"outlandish" poems
They are always with us, the thin people
Meager of dimension as the gray people
On a movie-screen. They
Are unreal, we say:
It was only in a movie, it was only
In a war making evil headlines when we
Were small that they famished and
Grew so lean and would not round
Out their stalky limbs again though peace
Plumped the bellies of the mice
Under the meanest table.
It was during the long hunger-battle
They found their talent to persevere
In thinness, to come, later,
Into our bad dreams, their menace
Not guns, not abuses,
But a thin silence.
Wrapped in flea-ridded donkey skins,
Empty of complaint, forever
Drinking vinegar from tin cups: they wore
The insufferable nimbus of the lot-drawn
Scapegoat. But so thin,
So weedy a race could not remain in dreams,
Could not remain outlandish victims
In the contracted country of the head
Any more than the old woman in her mud hut could
Keep from cutting fat meat
Out of the side of the generous moon when it
Set foot nightly in her yard
Until her knife had pared
The moon to a rind of little light.
Now the thin people do not obliterate
Themselves as the dawn
Grayness blues, reddens, and the outline
Of the world comes clear and fills with color.
They persist in the sunlit room: the wallpaper
Frieze of cabbage-roses and cornflowers pales
Under their thin-lipped smiles,
Their withering kingship.
How they prop each other up!
We own no wilderness rich and deep enough
For stronghold against their stiff
Battalions. See, how the tree boles flatten
And lose their good browns
If the thin people simply stand in the forest,
Making the world go thin as a wasp's nest
And grayer; not even moving their bones.
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Blameless as daylight I stood looking
At a field of horses, necks bent, manes blown,
Tails streaming against the green
Backdrop of sycamores. Sun was striking
White chapel pinnacles over the roofs,
Holding the horses, the clouds, the leaves
Steadily rooted though they were all flowing
Away to the left like reeds in a sea
When the splinter flew in and stuck my eye,
Needling it dark. Then I was seeing
A melding of shapes in a hot rain:
Horses warped on the altering green,
Outlandish as double-humped camels or unicorns,
Grazing at the margins of a bad monochrome,
Beasts of oasis, a better time.
Abrading my lid, the small grain burns:
Red cinder around which I myself,
Horses, planets and spires revolve.
Neither tears nor the easing flush
Of eyebaths can unseat the speck:
It sticks, and it has stuck a week.
I wear the present itch for flesh,
Blind to what will be and what was.
I dream that I am Oedipus.
What I want back is what I was
Before the bed, before the knife,
Before the brooch-pin and the salve
Fixed me in this parenthesis;
Horses fluent in the wind,
A place, a time gone out of mind.
16.9k
On the land molded by footsteps and ruled by obnoxiously bleached clowns,
Visited by swarms of neighborhood guttersnipes and the opulent from uptown.
Allured by the traditional Irish circus music and the grinding of rusted gears,
To arrive at dawn and to leave only when the night sky is tired of fireworks and flares.
Skittish and gleaming eyes would roll on the floor, struck by daze and lost in wonderment,
At the marvel of giant steel rides and god forsaken and socially foretoken genetic mutants.
The word of a woman with two faces and the boy with a tail would make any catholic priest run.
Amusing the rational ones, alongside the man with elastic skin and the girl with the forked tongue.
The opera lady with outlandish proportions and tumorous lips sings to break a piece of cheap glassware.
Little do people know,that the magician’s red gloves are actually stained with blood of rabbit that disappeared.
Their noses get caught in the medley of fragrances from the exotic perfumes shop,
Blended with the saccharine tang from the stall that sells candy floss and soda pops.
Indulging over the overly priced confectioneries at the stall of the baker with the forbidding grin.
Try it a hundred times,try it a thousand,you’ll never get the fifth one right in the game of rings.
People will come out screaming from the haunted house,only to laugh about it later,
Little do they know,that skeletons that drove them pale and white couldn't get any realer.
They’ll jostle and struggle to make their way through the crowd to various rides and attractions.
Hustling to navigate through the maze the carnival is, encountered by countless illusions.
And once your body wears out and senses give in,that’s when you've truly entered the carnival state of mind.
Your ears stinging ,nose stifled,tongue baffled, eyes exhausted,and your sense of judgment blinded.
That’s when my masked act begins,the most profitable act at the carnival,
Diving into the heart of the crowd,to draw an act of brilliance lasting an ephemeral.
Slithering across the crowd in a different disguise every hour,concealed by stealth.
Sneaking into every nook and corner and slipping my furtive hands into your pockets for a little bit of wealth.
Only to dine with the clowns and the carnival family at the haunted house at the end of the day.
And of course, rabbits for dinner,if the baker may
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 3:13 AM UTC
multimedia macramé
sloshing propaganda sewage
on the unsuspecting public
***** lice infest ****** hill folk
west Virginia outbreak threatening the world
as we know it
flesh altering nonsense explicitly graphed
charting movement of microbes
on air, land, and/ or sea
global currents the new deliverer of death –
infected immigrants sit smiling
internment camps providing nutrition
never before experienced
as non-natives negotiate freedom
by submitting to vaccinations baths
and the standard delousing powder –
paranoid hand-sanitizer users
glued to the **** tube
spray their shoes with disinfectant
praying to an absent GOD for health
while shoveling GMO corn chips into ever widening
mouth holes
pharmaceutical companies lick lifeless lips
as Congress recognizes their humanity
while rejecting the concerns of the poor
…..no money in it –
outlandish claims of outbreaking Ebola
flood the mainstream outlets
fear: version – infinity
one more plague plan to stimulate new legislation
more law
no touching
even looking at the infirm can be cause for isolation
radiation treatments
courtesy of Fukushima, reactors 1-4 –
new found focus on fracturing the shale
releasing new oil reserves
and old bacteria
dinosaur killers
free-radicals
radically changing the genetic code
humanity altered
once again –
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
A beautiful soul,
so lost in the haze.
Only ever gifted,
dirt,
grit,
and graves.
You fight for your passions,
and breath your beliefs.
Your voice is so boundless,
seemless,
unique!
The trials are endless,
the outcome seems bleak.
Yet
you have something to hold onto,
and something you seek.
This challenge won't be the last,
but when it's complete.
There will not be a single foe,
you cannot defeat.
With this being said,
and fortunes being read.
I'll ask,
how do you feel?
And If you,
being here,
feeling,
breathing this air,
is even ******* real?
Then i have no questions,
and I need not answer.
And without any qualms,
we can't create cancer.
But without random deaths,
how can we live?
and with no sense of love,
why would one give?
Just find out
what made you,
the way that you are.
Then no one can tell you,
that you've gone too far.
To far from your goals,
to far from your dreams.
These "outlandish ideas"
aren't as far as they seem.
So keep it in close,
this love for your art.
And never stop feeding,
the beat in your heart.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 11:03 PM UTC
Pushing me, Wanting me requiring me to be more than I want to be. It just will not leave me be can’t it see that I just don’t want to lead. Grow the seed, that it want to see. I can’t believe that it won’t leave me alone. It won’t condone, always telling me to hold the phone. All the restraint, without a complaint can’t be done, this battle will not be won. But I must, always resist the lust of that bust, resist the gust
of temptation, in my relations. In my conversations, on all occasions or be punished, banished, to this outlandish request. I feel possessed, oppressed who would have guessed, that I would have to do the best. All the time, expected never to whine, when no rest I can find. I hurt and am pained, drained from all this restraint. I want to let loose, get my golden egg laying goose. Not be hung by the noose of responsibility. Constantly dictating what I must be doing no fooling allowed, my head must be bowed.
I grow tiered, just let me go I don’t wish to be admired I just want some rest, and peace of mind.
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 12:58 PM UTC
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.
My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.
A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.
A devilish ********** of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.
Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.
A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.
Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.
Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.
Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.
A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.
A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)
A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.
A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.
A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.
An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.
A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.
A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.
Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.
A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.
Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
Sinking like a carelessly cosmic ****** on the 4th of J-U-L-Y, while a distressed young mountain lion lies on your feet.
Watch out for the cautious rubber shark inside the lines. It'd be something like Frank Zappa stuck on a deserted island with a dealer of his liking or disdain.
I believe in outlandish crazy industrialists in the distance between here and nowhere.
Lucifer has been infused with witchcraft and crack ******* Mindless ******* Thank your God.
Excellent nutrition is being presented as gluttony. Which in turn has caused your little sister to make daily offerings to a porcelain god.
Pleasure didn't invent rebellion but rebellion did however invent pleasure. Don't confuse the two.
A believer is magnetically drawn to immorality, much like man is to faith.
Inspiration simply radiates free energy and a smile should never be compared to a frown.
Dreaming can be mistaken for productivity. Dream big people, dream big.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity,
Come dance with me in Ireland.'
One man, one man alone
In that outlandish gear,
One solitary man
Of all that rambled there
Had turned his stately head.
That is a long way off,
And time runs on,' he said,
'And the night grows rough.'
'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'
'The fiddlers are all thumbs,
Or the fiddle-string accursed,
The drums and the kettledrums
And the trumpets all are burst,
And the trombone,' cried he,
'The trumpet and trombone,'
And cocked a malicious eye,
'But time runs on, runs on.'
I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
"Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'
3.9k
We can be crazy together
Just entertain the thought
Two lunatics in tandem
Free-falling towards the sun
We can be crazy together
Demented for each other
With pet giraffes and elephants
We'll dance while on safari
We can be crazy together
Like paired un-matching socks
We'll open up the heavens
With our outlandish thoughts
We can be crazy together
Since love always requires
A fair amount of madness
To fill your heart's desires
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 10:21 AM UTC
Devastation
Exhausted
Phony
Redundant
Evil
Sorrow
Shallow
Inconsequential
Outlandish
Noxious
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
*Elemental Metamorphosis & Transcendental Milestones,
Sempiternal Origamis Of Her Temperamental Clones,
Spiraling Perpetuities & Her Sacrosanct Fortitude,
Procreating Tipsy Ruptures In Her Permeating Solitude,
Perplexed Momentum & Her Outlandish Constellations,
Nuclear Decay Of Her Masked Radiations,
Verbal Shadows & Her Tranquil Ascendance,
Encasing Her Tears In Liquefied Transcendence,
Yearning Oddities & Entropic Oceans,
Vitalizing Inexorable Emotions Into Phosphorescent Potions,
An Hourglass Existence Of Her Fabricated Virility,
Dwelling In Quantum Ascents Of Ardent Agility,
Silver Ghosts Of Her Prismatic Abyss,
Convicting Glass Houses In Her Ecstatic Bliss,
Telepathic Shades & Hollow Palisades,
Detrimental Novelists On Uncharted Crusades,
Pernicious Scars In Her Profound Gaze,
Erupting Genesis Inside Her Dimensional Maze,
Perplexed Periphery & Digital Fictions,
Annexed By Her Hourglass Depictions,
Breakdown Sanity & Her Concealed Screams,
Lifelike Dewdrops In Her Visionary Dreams,
Satellite Searchlights & Love//Less Progenic Mutation,
Paralyzed Sunlight Sparking Genetic Alteration,
Monochromatic Streams & Cinematic Realms,
Static Screams Of Her Toxic Schemes.
- 05:43 AM -*
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:18 PM UTC
I won't mind being surreal,
if you won't scurry
seeing me in my real self,
and kind enough not to
think of me as outlandish
as something like 'Shrodinger's cat'
kept in a box
that is both alive and dead!
(to the universe outside the box
as the' Copenhagen interpretation' implies,
dont ask me how!)
I am least interested in'quantum entanglement'
which i can do without, but oh! mathematics
that mother of all sciences is hell bent, it seems
to hunt me down till I say uncle.
They have told me ,
what I am now
is not mathematically possible!
(whatever it means)
They looked at me as if
I don't exist.
(Oh! my poor Shrodinger's cat
I now understand your plight;
oh ! to be both dead and 'undead' theoretically
when reality chooses to go naked!)
I just said this:
I have no use to mathematics
that refuses to believe in me
if maths find me unacceptable
all I want to say is this,
how would maths even touch poetry with a barge pole?
and don't forget, maths creates the poetry of the universe!
**Oh! I am confused
forgive me for being Buridan's ***
that sees in maths 'Shrodinger's cat'**
They looked horrified
and in a moment
turned to thick smoke
and dissolved!
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 12:07 PM UTC
A girl up the way
has entered puberty.
One day she wears
the most outlandish clothes and colours
and the next
black, gray or blue.
Fond of protecting
the little ones, in one breath,
she stands separate from adults and everyone,
in the next.
Perhaps,
she talks with classmates and girlfriends
about the changes to her body
as she throws fierce energy into gym
and pursues intensely with pimples and glasses
her various and numerous studies.
Recently,
she was halfway up
the Everest of a lamp-post
before her mother came out
and roared her down.
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 7:46 PM UTC
I like you best when you're wrecked and gorgeous.
When your eyes are bright with excitement and half-lidded from drink.
When you're writing hot checks with all the words you'd never say otherwise.
I like you best when your cheeks are flushed and your bottom lip looks like I've just bitten it.
When the words that fall from it are fantastical and outlandish.
When you ask me things like "Will you be my post-apocalypse bride?!" and tell me with slurred and hurried speech that I have the best taste in music.
I like you best when it looks like touching your skin would burn the prints from my fingers.
When you introduce me to the people you call family with liquid pride and wildly exaggerated tales of my heroic deeds.
When I'm not just a nod of your shaggy locks and a tilt of your glass.
These are the times when I can forget the awful nagging voice in my head,
the one that says "Never, never, never"
Because everything about you is tinged with "It could happen any moment now."
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 2:59 AM UTC
bae decided that he wouldn't go
to the show just because he feels low
the flu is about him, he has aches
but that doesn't mean he has to be late
I'm sad as heck for bae being sick
he's annoying, my bae not named ****
he won't stop txting me weird things
I wish he could have normal thinks
stop turning minnows into whales
stop telling such outlandish tales
I told him to please not go to bed
but he decides to be sick instead
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
She came in like a lion. Long wild hair everywhere, loud and outlandish. She was outspoken and shameless, so settled in her own skin. You couldn’t not see her, not hear her, not want a part of her to be inside of you. Vibrant and never ending. There were memories jam packed behind her eyes, things you knew that she was dying to forget. But she was stronger for them, better for them. She grew from every tragedy. If you were lucky she might whisper them to you alone in the safety of darkness, but in the light of day she would never show weakness. No, she was all over the room, opinions, and laughter, hand motions and impressions, spinning like the Tasmanian Devil of Human Emotion. Everywhere, and spreading like wildfire. There was no stopping her, no controlling the wildcat inside of her. She came in like a lion. She roared and everyone listened.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
There are too many people here.
Streets are crowded with vendors
and an indelible smell thickens.
Buildings are painted a faint blue, or pink;
they rise upwards, lofty and erratic.
On the balcony of my hotel their roofs are speckled;
one of every color.
Outlandish art fills sun-glazed shops.
Some are only twenty feet wide. Motorbikes
wiz down the cracked roads with intimidating speed.
I look up to the knotted powerlines strung above
cluttering the backdrop of twine green trees.
In the humidity, there is no fresh air.
I can scarcely breathe. Here is a city
impractically shaped, a different world,
but the tender is coming as I descend further.
In the interior is Birla Orphanage
where laughter spreads.
The children wade gigantic waves
on the shore of Do Son Beach.
Mucky water sticks to the sand on our skin.
A boy, three feet tall, beautiful bright brown eyes
peers into my life. I do not know his language,
the most we can do is share gaping smiles
as this city unfolds its secrets to me.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
Is not only ordinary in the most vile sense
It also lacks the creative imbalance
That which pulses through the blood of cryptic elders
Although being encaged in a box
has the comfort of rigidity
It destroys the fetus of all that pretends to be beautiful
Contemptuous moments ruined
Because we are weak enough to ask, why?
To pander For a something as feebly human as a definition
Why must everything be placed
on the hand of the glockenspiel
When the world has clearly indicated
The presence of a divine anomaly
The trees are freezing
into crocked chapels
The blackened oasis
tearing slightly along the buttons
Through this all the celestial ambiance awaits
Its complexities weave
each stroke unparalleled
r
The urge is to destroy
That which makes our eyes sting
And our brains blast through the unseen hallows
Riding the coattails of a blastiod
This gusto is blanketed over in our simple minds
Forged into a hammer and sickle
Of absolute and definite terror
Destroy it all
All of which can chemically mix and produce
A new mystical pattern of deficiencies
Naked spayed on the cutting room floor
We must destroy it
By forcefully coding its gnome
Correcting what appears to be a hint of insurrection
When we already no the what already know the why
but the current answers will make us their slave
They will bind us in hopeless ecstasy
So we form new words that don’t do it justice
Outlandish plans for this invention
Destroying its capability to be
simple
beautiful and
without purpose
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:01 AM UTC
There must be a scapegoat, a faceless soul we can blame
when events unfolding never crease the right way
there needs to someone to take the fall
for our shortcomings, failures, mistakes and flaws
let's name it timing
the outlandish ideal with a sort of silver lining
benefiting our dreams or disappointing based on your outlook at the second
placing our losses on timing's plate, so to us it remains indebted
the divine invention we haphazardly sink our faith towards
faulting opportunity for not opening closed doors
falsely accusing an innocent occurrence with words of curse in nature
we'll just chalk it up to poor timing, and bury it for later
the concept of allowing an unmovable force dictate our actions
selfishly choosing when the timing suits our satisfaction
poor timing, missing the chance of a unmatchable proportions
minimal effort to a particular cause turned twisted words contortions
to cleverly claim the culprit, when your very actions displayed a lack of determination
it's not the moment's patience
that forces your will to put the act in motion
yet we chalk it up to timing, a peculiar notion
a cloak of deceit and disbelief we wrap ourselves in, blaming an unworthy malefactor innocent as the sun is bright
so let's just call it poor timing, leaving our passion-less actions out of sight...
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
It's a bad day when you can't get Celene Dion out of your head
Titanic was good
It was not that good
I found a dried flower
Buried in Leviticus of my sort of grandma's bible
She must have liked that part
The only quote about Leviticus I've read on the internet is about stoning gay people
I hope she didn't like it that much
I saw a bagel get made
No one has the job of eating the middles out
I'm 23, this was a let down
I still like bagels a lot
I tacked the dry flower on my wall
Above the reminder that it's $3 a day to swim at the public pool in the mornings
I hope it's not a homophobic flower
I hid the bible behind Lauren Conrad's book
Lauren Conrad's book embarrasses me less
My sort of grandma
Is only sort of alive
I often feel that way
I feel most alive while dreaming of the impossible
Realistic dreams lead to disappointment
Outlandish dreams leave little 'remember when’s’'
No one hates themselves for not becoming an astronaut
A lot of people hate themselves for not losing 20lbs
Friendships are often measured in favors
That is all
That was not all
Favors are measured in sacrifices
Favors are not measured in reward
Today is a reflection of not dying yesterday
There is a one in seven chance that today is Friday
And it is imperative that we get down on Friday
Because the anticipation for this weekend is very high
If today is Monday all of that is no longer relevant to our conversation
I am losing weight
As I lose weight more and more fat girls hit on me
I do not like this as much as what I was imagining would happen
I have learned that being funny **** cool
Like I am becoming
Does not mean hot girls will hit on me
It means they will actually think about it before saying no
To supplement my soon to be chiseled physic
I am learning a Jack Johnson song on guitar
This worked for an acquaintance in 2006
Maybe I should learn Colbie Callait instead
The world would be better if schools had better teachers
The world would also be better if high school seniors paid attention to the teachers they already have
I don't know which one is easier to fix
My past seems rosier than my future
Except in the case of February 16th 2007
And now February 16th 2012
Corner buildings and modern light fixtures are my favorite aesthetics
My favorite building has neither of those features
Those features are not that awesome
Dead flowers smell like dead things
To combat this I spray cologne on my grandma's flower
I have never been to a funeral
I wonder if they febreeze the dead people
Or maybe they use Chanel No. 5
This is something I would like to learn more about
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 3:38 AM UTC
I joy, dear mother, when I view
Thy perfect lineaments, and hue
Both sweet and bright.
Beauty in thee takes up her place,
And dates her letters from thy face,
When she doth write.
A fine aspect in fit array,
Neither too mean nor yet too gay,
Shows who is best.
Outlandish looks may not compare,
For all they either painted are,
Or else undress’d.
She on the hills which wantonly
Allureth all, in hope to be
By her preferr’d,
Hath kiss’d so long her painted shrines,
That ev’n her face by kissing shines,
For her reward.
She in the valley is so shy
Of dressing, that her hair doth lie
About her ears;
While she avoids her neighbour’s pride,
She wholly goes on th’ other side,
And nothing wears.
But, dearest mother, what those miss,
The mean, thy praise and glory is
And long may be.
Blessed be God, whose love it was
To double-moat thee with his grace,
And none but thee.
1.8k
" i always wondered if fish drooled ? " she said... and left it there like a cartoon tumbleweed, caked in glitter and sprite phlegm. she stood across an ocean on an island of outlandish abandonment, where all the mirrors crack. her passing quakes the stain off her daily betrothal
to a toothless bigot in the land of freedom's end in the hovel of her heart's fall from appointed grace. a place of a thousand cuts and no car. waaaay out in the country of her diminished affections, her eyes could be seen wandering the burnt out villa of her lost love, where she recalls the fairy rings piercing her lips and the trembling of her youth, finding a slow hand to explore the wet *** without peril, soaring with her palm, plastered to a feathered bed in a guest room, in a time-share.
grampa sleep. and bird's nest pitch black.
" i always wondered if fish drooled ? " she said... she slept through it... on to the next disconnect to get intimate with. she left me there, like a chocolate mint resting on a pillow made of shards of habitual flagellation by candle light and instinct; resting on a bed of nails rusting
in the flood plain of her fondest wish.
she left me there
to conspire with her better demons, to witness - the benign desperation of her frenzied exploration
of actual actualization... to watch her ****** from the jaws of a dire wolf,
her bleeding heart and her ransom.
with her bare teeth and a naked
Truth.
you should have seen her face.
i tattooed her secrets on the iris of a blind ghost, i swore it " abide in her broken heart like an open door with a cool breeze slinking through the fetid air of her self defeat and stale bread bumble bees.
and to abide by her rules
when she finds them... then to ghostly fall
upon his ghost sword by midnight
with a smile that tells hell it cannot claim what rises.
a smile that spat at the devil and pitied his children.
a ghost smile that stole a book from a museum
and never told his other
books why.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC
Look at the current state of affairs
and ask yourself this:
"Would it be at all outlandish
that they're creating enemies deliberately
in order to justify their existence?"
They **** off those they wrongfully oppress
until they can justify violent, martial law like suppression.
Either through the self-fulfilling prophecy of psychology
or through some projection or perhaps manifestation
it does seem that the New World Order thrives on demagoguery;
deliberate deception and misdirection of the masses
and then riding that artificial current
to their own sick, annihlistic ends.
If it is true and I am eventually kidnapped for this type of speech,
I won't back down for a second; I will defend my voice unto my very last word:
"All I've done is speak my mind, thank you for vindicating my words."
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
Bars stricken with low tide,
low solitude, and dead eyes
You see their stripes, outlandish appeal.
When a bar is laid flat, we guess and we chat.
Liquid is the vibe.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC