a racehorse
when the Jockeys come off?
Are you aroused when a man in a suit,
a business-man suit,
tosses the homeless a quarter?
Do you hope that it lands by their tattered, torn shoe heads up?
Do you think they just need a little luck?
If you do,
then I have a secret to tell you:
*You are the most flawless person I have ever seen,
and holding hands on the city bus scares the living **** out of me.*
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
The life a man does boast is but a tryst
Between the egos of his Cosmic gods,
Who jest at gnarly oaks and monoliths;
At twigs we humans foolishly are awed.
Yet such does not render us simplified;
Too great is Cosmo's pride in their amour,
But secrets we'll uncover, stratified;
Acceptance, such a silent petrichor.
So let the veil be lifted, let us see,
Existence as gossamer as the veil,
Fragile as the primrose, less the beauty,
On us, we hope, these Lover's dreams won't fail.
At night we dream of worlds beyond the stars;
Sits on their smallest finger, all of ours.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC
They burst upwards
All around this evening
There and there and there
Trees, Trees, Trees
Smashing through soil
To a darkening sky
Limbs and fingers and hands
Trunk and twig
Coiling coronaries
Pressed to the sky’s last
Etchings
Monoliths
Earths loud art
Not solemn
Not peace filled
This evening
Trees , Trees, Trees
Explode from the earth
Like Kraken from the ocean
Belittling
Reminding us
Trees Trees Trees
Four hundred million years
Before you breathed
Trees Trees Trees
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 5:23 PM UTC
We're not all the stuff of legends and fairy tales. We do try sometimes but we more often then not are doomed to fail, because being held to a standard that you're better than human is a hard burden to bear.
We don't all have the natural dramatic flair that makes us fare just that much better on the stage - But whether or not we will ever be like Aladdin, we rub every lamp just in case.
In the face of overwhelming improbality, we still find a way to get ourselves to say 'Maybe this time, it'll be different. Maybe the innocent will not suffer and maybe this time they'll catch the bad guy'.
Who am I to dream? Who am I to make more out of something than what would first seem? Every one of these stitches and seams that run across our bodies like patchwork, every scar from every time we've gone to far or raised the bar, they are ours to wear with pride.
Just because something has been denied to you is no reason not to seek it again, but this twicefold. I may not be Rumplestiltskin but I'm going to keep trying to turn this straw to gold - because the dreams that come to us are ours to hold. Ours to clutch to our chest lest they grow cold.
It is because of these mistakes that we are where we are. When you fail, if you can re-trail what you did wrong all the way back to core of the problem, then you've got experience to store away until next time. I only learned to rhyme like I do through the impromptu misteps that we are all going to go through. And you will learn to be better.
Every, single, letter that goes into writing one of these little soliloquies has to come out like a summer breeze or they should not be put down. You can't squeeze your brain like a grape hoping that pure wine is going to come out. Inspiration comes from the funniest places and I guess you could say that you've been inspirin' me but there is still fire in me to temper the metal.
And I know I'm not going to get a medal for this, otherwise I'd probably do it more often. But each and every one of you needs to know that it is only through challenge and adversity that we grow into these monoliths we hope we one day become. If you can manage to stay strong, live long and keep is simple your whole life through... who knows? - Maybe they'll write the next fairy tales about you.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
Do you go to service. why?
Maybe someone drags you in for your salvation or some such.
What do you believe. I have long released that process as a constant.
Like anything else on this plane. somebody gotta lose for someone else to gain.
Yes that is a bit wooden.
A bit cynical.
Do you feel the spirit as you enter.
What does that feel like and do you agree with all you hear and see.
What do you believe.Is the person up there speaking to you?
Do you take it all in.Or are you sight seeing. I do.
The backs of peoples heads are like monoliths.
Their faces are like masks. Not all but most.
Doubting Thomas in the pews.
The casket sits on display. It beckons and forbids.
The slow procession to absolution.
The occupant sleeps peacefully.
A shell.
Heaven or Hell.
The solemn drone. The Joyous noise.
The shrill and sweaty face of Fire and brimstone.
The call and response.
The well oiled ,stiff proceedings.
what do you believe.
Maybe you draw the lottery on Saturday
The Lord is our Sheppard. We shall not want.
Blasphemy you say.
No I am a believer.
I believe that we are.
For now and a wisp forever after.
A daunting prospect. But who knows. Faith.
The pews have been the uprising and the downfalling of many
Freedom or indoctrination
Left to our own devices. Hell's door agape.
a fertile mind, weak and troubled will gently lite on the word
then draw sustenance
for good
For ill.
The gates that lead to destruction are wide
and broad is the way.
The pews are narrow and finite.You will find me there
from time to time.
.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 1:49 AM UTC
The swing set was an old thing
like the brittle bones of an elephant
so worn that it had started to forget;
that's what her Gramma said, at least.
But Calpurnia Gray loved it
sat in it
till the seat sagged before she sat down
inviting her to rest.
Calpurnia Gray preferred the city
but the suburbs were what she got
and the swing set looked over some deep gulch of the woods
where even the suburbs ended.
Wilderness.
It filled her with such strange fantasies
of leaping through the trees like an ape
tearing off her clothes
and chasing down game
like some odd Tarzan with cobalt blue painted toe nails.
That would be the life for her if only she could go back
back
to the wilderness on the other side of the suburbs.
To the place where concrete monoliths lit up the sky at night
and rivers of asphalt carved always changing paths
for some intrepid explorer
to find a new bookstore
or museum
or something strange.
But Calpurnia didn't have either.
She had the suburbs.
And the swing set.
The swing set that always sat there, that never got away
the swing set that was crumbling with time and stagnation
but at least it was what she knew.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC
there's just something about
the stillness of these stones
that sings me to tears—
today is august 5, 2026...
today is august 5, 2026...
so screams the years of
layers of dust encrusting
the petrified earth; lonely,
rid of her supple footsteps
to graze and wipe it clean.
like the stagnant roots
that seem to have given up
creeping to grasp for any
foot to cling to or touch
i can only stay so still...
knowing oh so well
everything we touch
turns only to soil.
i could act myself a fool
greeting barren outcroppings
only to the reply of my own voice
hoping that the once green grass
would once again bloom
to the bliss of my welcome—
but i'd rather settle for silence...
instead of crackling leaves;
stepping, all i heard were
my shoes against pavements,
failing to muffle the cries
from underneath my feet.
***someday, somehow
i will make it so
these lands will know
soft rains once more—***
May 18, 2022
May 18, 2022 at 11:44 AM UTC
I remember so much and yet so little of that day,
I remember the woods near our home where I would used to play.
The den I made, smothered by oak and fern,
The dragonflies sailing zephyrs and their power that I yearned.
I remember clearer the presence of my father,
Struggling through gaps he was far to large for,
His smile strangely absent that day.
I remember words he whispered
"come child, today we are away."
Those words mean little now
So much more than they did back then,
When my mind idled with dragonflies
Locked in that wooden den.
I remember seeing the earth
Looking still, if not serene.
Defiant in it's rotation.
As countless ships,
Starward monoliths
Depart with naive expectation.
Some decided to stay,
As some always do.
The rest sail for space in search of silent refuge.
Once more we forgot ourselves
Embracing our own foolish divinity.
Forgetting the folly of our past
As it echoes unto infinity.
I remember once, now gazing at alien constellations,
The lines we drew in shale and sand to mark our different nations.
The pettiness we adored and the diplomacy we abhorred,
We burnt the earth behind us
And fled unto the stars.
The last thing I remember,
That day in late September,
The last solar systems' ember
Was the rusting glow of Mars.
I forgot how much I missed that home
Over the twelve cold years in space alone.
This place is not so bad,
But the trees weep strange,
Leaves drooped and sad.
From my window I see my grandson run
Chasing the shadows of new earth's twinned suns.
Fresh from the forrest
A new found den.
A second chance
Don't
Fail again.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
Before the stormy night they stand
The empty buildings high and grand
Windows black and diamond plated
The stars about their glassy faces
Monoliths and moonlight kissed
All tightly packed against the winds
Freezing stone and white as bone
Alight along the rainy roads
And further still the swirling hills
Receive the heavens overhead
Some mighty tryst, an inky rush
From here I watch them touch
Oct 2, 2023
Oct 2, 2023 at 11:57 PM UTC
Under the hum of streetlights, bicycle flutters gather,
the sheer grey range reconstitutes as starless black.
From the faraways and thoroughfares voices wail, near
and distant, chatters of sirens rattle through night black.
Through park lands peach blossoms twirl, and twirl,
even here the pine winds chant can be heard.
~~~
Hedges in dimensions perfect mark path edges,
flower beds in colours calculated rest in immaculate squares.
Gusts from four corners trail blossoms in ten directions,
iron shears cannot cut the pine wind.
~~~
Grey monoliths transform into black sentinels,
flutters of bicycles seek out the shop fronts,
radiant weaves of neon chatter bright,
the night tie just rolls, and rolls.
~~~
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
Five monoliths stand,
Look down on the lost lady,
Scattered in leaf litter and memories,
Chased by the faint scream of a saxophone
It's funny
That she's alone.
After night after night on a darkened stage
In a seedy bar
Where it isn't wrong- it's jazz
And life,
And she can wear her skin like a crown
But now,
She is lying in the dirt,
And the only hoots she gets are from owls who dismiss her as no threat
And the only eyes that watch her are wide and glowing and waiting.
Her feet twitch to the muscle memory of a tap routine
Where she stamped her way to a high kick, slide, jazz hands, splits, arms up to take it in-
Now there is only one part of her that still sings.
It's a song of mourning.
Her heartbeat drags its feet along the floor it goes slow
Like the blues chord she never knew the notes to but she heard it in every song.
And she saw it in the smile of the piano player as he winked at her
And she flipped her hair and turned to her audience,
Safe in the knowledge he'd still be there
Until he wasn't.
Wedding bells never mastered the blues
And from the moment of his matrimony every note was too sharp to swallow,
You can't be light on your feet if your heart is heavy
She started looking for his smile in the bottom of bottles
And hugging empty pianos-
It wasn't that she needed him but without him her lungs were empty
And her songs became the warble of shot birds
She started to screech.
Now surrounded by decay
Even her body gives way to time,
Now he'd have to find beauty in between the lines that score her face
And her skin is a crust that is slowly contracting
And she is cooling.
She's half dressed in half heeled nudes
And a **** neglige
And her hair is only half curled cause the trees like it that way,
Her lips lost their red to the tint of blue,
And though she's lost her liner, her eyes are even darker.
She howls herself to sleep in shades of blues,
Writes her own chords across her bones and teaches them to the birds,
Takes their cackles for applause.
They think she sounds better that way,
Broken and drowned in a torn **** neglige.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
i’ve spent the last
six months of my life
dying to die
with no results.
and in that time i’ve
been walking
on a sidewalk that
is crooked and cracked
into some godforsaken
place. through my journeys
i’ve come to rely
on two certainties:
that i will go to bed
unsatisfied and hungry.
and every night is
a rainy one and cats eat
the fur and bones of dogs dead
in the flooded gutters. the grey
monoliths of the city
are always a step away, but
i don’t get any closer.
and if i could give back
all the cigarette ash and whiskey
i’ve drank i’d do it because
i’d be losing blank meaningless
memories, or at least
they mean nothing to me. i can’t
say the same about
those people in the memories.
and i passed the corner
where i sat drunk on the brick
with my friend, smoking
a cigarette and i remember
telling him that it was
going to be alright. i don’t
know if i was lying or if
i didn’t know the truth
but he left.
and i walked by the home
of my first love and the windows
were dark and the cars were
gone from the driveway.
and i found myself in front
of the house of the girl
i loved who didn’t love me
and the air was black, save
for the glare of a lighter through
the rain and i remembered
a dream i had.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
Call it prolific
Monoliths
Monolithic
Amnesia
And pill popping
I like words
I like how they taste as they flow
From my mouth,
From my fingers,
Into your ears
Your eyes
I'm inside you.
I've never really understood that
****** conquest
(I changed pages on you)
Like, we should be proud, as men
That we've been inside someone
"I put my **** in that"
Congratulations, Charlie!
You came!
Honorary meetings
Magna *** Laude
(Did I change pages again?)
Vulgarity
Shame on you Catholic boy!
Shouldn't you be whining about *** scandal?
Talking about pro-life?
Hating the gays?
Misconceptions
Misnomers
Misconstrue my meanings
Misplace the common denominator
Math is always interesting.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC