"projectile" poems
the job of the artist
is to be
luminous and dangerous
*luminous to others
by being
dangerous to themselves
when the words are ripped from the chest,
atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes,
starburst fireworks,
luminous and dangerous,
luminating the shared night,
laminating your truths,
in poems disguised*
and so the job,
our work,
begins
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 8:34 AM UTC
she is outspoken and bold
bold like the sun
bolder than an army of boulders
falling from a hillside
she is an avalanche
when there is nowhere left to run
she is despised by some
and others wish to fill her
with some old fashioned whisky
i am sanctified by her ways
and returned to my former glory
as this poem has tasted far better days
she is a morning glory
her eyes are like the petals of a flower
she is the Wordsworth of the decade
a wordsmith dancing in her own decay
i am essentially a target
a lost projectile in the arrow's path
she has coaxed me back to sanity
with her sardonic gestures
and her sarcastic use of wit
i am a nitwit she said
so i laugh and pick the flowers from her hair
slowly and soporifically
i am seaweed adrift in her bonnet
sandpaper scattered along the shoreline
remove the blind spectacles
and eat the lines i’ve written
a poem is just a candle anyway
to spray the eyes of infinity with lightning
mars is retrograde regardless
so i’ll just sit here and pretend
that i’m not too much of a target for her beauty
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
My enemy let us compete,
in game unique, offbeat.
This is my father's vintage gun,
using it we'll have some fun.
Rules of the game let us fix,
bullet is one, chambers are six.
Rotate the chambers putting bullet in one,
where is the bullet will be known to none.
Pointing each one's head in turn,
we'll pull off the trigger one by one.
At the very outset brain can rend
or game can go till the very end.
Six times of nervous ******
is enough to make the projectile burst.
With anguish and pain looser will yell,
very soon his soul will reach fiery hell.
Winner's anger and hate will get a vent,
future will give him enough time to repent.
My enemy let us compete,
in game unique, offbeat.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
Among the market greens,
a bullet
from the ocean
depths,
a swimming
projectile,
I saw you,
dead.
All around you
were lettuces,
sea foam
of the earth,
carrots,
grapes,
but
of the ocean
truth,
of the unknown,
of the
unfathomable
shadow, the
depths
of the sea,
the abyss,
only you had survived,
a pitch-black, varnished
witness
to deepest night.
Only you, well-aimed
dark bullet
from the abyss,
mangled at one tip,
but constantly
reborn,
at anchor in the current,
winged fins
windmilling
in the swift
flight
of
the
marine
shadow,
a mourning arrow,
dart of the sea,
olive, oily fish.
I saw you dead,
a deceased king
of my own ocean,
green
assault, silver
submarine fir,
seed
of seaquakes,
now
only dead remains,
yet
in all the market
yours
was the only
purposeful form
amid
the bewildering rout
of nature;
amid the fragile greens
you were
a solitary ship,
armed
among the vegetables,
fin and prow black and oiled,
as if you were still
the vessel of the wind,
the one and only
pure
ocean
machine:
unflawed, navigating
the waters of death.
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Fingers cut palms as hands turn to stone
And a catapult hurls the projectile home
Knuckles collapse from bone meeting bone
Down in the alleys where miscreants roam
Suggestions of violence fill gutters with blood
Fill heads with the sense of nefarious thrill
Their skin turns to ash and their brains into mud
Rage in the kingdom of eager to ****
The children are soldiers who train everyday
Cowboys and Indians, Robbers and Cops
****** is plot and the actors will play
Portraying the place life will come to a stop
Violence is cancer, and love is no more
Edge of our seats waiting for the next war
Dedicated to the deceased and forgotten, Love and Peace
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
five years ago, June 2018,
I, poet Sir Humbug,
wrote:that the job of the artist was to be
luminous and dangerous
<>
*the job of the artist
is to be
luminous and dangerous
luminous to others
by being
dangerous to themselves
when the words are ripped from the chest,
atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes,
starburst fireworks,
luminous and dangerous,
luminating the shared night,
laminating your truths,
in poems disguised
and so the job,
our work,
begins*
<>
five years on,
somethings have changed,
indeed, the dangers of
being luminous,
clarifying and exposing,
the requisite badge of courage,
need-be more desperately earned
the work is more risky,
as the rules of now are none,
and the risk of good taste,
thoughtful caring,
exposing you innards outwardly,
so easy to demean
and sadly
that titillates the iliterati
like a fire-working fireflies flashing,
their in-concert of ligh attracts the
oohs and aahs
but too,
the restless for glory,
opinionated blowhard,
whose critical boundaries of ill will
are
boundless
yet,
write on, right on
to be where courage be the
sticking point!
your verbs must be pointy,
your direction true,
adjectives of modest innovation,
craft harder, then harder again,
for the work must be honest
in a manner most delicate
now is the time of
subtlety -
if one must bang pots to be heard,
that you to are but a noisemaker, a loser,
an addition to those
lost in the din
quiet passion,
thoughtful insight
to inside, to the tender parts,
will rule the day
and the blow smokers
will rue the day,
as their pretenses chafe and flail wayside,
and your words,
be like sightings of new lands
where you take us utterly beholden,
willing explorers to places most wonderfully
luminous and dangerous!
Jul 10, 2023
Jul 10, 2023 at 11:25 PM UTC
Sunday night is a dull hum
constantly buzzing in my ear
Sunday night is a broken clock
hands stuck at five to five
Sunday night is experiencing technical difficulties
bars of black, white, and other colors
Sunday is so high it can't get off the couch
was that somebody knocking at the door?
Sunday night is so drunk
it fell asleep in the closet
only to wake up thinking
this doesn't look like my bed
Sunday night is trying out for varsity
only to make the practice squad
Sunday night is a suburban strip mall
at five AM on a Monday
I took my Sunday nights
and poured them in a glass
downed it in one gulp
and projectile vomited
all over my Monday through Saturdays
I took my Sunday nights
and put them on a page for you
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
Physics:
It is in your children's behavior Example!
The way your child tantrum
Toys like Cars, Teddy bear, Barbie, Lego
blocks, ***** anything a child can hold
can by be thrown away in a perfect projectile
landing it to your favorite vase causing it to fall
with the strong impact the vase broke into a thousand pieces
And as much as you want to punish your child
but you love them so much you let it slide this time!
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 10:04 PM UTC
(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)
I.
There are the balladeers,
Working in service of their inner Service,
(Though, despite the seeming impossibility,
Their hackneyed verse is even worse)
Creating tortuous rhyme
Which slows down labyrinthine narratives
Ending up in some deus ex machine
So implausible that it would make Euripides blush
(Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile
Or sudden viral contagion;
Would that their creators meet such a fate!)
II.
I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers,
But to bury them.
They are an earnest lot,
(Lord knows that they are earnest)
And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme
(Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy)
And hang the cost.
Though their narratives are head-scratching things,
And their iambs proceed with the steadiness
Of a nonagenarian church pianist
Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw,
They are content, nay, proud of their work
Because babble rhymes with Scrabble
(Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter,
They have the former down to an art.)
III.
Let us not forget the Buk-zombies,
Those apostles of aphorism,
Most of whom speak of their departed deity
As if he were an old drinking buddy
(Never mind that most of them were two or three
Or perhaps not even a bad idea
In the back seat of some mom’s Buick
When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.)
One’s mind is boggled whilst considering
The expanse of the bar required to accommodate
Everyone who would like to
(Or worse, have claimed to)
Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round.
They are a sullen horde, this lot,
Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull.
IV.
Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls
(For they shall have none upon ours.)
They feel so many things so deeply
As such things have never been felt before
(They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass,
Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no,
They have all read their Plath.)
It is, from the moment they arise in the morning
Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them,
All too much for them,
And they bravely face the days
Until such time they care bear to take action
And fling themselves from some convenient precipice.
We should, as a service to them and ourselves,
Ensure the soles of their shoes
Are sufficiently worn and slippery.
(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
Behind me and my daughter
In line for the Ferris wheel
Perhaps when you are older
You will find breastfeeding
Is the least nasty thing
Your child will do
Wait for the projectile *****
The diaper explosions
Snot handed to you
So kindly like a present
Wait for the strangers to ask you
"So when do you plan to get your body back?"
My body never left
It did the most badass thing
Any body could ever do
What have you done
With the beautiful sharp mind and body
God has given you?
Used your eyes and words
To judge other women
Looked at your tummy in the mirror and thought
"I should be skinnier."
It is a shame,
Women ought to stick together
So I'm going to tell you now
Your bodies are amazing
Magical, you might say
Life giving, you're **** right
Do not judge me
Say that my nursing toddler is nasty
Look at her face,
How can you be so cruel?
For ***** sake,
It's just a ******
I can see more of you
Pre-thirteen
In your crop top and skinny jeans
Than you can of me
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC
There's this guy who constantly gives me grief online
as if I need a reminder that I am not funny or smart
that I am incapable of posting any story without his remark
as if he should impart and bestow all of social media
with his divine and seraphic academia:
what is with that?
He posts comments about how illiterate my poetry is
how it doesn't follow the rules; the do-nots and the do's
pontificates how its not properly punctuated
as if I should give up altogether and just shine shoes
and forget trying to construct sentences
just wander in the carousel of nebula's
eternally seeking the tentacle of enemas:
what is with that?
This guy enjoys winding me up like a persistent hobby
the reverent devilment of sadistic entitlement
pushing my head under water for a digital baptism
that I should thank him for his rhetoric enlightenment
as if he was blessed with a correspondence talisman:
what is with that?
This isn't even a poem.
I am letting off steam like an overused kettle
fed up of his mortar forever rammed in my pestle
the temples are raging and my brain is just draining
to explode on cue on the next digital heckle
the cracked and broken vessel
into a vengeful steam-driven projectile:
what is with that?
This, < here > , is my only escape
and creative cathartic vent
I'll post this lament
with the stench of discontent
and tag his name and then just wait
for his feverish malcontent
that I should dare to
prevent his God-like dissent:
memo to self
to a digital antagonist
and his verbose verbal cyst
and the keyboard of twists
when you push
sometimes you get
a big shove back
so don't be surprised
by my riposte
and this poetic attack.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
The attendees are told, in a manner befitting a high mass
You have been finally set free,
(Although, in truth, free is a very large and entirely vague word),
And the message is sent forth from all comers in all corners:
Vendor and visionary alike,
German socialists who left university to ride boats for Greenpeace,
First lieutenants doing their level best
To appear at ease in civilian polos and khakis,
But no matter the vessel,
The message is still the same.
The tyranny of cables and storage space is dead,
It is all but shouted from the lecterns,
(Although it is noted, in small print and sotto voce
That there are certain requirements
In terms of hardware and licensing)
And it is stated by Those Who Know
In tones which neither brook nor invite contradiction,
That they have surmounted, all Hadrian-like,
The alpine divide separating mere data and magic.
Two or three blocks down the street from the convention center,
In a narrow storefront housing an exhibition of ether-only comics
Which have broken the nettling constraints
Of editors and syndication,
There sits, under a somewhat opaque
And slightly scratched piece of plexiglass,
A yellowing comic strip of uncertain vintage,
In which a frowzy cat,
Free of the constraints of panels, gender, and standard grammar,
Is the recipient of a mouse-tossed brick
Whose flight, unfettered by physics, probablility, indeed time itself
Ends striking its mark right between the x’s of the eyes
The projectile itself an inexplicable alchemy
Of confusion, mirth, frustration
And the impossibility of an undeniably pure love.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:29 AM UTC
These lines experimental but elemental to your mental,
My creativity,
Will never submit to the minimal,
Isotopes subliminal penetrating the simple,
Similes send criminals to infiltrate your biochemicals,
Infected stanzas with stacked syntaxes sickness,
My subconscious semiautomatic and stimulated,
Formulate semblances of Leviathan illuminated,
It's a tragedy my soul's has become a victim of gravity,
Now my temples been raided,
My nirvana's disseminated,
And I've contemplated annihilation of self,
Picturing my end as a senile senior citizen,
With no one by my side,
My mind can't complete a sentiment,
Remembering has become my source of a smile,
But it's making me even more curious to taste the end of this projectile,
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
LAST night a January wind was ripping at the shingles
over our house and whistling a wolf song under the
eaves.
I sat in a leather rocker and read to a six-year-old girl
the Browning poem, Childe Roland to the Dark
Tower Came.
And her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was
beautiful to her and she could not understand.
A man is crossing. a big prairie, says the poem, and
nothing happens--and he goes on and on--and it's
all lonesome and empty and nobody home.
And he goes on and on--and nothing happens--and he
comes on a horse's skull, dry bones of a dead horse--
and you know more than ever it's all lonesome and
empty and nobody home.
And the man raises a horn to his lips and blows--he
fixes a proud neck and forehead toward the empty
sky and the empty land--and blows one last wonder-
cry.
And as the shuttling automatic memory of man clicks
off its results willy-nilly and inevitable as the snick
of a mouse-trap or the trajectory of a 42-centimetre
projectile,
I flash to the form of a man to his hips in snow drifts
of Manitoba and Minnesota--in the sled derby run
from Winnipeg to Minneapolis.
He is beaten in the race the first day out of Winnipeg--
the lead dog is eaten by four team mates--and the
man goes on and on--running while the other racers
ride, running while the other racers sleep--
Lost in a blizzard twenty-four hours, repeating a circle
of travel hour after hour--fighting the dogs who
dig holes in the snow and whimper for sleep--
pushing on--running and walking five hundred
miles to the end of the race--almost a winner--one
toe frozen, feet blistered and frost-bitten.
And I know why a thousand young men of the North-
west meet him in the finishing miles and yell cheers
--I know why judges of the race call him a winner
and give him a special prize even though he is a
loser.
I know he kept under his shirt and around his thudding
heart amid the blizzards of five hundred miles that
one last wonder-cry of Childe Roland--and I told
the six year old girl about it.
And while the January wind was ripping at the shingles
and whistling a wolf song under the eaves, her eyes
had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful
to her and she could not understand.
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Temperature raised.
Five bone shiver syllables.
Parent. Haiku-er.
Diarrhea-ing.
Five winter sick syllables.
Parent. Haiku-er.
Projectile *****
Five flu season syllables.
Parent. Haiku-er.
Temperature raised.
Five kids splash in backyard pool.
Haiku-er. Parent.
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 7:07 PM UTC
Little lung oyster all slimy and green.
In my chest resting quietly you have been.
Peacefully sleeping in your abode.
Disturbed by my coughing and up you rode.
projectile now free ascending my throat.
And into my mouth my tongue you did coat.
With your viscouse body spread all around.
A salty Taste I now have found.
Your texture, creamy and kinda stringy.
With parts of you thick and kinda clingy.
With my teeth, I scrape you off.
And swish you around into a froth.
Through my lips I let you fall.
And **** you back up, bubbles and all.
Oh little lung oyster you're a funny little thing.
Kinda like a slimy string.
Three more times I stretch you out.
And **** back into my mouth.
I then gather you on my tongue.
"P-too-ee!" From my mouth you are flung.
You speed away out of sight.
But not so far as I thought you might.
Your stringyness catches on my front teeth.
And you make a mess on me. "Oh good grief!"
The mess is far larger than I thought.
That something your size could possibly wrought.
You cover my chin and the front of my shirt.
And drip on my shoe. Like that's gonna hurt?
I look like I was run over by a fifty pound snail.
Or splashed with snot from a two gallon pail.
So I wiped what I could off my shirt and my chin.
And swore never to play with lung oysters again.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
- Hi, I'm calling to tell you that:
I wrote down everything you ever said to me (in the literal sense, standing stretched against my own uncultured and violently ****** vocabulary)
- And am regurgitating it back to innocent passerby - my sincerest apologies to those poor victims of circumstance, suspended in the projectile ***** of my dysfunctional disdain
(In a slew of worm guts and warm bodies, mama-bird to baby-bird saying "please don't leave the nest" - it's too hot for blankets anyways)
My original letter to you was written on the backside of an airplane **** bag, where I detailed my favorite scenes from a movie we subconsciously made entitled "Baby's First Time", while blissfully unaware of my stern faced in-flight companion.
My first draft, though, was a series of half-hearted winks and very, very drunk texts, beginning with:
SEXT: I offer my services as sacrificial ******
(and followed a whopping six months later by)
SEXT: I am still young enough to accuse you of statutory ****
(The art of seduction seems to be less of an art and more of a particular science)
You are:
- My own personal Edgar Allan Poe, just blonder and younger, with a bigger gut and a bigger ego and (alas!) a complete lack of interest in your sweet Annabel (but I could change my name)
- And oddly enough, I'm the one writing the poems here
(The whole world's a stage, with me just watching your sad indie boy band from the nosebleed seats)
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
Sitting here, thinking about death, about which death to choose, about which passing of time to write about. I am sweating, like, hold your breath or die sweat. It is hot here, but it isn't the temperature that is making my glands leak, it is the memories, it is the death grip that takes my heart when i remember, when i write about life leaving, silence stealing from the night.
Heroine. She's a tuff-tender ***** with soft sleepy skin, the daughter of Morpheus, who takes your breath and holds it inside you. Somniferous, She likes to sit alongside you while you die, she holds your hand and whispers in your ear, allaying fear and slowly she wraps her fingers around your lungs. So tired, of this world, of this life; you think, i'll just close my eyes, nothing new about being on the nod, nothing strange about this tiredness that follows a quick projectile puke in the gutter.
Let sleeping dogs lie.
Writing about Overdosing. It is a strange thing, a quick story, one minute your blinking, nodding, often murmuring, then asleep.
Lucky the dog who runs in a pack.
Lucky the man who walks with strangers by his side.
I don't remember much of what happened before i closed my eyes.
A shot, pin ***** relief, then, quickly/slowly/gone. It is night out, with a dark and steady sky, I am watching the stars through slitted eyes and loving my life, loving my wife; ****** how she makes my heart sing. I am glad to be far from withdrawing, i am happy to be in sin with my lovers, stainless steel turemo picks.
It is my first blast for the night and apparently my last.
There is no warning, no red flag that appears in my minds eye. Just silence and a world fading away. A heartbeat disappearing. Short shallow breath and a small niggling concern that soon will come the time when i am not high then...
I am going. I am gone. I have died.
The strangest thing about dying is not dying. The hardest thing about it all is waking up and realising you were finally gone, you were finally done with the rigmorale, the procedure, of living, of life. You had reached the ultimate goodbye. And now you are back. Still high but not high enough to be faced with the living. Narcan gives your lungs back, it breathes back into you what She stole away. Wanting more then ever to ***** but not wanting to puke on the paramedics lap. Fear of police and reprisal, anxiety soars high on the agenda of the recently revived. A trip the hospital, a free ride, then signing out early, i have shots to blast, a past to wipe out, a life to live or die trying.
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:01 PM UTC
she's an active volcano
the lava she spewed destroyed many valleys
it'll take time to clear her destruction
for her to turn back into a mountain
she doesn't want to open up again believe her
but she's most likely going to
and after she realizes what she's done
she wants to sink under water and help shift continents
she makes your bones rattle
and the blood in your veins turn hot like your grandma's gumbo
and you don't know a thing about her or when she's gonna projectile ***** her mass destruction
she's unpredictable
and that's what scares you
that's why you're drawn to her
you just know in the end she's just gonna hurt you even though it's not her intent
but she's just so breathtakingly beautiful
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
THIS Mohammedan colonel from the Caucasus yells with his voice and wigwags with his arms.
The interpreter translates, "I was a friend of Kornilov, he asks me what to do and I tell him."
A stub of a man, this Mohammedan colonel ... a projectile shape ... a bald head hammered ...
"Does he fight or do they put him in a cannon and shoot him at the enemy?"
This fly-by-night, this bull-roarer who knows everybody.
"I write forty books, history of Islam, history of Europe, true religion, scientific farming, I am the Roosevelt of the Caucasus, I go to America and ride horses in the moving pictures for $500,000, you get $50,000 ..."
"I have 30,000 acres in the Caucasus, I have a stove factory in Petrograd the bolsheviks take from me, I am an old friend of the Czar, I am an old family friend of Clemenceau ..."
These hands strangled three fellow workers for the czarist restoration, took their money, sent them in sacks to a river bottom ... and scandalized Stockholm with his gang of strangler women.
Mid-sea strangler hands rise before me illustrating a wish, "I ride horses for the moving pictures in America, $500,000, and you get ten per cent ..."
This rider of fugitive dawns....
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For fuck's sake.
How did we end up here again?
The soothing, annoying word flickers on my blue-back lit screen and I am ****** back to the tumultuous moment when once upon a time it yelled bipolar.
And here we go again.
My thoughts flick, flit, floss between teeth made for biting and real meat. They need plaque, collection, to grow and accumulate mass to progress. But there my flicking thoughts go, flossing.
I've always struggled focusing, but I just got excitable, got manic, and it would solve everything. Mania was my monster, my red bull, and now that its sated and off to Wonderland...
I'm left here, face to face, with a twitchy white rabbit wondering why I would ever think to use my pretty little head when its such a good projectile into the sky.
I had always wondered, in those whispering nights, when my hands couldn't stop moving and my head wouldn't shut up, if something was wrong. But it was silly, I had two already, full of worry then full of poles. Couldn't be another, could it?
Of course, a Grace of Wonderland always knows best, and here we are. Another bottle to drink to keep me sane.
I wonder if my fingers will thank the capsules when I might stop biting them? Or my toes? Is this why my toes always twitch and dance, why they stand center-stage in so many of my mild fantasies? After all these years, the divas that my lower digits have become may not appreciate losing their star titles.
I just want to be fine. I want to figure out how to move beyond all the strange misfires in my head. How did I survive so long without a notice? Inflates my ego to know I should have been caught by now.
Guess just like the White Rabbit, despite my widgets and worries, no one can stop me from running when I'm madly, absolutely, refusing to be late.
Graces only knows to fight with fire and fists. Tis the state of my Wonderland, and perhaps now things will only get better.
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC
Almost every time I ***** I cry. It’s like a habit, a song. Puke, tears. The first time I remember it happening -when I was 9- I sat up straight in bed and vomited all over myself. It stained the mattress and got all over the wall and my bedsheets- projectile stuff. Real nasty. I got out of bed, took off my clothes, went to my mom’s room, and started sobbing. Even at seventeen, I still almost always cry when my stomach betrays me, when the bile mixes with spit and I’m running to the bathroom and seeing stars as I feel pain erupt through my body and out of my mouth and nasal cavity. There’s nothing I can ever do to stop it. And afterwards, I always cry.
Maybe that’s why, when I could tell the friendship was ending, I cried so much that first time. When I could tell we were growing apart and my soul was rejecting you. You were rotten steak and I hadn’t eaten meat in five years. I couldn’t handle you anymore.
Do you ***** when you panic? Is that why there was such an explosion in the middle, bile mixing with bile? You didn’t want me to be mad at you, so you puked on me and gave me a reason to be angry. Yours wasn’t so rotten though, nothing your body couldn’t keep down. Are you bulimic or an emetophobiac? Did it scare you when you couldn’t breathe and you rejected me from your body? Or did you do it on purpose? Afterward, did you cry?
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 12:49 AM UTC
Kinesiology is the new brain surgery
Preferential treatment
A Martyr for your sugar gene
Cat fights
Bud lights
Hookups and straightened hair
This is the new Jesus
Wouldn't you know
It's the jocks and the nerds again
Over and over until
you've lost all your friends
To a horrible incident
where you decided to be free
This is why you will always
Be better than me
Projectile *****
Thesis on emesis
I am so green
I am peridot and coriander
Caring about what they think
Watching all the popular shows
Does and stags
Waving flags
Pre-packaged beliefs
Artificial older sister
Looking down your nose
You are so humble
You are so polite
It's the other person's fault
When you get in a fight
But most of all
You aren't racist
You aren't racist
There's no way you're a racist
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:34 PM UTC
Measure horizon interjecting South Asia
Hammurabi formed Akkadian Nation
Babylonian beast winged lion
upon your cajoled eyes
Mesopotamian feast
a civilization dreaming
under oil fields now known as Iraq
petroleum empowered
How history repeats
in crude circumstances
Assyrian War rages on
Have all temples been replaced by
mosques or filling stations
for Halliburton to gas up?
tanks, projectile convoys
not a winged god amongst them
unless you count Mobil
Babylonia azimuth
combustible tankers horizon
sunrise or sunset
both burn black
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC