"necked" poems
I found graffiti pleasing
On my worst of days
Painted prejudice against order and orders
Alive on a ton of bricks.
One such image stuck with me
A giraffe, long necked and smiling
Happier than me, but
Not tragically alive so.
I loved him and I
Thought I would get him tattooed.
Unlikely, the permanent terrifies me.
And doing so would insult that lovely little message.
His smile meant,
Don't be afraid of sadness,
For like happiness, it goes,
You are a ship facing waves of both,
There were stormy seas ahead.
I smile, because, it took something so permanent
Something so fixed
As a smile on a wall
To let me know that nothing stays the same.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
To Paint a Water Lily
A green level of lily leaves
Roofs the pond's chamber and paves
The flies' furious arena: study
These, the two minds of this lady.
First observe the air's dragonfly
That eats meat, that bullets by
Or stands in space to take aim;
Others as dangerous comb the hum
Under the trees. There are battle-shouts
And death-cries everywhere hereabouts
But inaudible, so the eyes praise
To see the colours of these flies
Rainbow their arcs, spark, or settle
Cooling like beads of molten metal
Through the spectrum. Think what worse
is the pond-bed's matter of course;
Prehistoric bedragoned times
Crawl that darkness with Latin names,
Have evolved no improvements there,
Jaws for heads, the set stare,
Ignorant of age as of hour—
Now paint the long-necked lily-flower
Which, deep in both worlds, can be still
As a painting, trembling hardly at all
Though the dragonfly alight,
Whatever horror nudge her root.
9.8k
I've built these four walls
Palms bloodied in a titanium sentiment
Teeth broken under bottle necked business
The scars draw pictures of the stars
Plastered tears on the wall and called it paint
Leave your scewed values at the door
We can wipe our feet on the hipocrisy and call it a welcome mat
Welcome home darling
These four walls can hold more than your last sip
Structure built from our bridges off of last years ledge
No chance for broken peices to carve our faces on in the night
Welcome home darling
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 11:56 PM UTC
here's to a package of
Marlboro Reds
in the hands of
someone other than
the Marlboro Man
standing in
for those slack-jawed outlaws
my heroes now lack jaws
tongues
lungs
I swear it's been too long
since I inhaled manhood
The Great Darrell Winfield
rolled
packed
and filtered
into the only thing I know
that makes a man a man
the essence of
cowboy boots and farmer's tan
in every drag
see, I inhale my heroes
all the dusty red-necked
cowboys
Darrell Winfield
and my dad
men whose lives
went up in smoke
to coat my throat
in my own self-righteousness
I'm frightened this
is all that I'll have left
of him
lung cancer
and the lingering stench
of cigarettes
he always smelled
of cigarettes
he'd pull me into these
firm embraces
he held so long
that he'd suffocate me
in tacky business
and cigarette smoke
masked only
faintly
by a poor man's
cologne
still I breathed him in
until I'd start to choke
it was too much man to handle
my grandpa told me
“smoking doesn't send you
straight to Hell,
but it sure does make you smell
like you've already been there”
he was
a grown man
cursing
crying
lying
dying by himself
trying to drown out the inferno
with a case of beer
but sobriety finds you sometime
and I'd rather suffocate in cigarettes
than lose him altogether
and even if he smells like Hell
at least that means he made it back
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 6:14 PM UTC
Elegance,
Some would call
A blade on a knife,
Or the bite of a snake.
Elegance,
Had been told to
Be a long-necked swan,
Or a vase of flowers.
Yet, Elegance
Is in the eye of the beholder.
Would you rather
A knife,
Or a swan?
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
Thinking that maybe there is music on planets other than our own
With different tones that we just can’t seem to hone
And instruments like triple necked trombones made of recycled robotic bones
Rockstar aliens playing in bands and doing gigs on planets in neighbouring zones
A gigantic galactic space tour to call their own and silver and chrome skyscraper cities to rock and roam
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
Cold beer,
a long necked bottle held to my forehead
and in my throat,
to my lips,
so relief comes both ways,
glad for it,
the double of the cool,
helps the day of troubled nothingness,
and the long necked bottle makes it
worth the extra second of anticipated tasty wait
can't drink in the river park,
don't cotton to brown paper bags,
do it anyway cause the East River
tides me over on its way
thru the Verrazano Narrows,
bound for the Atlantic with me low rider spirit in tow,
a devil may care attitude en contrôle
this troubadour opened the store at 700am
but not a one came looking for a song,
but the mail came reliable,
with dues due,
promises that need keeping,
and other items,
what the grownups call responsibilities
June Monday early eve and the Moran tugboats
ply their trade like reliable ****** to the sailors,
and their larger than bathtub size toys,
turning containers, freighters, into docile boys
who do as they are told on their way to ports far
there are stick figures outlined on the hexagon
paving stones that are so nyc for me,
here pedestrian! follow your designated path
here pedestrian, you must walk to be safe arrived
but I take to the railing,
where Isaac-bound and mesmerized,
I imagine surfing the churning wakes on the surface
of the riveting tides and wonderous wanderlust for
where we are bound...
no voice heard from the heavens,
saying Abraham put down that knife,
because I have not passed the test of true belief,
perhaps the river's invitation is my test,
if I should sing another song here,
perhaps it will tale the end of this tell...
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
He was sitting at the bar,
not a nice bar at that,
when she walked in
uplifted by the draft
as she let the heavy door
close behind her
draped in a black dress
with black hair
like a shroud
and pale skin
like bones
she sat two stools down from him
and ordered an old fashioned
and necked it down
before ordering another
and another
and another
losing none of her poise
and no sign of flushed cheeks
she made eye contact with him
and for the first time in his life
he knew fear
and he knew he wanted to be scared
He ordered two old fashioned's
and slid a stool over
and told her his name
holding out his hand hopefully
she took it
with dainty fingers
her skin was colder than the creek
that he had been dared to swim in
during the winters of his childhood
"I think we've met before" she said
a voice like a funeral dirge
"so you must come here a lot" he replied
"you could say that,
or you could come back to my place"
he was more than happy to oblige
together they trudged off into the inky night
and he was never seen again,
and the next night
she was back at that bar
drinking old fashioned's
and waiting to be approached
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
Your fingers traced the curve of my forearm like an atlas that mapped out the route that would lead you back to your heart, but you knew the journey was a labyrinth as complicated as the waterways of veins beneath my skin, so you removed your hand. Instead, your fingers found their familiar solace upon the sturdy neck and trembling strings of your guitar.
You plucked each one intently, running your hand down the edge of the fretboard and feeling each chord reverberating within the empty space of your every capillary.
I moved my gaze to your eyes, the black holes that have always swallowed me whole with the promise of never regurgitating me into bigger pieces than what I was originally.
I found myself reminiscing to a time whenever your eyes were identical to the ground we laid upon the afternoon we first decided to find versions of ourselves within the shapes of the clouds. But ever since, the innocence has slowly seeped from your expression and a stare as hard and cold as stone has taken resisidence in its place.
I allowed my eyes to slowly drift closed and suddenly I began to feel each strum of your fingers within my rib cage, the notes sketching portraits of a love never experienced upon my internal organs.
When you stopped playing, your hand immediately reached for the long-necked glass bottle resting upon the edge of your night stand. You brought it to your lips and tipped your head back, slowly drinking in every bad decision you have ever made and the after-taste that you had begun to crave. It burned your throat like acid, but each swallow was a reminder of just how hollow you had become.
Your fingers found their place once again and I readjusted beneath the weight of your expectations. I draped my legs over your bed like every profession of love that I have never said that hangs from the brim of my lips. My fingers danced across my thighs to the beat of your song, one not as familiar as the one of your unrequited love, but I still managed to dance the same.
And we seemed to lie like that for an eternity, you focused on every chord that never came out wrong like every word you ever said to me, and me basking in the sound of your unspoken promises and confessions just waiting for the day when they become reality.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 3:30 PM UTC
Rotating bodies, confusion of sound
Negative imagery holding us down
Social delusion, clearly constructed
Human condition, morals corrupted
Trapped in reaction, lawlessness, war
Dissatisfaction from bowels to core
Devils technology, strategy for
Human mythologies, urban folklore
Sick of psychology, counterfeit cure
Wicked theology robbing the poor
Scheme demonology mislead the pure
Strict and strategically, studying war
Light shown in darkness, image exposed
Few can see through the new emperor's clothes
Lustful this hussle turns humans to hoes
When the blind lead the blind
Just more trouble and woes
It's the mind that they chose
It's designed to stay closed
Standards of jokers, court just a logic
Sick looking cosmics, from schoolyards to college
Primitive man with civilised knowledge
System collapse and he still won't acknowledge
God is the saviour, studies behaviour
Trying to fix the mind that he gave ya
Stiff-necked scholars on prescription meds
Wishing their problems were all in their heads
Moral dilemma, pride is the root
Misguided from youth, heart divided from truth
Egyptians and Grecians, spiritually dead
Imperially led, by the gods in their head
Motives and thoughts
Industrial wealth
Global economy, in for itself
Heart full of madness, covered with kind
Pleasure designed to take over your mind
Furnished in godliness, painted in good
This talented priesthood got real saints misunderstood
While classes in government, set up the veil
And cultivate minds for more mythical tales
Typical Hollywood follies good girl
While vice and corruption take over the world
Motives and thoughts
Check your motives and thoughts
Blind with the wickedness deep in your heart
Modern day wickedness is all you've been taught
Lied to your neighbours, so you get ahead
Modern day trickery is all you've been fed
Motives and thoughts
Check your motives and thoughts
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 7:52 AM UTC
**Scattered Thunderstorms
The radar shows a band of multi-green storms,
Parallel running to the East Coast,
Stretching from So. Florida to Falmouth, Rhode Island.
Path-dependent, the edges skirt my present location,
Instrumented, but not weather resistant,
Water teases, invites me to a head clearing session.
Breezy gusts of overcast, caramel salty bay waters,
(weirdly calm),
Spray sprites whisper, scattered thunderstorms, starboard side
I am the only boat out, especially,
The only one going for sure aimlessly,
Radar non-discriminatory, stupidity legal,
So fools like me go out alone.
Scattered Thunderstorms,
Unavoidable, summer's favored annoyance of choice.
The melancholic platelets budding off my bone's marrow,
Forming wondrous clots of sadness,
Running strong in the currents of my veins,
Downtempo'd, there is no relief for
Inside of my radar scanned brain, the scattered thunderstorms,
Have arrived much earlier today.
What sourced this elegiac distich,
Too many poets, fully disclosing their downbeat, aroma of defeat?
The world is in a **** mood, not one of us, got nothing
Good to say, seems that love storms ripping hearts
With no trace of mercy, the radio has elected nonstop
Taylor Swift and Jonas Bro's
Just to make the point!
It is so easy to feel ******
When the sun is unshining, elegant distich, **** me.
Thinking back, getting a good idea,
Found some long necked Corona overlooked,
Turn on the tv, pretend I'm a real cowboy,
And for god's sake, shut down poetry,
Good Bye Poetry, for the rest of the day
Value you more than me, but you've worn me down
My blood streams your anguished distress,
I cannot survive these scattered revolver-repeating
Anguish-Cries-For-Relief from the Thunderstorms,
That now having reached, breached,
That now, having infected my heart which started
This day brow beaten,
First poem of the day, already shell-shellacked,
Now, I must shut me, batten me, down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The average lifespan of a platelet is normally just 5 to 9 days. Platelets are a natural source of growth factors. They circulate in the blood of mammals and are involved in hemostasis, leading to the formation of blood clots.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
Looking for an answer
But, I still don't get the question
People liking country
But, I'm still missin' western
On the straight and narrow
But, I'm stuck on the turn
Not sure where I'm goin'
When ever will I learn?
People always texting
But, me... I'm leaving notes
They are always flying
And me, I'm stuck on boats
They know all the hot spots
But, me I'm stuck at home
They go out together
I stay home alone
I'm a long necked bottle
In a short necked box
They're all hunting
And I'm the fox
I'm a half beat slow
When the music rocks
I'm a long necked bottle
In a short necked box
Looking to the future
While I'm looking at the past
I look at the country
They just go by fast
I'm trying to fit in
I can't tell you how I feel
It' like I'm going round
But, I am the fifth wheel
Going out for drinks
I always go to the wrong bar
They want to go out dancing
I want a good cigar
They all like to disco
I like "Whiskey in the Jar"
They all drive big trucks
I drive a rusty car
I'm a long necked bottle
In a short necked box
They're all hunting
And I'm the fox
I'm a half beat slow
When the music rocks
I'm a long necked bottle
In a short necked box
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
im skipping through the day,
flying away like fairy dust and dripping gold like a caramel bar
grinning ear to ear like a Cheshire cat
because most everyone is mad here
and im not altogether here myself
3 parts infected 2 parts sane and 7 parts mad
my heads on a spring like a bobble necked pin
not here !they scream not here!
so my mind leaves,
truances my classes skipping through feilds of poppies and clovers
where all the rainbows end
my Conscience can hide from the lies my eyes tell
so ive lost it 12 pence at a time,
rounded down to dimes,
raving lunitics prance here, in the halls of my brain
10:16 like its 420 again
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 6:24 PM UTC
Ah yes the evening has an ending like a Barbara Cartland novel
His eyes burned into hers like sapphires
Glazed with the amount of special brew he had necked watching Bolton wanderers.
They had won, so he fought with fans instead of the Mrs
In the pub after the game he saw his quarry
She was a prize
His strong arms unfolded, her softly yielding body helpless as she was being swept away on a tsunami of passion
Well dragged outside with a bottle of Auzzie white.
The black eyes from his earlier exploits reflected on his away team polyester shirt in the fluorescent lights of the pubs smoking area.
Then he dropped his pants revealing a porridge gun capable of crop spraying.
Moments later she was awash with a spermiferois goatie after almost choking herself on a double portion of spangle after it fired both chambers
It was love!
Then the bell for last orders sounded and he was lost as to walking the Bourneville boulevard with her or grabbing a last pint with his mates.
It had been a hard day
But a true hero he did the Captain Oates and left with her The promise of captain's pie and a scotch was on the cards back at her place
But her night of passion was not assured
If Dibnah **** didn't strike as his alcohol to blood ratio was in the wrong place.
On Monday he would be but a memory
Next week it's an away game
She will miss him
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
Anchor
Blindly walk away carelessly forming a separate destiny
What heart hasn’t been broken from loss?
Nothing but these remain a certainty
Transitory lives and times
This tension ever exists
Security rock solid always will be buffeted by change
Fate continuously at odds with calm calculated reason always set to resist
Dark doubts the heart will pierce
Fear puts able thoughts in chains
The mind enslaved death enshrined
Who hasn’t known this cruel master’s reign?
Held fast as by a strait jacket useless to fight
Heartless people consumed by deadness
In the midst of laughter lies a specter
Decency and safety shifts treachery always at readiness
Impossible innocence shocked blood covers the land
There is no freedom dealt by mortal man
This race and special gift angels sift
Divine pollination needed for character unchecked
Grace everywhere at once without a trace of its origin
The face noble the heart captured perfect gladness
The rock of offence removed
Stiff necked pillar of rebellion finally moved
Paths now sweet a life hid discreet
The waters calm the breeze a balm
Thoughts unbridled burning intense
Arrows of gold feathers of silver
Blessed be the nation who finds God to be their anchor
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
She gets impatient
so quickly,
even though
I've told her
things worth
cultivating
take time to grow.
That she's always unsure
is all she really knows.
God had already
given her a sick
set of six strings,
so she sold her
steel body to the devil,
to do what he will with it.
Now they
resonate
together,
one howlin' wolf,
all through the night.
*Haughty,
naughty
necked
girl,
Why would I
write you a jewel,
or a star,
when you already
are one?*
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 11:06 AM UTC
Why did you give no hint that night
That quickly after the morrow’s dawn,
And calmly, as if indifferent quite,
You would close your term here, up and be gone
Where I could not follow
With wing of swallow
To gain one glimpse of you ever anon!
Never to bid good-bye
Or lip me the softest call,
Or utter a wish for a word, while I
Saw morning harden upon the wall,
Unmoved, unknowing
That your great going
Had place that moment, and altered all.
Why do you make me leave the house
And think for a breath it is you I see
At the end of the alley of bending boughs
Where so often at dusk you used to be;
Till in darkening dankness
The yawning blankness
Of the perspective sickens me!
You were she who abode
By those red-veined rocks far West,
You were the swan-necked one who rode
Along the beetling Beeny Crest,
And, reining nigh me,
Would muse and eye me,
While Life unrolled us its very best.
Why, then, latterly did we not speak,
Did we not think of those days long dead,
And ere your vanishing strive to seek
That time’s renewal? We might have said,
“In this bright spring weather
We’ll visit together
Those places that once we visited.”
Well, well! All’s past amend,
Unchangeable. It must go.
I seem but a dead man held on end
To sink down soon. . . . O you could not know
That such swift fleeing
No soul foreseeing—
Not even I—would undo me so!
2k
What is the head
a. Ash
What are the eyes
a. The wells have fallen in and have
Inhabitants
What are the feet
a. Thumbs left after the auction
No what are the feet
a. Under them the impossible road is moving
Down which the broken necked mice push
Balls of blood with their noses
What is the tongue
a. The black coat that fell off the wall
With sleeves trying to say something
What are the hands
a. Paid
No what are the hands
a. Climbing back down the museum wall
To their ancestors the extinct shrews that will
Have left a message
What is the silence
a. As though it had a right to more
Who are the compatriots
a. They make the stars of bone
1.9k
You and Ingrid
bummed a ride
on the back
of the coal truck
the spring holiday underway
Ok
said the coal truck driver
but keep
your heads down
don't want to get
pulled over
by the rozzers
and so you both
climbed in the back
of the truck
settling down
between sacks of coal
covered over
by tarpaulin
with just a slit
for light and air
and you and she
just sitting there
she clothed
in an old green dress
and cardigan of grey
brown scuffed shoes
and grey socks
you in jeans
and blue shirt
open necked
and sleeveless
patterned jumper
never been
in the back
of a coal truck before
Ingrid said
mustn't get too *****
in case Dad finds out
and leathers me one
you watched
as she sat there
in the semi-dark
gazing out
through the slit
at the thin
aspect of sky
hands on her knees
biting her lip
been once before
with Jimmy
but then it rained
and we got drenched
you said
what did your parents say?
Ingrid asked
nothing much
you replied
Mum moaned a bit
but the old man said nothing
just stared
as he blew smoke
from his cigarette
through his nose
God my dad'd go mad
if I had done that
she said
pulling her knees
together hands
holding on the top
I'd not be able
to sit for a week
he'd beat me such
she added
moving
with the movement
of the truck
you said nothing
knowing her old man
seeing him often
walking through the Square
swaying with the *****
or seeing her mother
bruised and battered
crossing to the shops
enduring neighbours' whispers
for a while she was silent
looking through the slit
as the sky drifted by
as the truck moved
you swayed
side to side
her shoulder
against yours
her arm touching yours
the smell of wet washing
and of yesterday's dinner
captured on her clothes
seeping in your nose
now and then
she spoke
of this and that
of kids at school
of names called
of hair pulled
and how she liked it
when she saw you
enter school
and your kind words
and helpful ways
and when the driver
pulled off the tarpaulin
to get out sacks of coal
daylight blew out
your eyes
and made you smile
and cheered your hearts
you shared the sandwiches
you'd brought
and bottle of lemonade
factory made
sitting on the truck floor
she nibbling a sandwich
and drinking shyly
from the lemonade bottle
after you'd wiped
the top with the palm
of your hand
her eyes on you
her lips open for words
her knees pressing together
to keep the balance
as the truck
moved on and away
just you and she
on a bright spring day.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
A desperate desperado shivering as the sun sets,
casts it's silky shadows upon the hollows below.
Beneath the cascading denizens of light,
a puff of smoke waltzes across the December sky,
a patient without his insurance with nothing left but
callous empty third-person reassurance,
"everything will be better" as she said.
But better is always easy when your hand isn't writing the letter.
Save your proverbs for an open ear,
this one is half deaf and full of itself,
despite your intent,
your lack of action perpetuates malcontent.
After all we're all just passing moments
gone and forgotten, evicted,
convicted of being a gutless mime,
going through the motions,
minus a true notion.
A confused calculator short circuiting under an oil leak
spitting out numbers, complicating already complicated complexities
subtracting numerals adding funerals
dividing families multiplying tragedies
It's just a numbers game, and we can't participate
we're just the studio audience, recorded live without any life.
Flashing signs tell us when to laugh and when to cry,
pre-determined automated messages contrived to convince.
And I'm stuck spinning in the corner,
with my hands on my head.
Senselessly blurting out: Why?!
But don't mind me, I'm just another lost soul
trapped with my head in the sky.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 11:59 AM UTC
He'd be more
than one page in your journal
this man, Yorkshire-born,
anthropology at Pembroke,
the one who wrote
about a fox and a song.
Piano music in the room,
British-bohemia.
You, enthralled,
wonderfully drunk
among turtle-necked boys,
friends of his
and then him,
the unscratchable diamond
you wanted bad.
'Then the worst happened.'
Earrings like tears in his palm,
two accents mixing,
new paints in a ***
Before long
he'd be chucking
clods at your window
though you wouldn't be home.
But his name would spray
from your mouth for good.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
I wanted to write about
The first
Time I saw a spotlight
And knew what it meant
It was in a theater
And
Smoke machines blew
The light into existence a light
I had never seen before the spotlights
They circled cut paths I couldn’t
Follow
Define
Shining through the smoke
Light made color made smoke made real
It wasn’t the light I saw it was the smoke spotlit but it was
Only the light I knew
Saw
Could see
Until I thought of driving
Home
Late one night in the front seat and falling asleep
As our headlights cut through the fog
And knowing if I could just
Crawl through the window and
Sit on the hood of the
Car and reach out my foot and stand
on the fog-beam I would
Be carried somewhere more comfortable than the
One crick-necked nook
I had found that would
Let me fall asleep dreaming of
Crawling through windows. I wanted
To write about that first time,
When I watched the spotlights draw symbols
A cuneiform language only the smoke could read and how the
Smoke danced and I realized
The only way to shine is to be
So
Small
That you cannot cast a shadow,
That everything casts a shadow that
To shine you must block something else from shining
Because we are not suns
We are not
We are small and
Lonely
moons.
But what if we were so small we didn’t have to be?
We could be dust and smoke and
The light could dance through us
Together
And we would dance through it
And bring it to life
Write in a language only
We can read as we swim through ourselves
Ourselves the light we’re swimming through
Light is only light until it hits the dust
The dust makes the beam
Be small with me and build beams of light in a small theater
Hall where the dust has
Collected where
We have collected
Ourselves.
That is what I wanted to write
About but as I watched the
Beams moving
And learned the smoke of a
Dusty theater-room
And how it dances
Even after the light leaves it,
It must, even though
I
Cannot see
It, because it is
Always ready always
Dancing when the light arrives
The dust is a beam of light
Waiting
To be built, a boat
Waiting
To breathe an ocean into
Existence and float
Through it and
Be rocked
By it and
Be
It, is
What I wanted to write about but
As I watched the beams
Moving one
Met my eye
And
The smoke vanished
And
The beam vanished
And
There was nothing
But the light
Staring at me
Ripping my shadow
Out of me and
Hurling it behind me only
For a second
An angry and
Vengeful second who are you to
Tell me that I need the dust?
You are not a sun
You are barely a moon you are
So small
So
small
And still you cast a shadow you
Take from me
Use me
Know yourself
Build your world
By me with me through me
And you sit
In this dusty theater hall
So small
And want to write
That it is dust that makes the beam?
No smoke machine could
Blow the light into
Existence what would you call
Smoke if there was no light to
Pass through it to
Light it breathe it into
Existence now
Sit
Lonely and selfish
moon
And watch the show.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 1:37 PM UTC
S.tiff necked and so hard headed
T.enacious, with rebellion embedded
U.nyielding to what you believe
B.ullheaded in what i perceive
B.oorish in my own steadfast ways
O.bstruction to what you might say
R.efractory with my persistence
N.onconformist, full of resistance
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 9:13 AM UTC
Inserted ear buds
Attempted confinement
Chained to misery.
My igloo of isolation with the computer doesn't hold well against
Winds of anxiety blowing torrents of stuff through my mind.
An arctic tundra of ravaged grass.
Long-necked lamp looms
Waiting anxiously for me and
Witnessing bouts of non-progress.
Perpetrators impregnate fleeting tranquility
Never wanting me to win
in my concentration.
--Bony bodies slipping under the crack in the door.
They are the Monkey Mind
I have to escape from.
Many.
Petty.
Fears.
This is the way my consciousness wages war.
Ripping itself apart
Defeating purpose
till there is none.
During battles,
Monkeys Rule It All.
At the end
I shall win.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 5:54 AM UTC