"prosthetic" poems
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
A
bone
slowly
woke
just
in
time
to
become
brok(en).
Once spoken,
there's no point
of lending an ear.
There'll be a violent
jerking of the wheel,
deceptive *** appeal,
and an unrequited (love).
Now, unwillingly, it's open.
The rhyme is deliberately late,
but it's not tardy enough to satiate
Swelling lungs-we're just getting started.
Both for respiratory and broken-hearted.
Here, we speak of energy-specifically kinetic
Because you can't live in love and good faith
with right hemisphere real, and left prosthetic.
AND THAT'S WHERE THIS BEAUTIFULLY KICKS IN.
Picking up faster and quicker and clearer
and headlights have never come nearer.
But I'll be somewhat content lying at rest.
While lively and enthusiastic is best,
unemployed potential is all I can be.
It's something to unwillingly see.
You'll watch the clean breaks
as the marrow escapes.
As I steadily gush
onto pavement
you'll see
how
idle
I
can
really
be.
As
I
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
“The most important scientific revolutions all include, as their only common feature, the dethronement of human arrogance from one pedestal after another of previous convictions about our centrality in the cosmos.”
Stephen Jay Gould
Give me
vacuum tube torus Lorentz-Klein interference receptors
dual noble-gas maser integration processors
at least one
prosthetic Gaussian carbon-coated ribosomal Tesla coil
an anthropomorphic hierarchical temporal meme-pseudopod
some
support vector k-nearest neighbor algorithms
reverse engineered quantum optic die-cast silica motherboards
self-assembling three dimensional electro-active protein polymers
maybe even
a superconducting spectral alkali resonance analyzer
paired with
harmonizing piezoelectric kinematic thermal modules
dipped in
subzero Kurzweil-circuit nanite neurotransmitters
and voila!
God.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 5:18 PM UTC
I am now
attached at the thumbs
connected through the fingertips
it thinks for me
navigates for me
reads the minds of others to my face
it is a lens
through which I have access to an invisible world that no one can see
unless they have a prosthetic limb like me
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
You are going to die
before me.
I already know this.
You are going to get fat
and go completely blind
and probably,
eventually, they will
cut some parts off.
You are going to fall apart
in front of me.
I know this.
I still choose to stay.
I will be there
through all the appointments,
the stickings and pokings and cuttings and bleedings.
I have only wiped
a few *****
in my life.
Mine,
my son's,
a few babies
of friends.
I already plan on wiping yours
when you cannot.
I will draw
little sugar skulls
on your prosthetic feet.
I will make sure you always have enough medicine and it is always refrigerated.
I will help you
in and out
of the bathtub.
I will massage your legs
and arms
and back
and head
and neck,
every day.
I will make our boys breakfast
and walk the dogs
and make sure everything
goes back in the
same exact spot
and keep a file with all the pertinent medical information
so I can fill out all the paperwork.
I will take you to
all those folk rock shows you love so much
and describe the singers to you.
We will still garden together.
I can see you in a chair,
barking out questions
about our harvest and me,
going back and forth,
bringing you the biggest squash
to hold.
You see, I have given up thinking
I am ever going to
give myself to anyone else.
It is you and you alone.
So, when you start to fall apart,
and you will fall apart,
don't worry baby.
I am going to be there to wipe your ***
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 6:13 PM UTC
You don’t know how it feels.
When you are cut from your lifeline
like an apple being picked
when it isn’t fully grown.
When you are replaced
with hard plastic and metal
where bone should be.
You probably want to know why he hates you.
It is because he has to learn how to walk again.
Because you can’t run like I could.
Because you can’t kick a soccer ball like I could.
Because you can’t make him itch like I could.
Because you are a reminder of the infection.
The infection...
that took me away from him.
I was made with him.
You were made for him.
You took six weeks to be created
I took nine months.
I was his first step,
You were a puzzle piece
that didn’t quite fit
You had to be forced
by people in white masks and blue gloves
They couldn’t touch you and
neither can he.
So instead you lay on his bedroom floor.
And I will not feel bad for you because
I am lying in a medical waste bin.
Waiting for my turn to enter the fire.
This
is
my
hell.
I miss him,
will you tell him
that I miss him?
Let him know the feeling is mutual.
I understand if you tear this up
there is no warmth in you.
No blood will ever pump through you.
Trust me, I get it.
When the heart dies, it is buried where it belongs.
Being hugged by its fellow vital organs.
it’s just like taking a nap
they say.
But when I die,
I am surrounded
by other dispensable body parts.
We are the forgotten few.
People do not have funerals for finger tips.
It feels like I am being eaten alive.
You can’t tell me I should feel bad for you.
Or that I should feel sorry for you.
Because I was alive,
I was moving
and you
are plastic.
Just,
tell him goodbye for me.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
DEFINITION OF *****
I question your gimmick
Lame limericks
Their cryptic
More mystic
Unrealistic
Ya ****** it
On chronic
Contagious like the bubonic
Hooked hydroponics
Pathetically neurotic
So drop it
your **** ain't ****
Just tragically prosthetic
Prophetical ********
You think that u know ****
You blow it
Thats classic.
CUZ YOUR THE DEFINITION OF *****
YOU'VE LOST ONE TOO MANY A STITCH
ITS WHY ALL YOU SPEW IS SOME ****
MAY AS WELL BE A SNITCH
YOU SO REFINED AS A *****
Its 101 basic
I didn't quit this
You lost it
Worth only Drunken kisses
I'm pretty when you chase it
Your too shallow to accept it
Together we're right
But my body ain't tight
To ur likes
its your ****
That's a *****
Only looks for them tricks
Your dellusionally idiotic
To think that ya got it
When trix are for kids
Your games hit and miss
Happily ever afters not bliss
First loves kiss is just a playlist
CUZ YOUR THE DEFINITION OF *****
YOU'VE LOST ONE TOO MANY A STITCH
ITS WHY ALL YOU SPEW IS SOME ****
MAY AS WELL BE A SNITCH
YOU SO REFINED AS A *****
You Can't find love in this mess
Be a girl wear a dress
Listen more talk less
Don't change who you are
Just your flesh
Tell the truth is said to me
Love was free for the taking
Or so I believed
Your lies used as feed
But your pet I am not
Yeah I guess you forgot
What yo ma shoulda taught
That one shots all life's got
CUZ YOUR THE DEFINITION OF *****
YOU'VE LOST ONE TOO MANY A STITCH
ITS WHY ALL YOU SPEW IS SOME ****
MAY AS WELL BE A SNITCH
YOU SO REFINED AS A *****
The good bits stole away
By this crap game you play
All day, you just sway
On your way
Thinking your owed
By some ****** up code
But your method or mode
Is about to explode
Like mace
In your face
With no trace
Your erased
You ain't even today
Your the past, Yesterday
Can't change that
My ma used to say
Just look for tomorrow
in your ARKs of today
CUZ YOUR THE DEFINITION OF *****
YOU'VE LOST ONE TOO MANY A STITCH
ITS WHY ALL YOU SPEW IS SOME
****
YOU MAY AS WELL BE A SNITCH
THATS WHY YOU'LL ALWAYS BE *****
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
He lost his arm
By a cooked bomb
His world lit up like firecrackers
He was engulfed in fire and metal shards
Then his body went numb
So he was stitched up
And sent back home
There was a new brand of limbs
So he volunteered to be experimented on
For a prosthetic arm
As he went through new trials during the day
He suffered at night
He had night terrors about where he was evacuated from
Seeing himself holding a ticking time bomb
While bullets whisked past above
The bomb sunk into his hand like a solider in the slums
And as the time ticked one
His arm turned to glass and exploded
The shards from his arm imbedded themselves in his skin
This was his dreamed
He beg to be fixed
But even though they could give him a new arm
They couldn't fixed what he saw when he closed his eyes
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
You are going to die
before me.
I already know this.
You are going to get fat
and go completely blind
and probably,
eventually, they will
cut some parts off.
You are going to fall apart
in front of me.
I know this.
I still choose to stay.
I will be there
through all the appointments,
the stickings and pokings and cuttings and bleedings.
I have only wiped
a few *****
in my life.
Mine,
my son's,
a few babies
of friends.
I already plan on wiping yours
when you cannot.
I will draw
little sugar skulls
on your prosthetic feet.
I will make sure you always have enough medicine and it is always refrigerated.
I will help you
in and out
of the bathtub.
I will massage your legs
and arms
and back
and head
and neck,
every day.
I will make our boys breakfast
and walk the dogs
and make sure everything
goes back in the
same exact spot
and keep a file with all the pertinent medical information
so I can fill out all the paperwork.
I will take you to
all those folk rock shows you love so much
and describe the singers to you.
We will still garden together.
I can see you in a chair,
barking out questions
about our harvest and me,
going back and forth,
bringing you the biggest squash
to hold.
You see, I have given up thinking
I am ever going to
give myself to anyone else.
It is you and you alone.
So, when you start to fall apart,
and you will fall apart,
don't worry baby.
I am going to be there to wipe your ***
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC
When did news parody
stop being funny?
Was it somewhere between
Alan Jackson’s 9/11 cash-in
and Donald Trump’s hair?
Was it BoJo stranded on a zipline over London,
or Cameron’s alleged porcine relations
(bizarrely black-mirroring fiction)?
When did the news
start doing Chris Morris’ job for him?
When did they start
pre-satirising the headlines?
“No evidence mermaids exist,” says US Government.
Swimming pool evacuated after prosthetic leg is mistaken for **********
Robots follow Marco Rubio to South Carolina.
I swear, I didn’t
make any of those up.
The actors on Saturday Night Live
are more statesmanlike
than the Presidential Primary Candidates they’re lampooning.
How the hell do they breed these
creatures? These gurning,
overgrown foetuses with their
conveniently dead ****** sisters to get
all wet-eyed and tumescent over,
their boomingly hollow controversy and
their total, catastrophic
crashes of personality.
These loathsome
organic constructs who would seem
more relatable and trustworthy if
their image consultants made them wear
Nixon masks for every
public appearance.
When did it all become
this strange, sick spoof
of itself?
Is there no one left in Britain who can make a sandwich?
Man dressed as penguin receives more votes than the Liberal Democrats.
Piers Morgan given jail time for illegally hacking ‘phones and gloating about it.
Okay.
I made the last one up.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC
The jagged cut from the dull, serrated blade of rejection. I lay down for you wounded, asking for healing and compassion. The absence of your touch wakes me to the shooting pain up my leg.
The infection of grief is growing as the reality sets in looking down where my leg once was.
I am an amputee.
My leg, my foundation of who I am, has been hacked off without anesthesia.
This separation procedure has taken months of sawing. Startled wake today hemeragging emotions at the wound of your disregard. Doc explained I've been experiencing fanthom limb...
"But we've been walking together, side by side. I've felt the strength and balance of two legs. When/how did this happen? " I protest in disbelief
Standing next to the mangled discarded remains, "one cut at a time" you reply coldly, the dripping blade still in your hand.
"But perhaps we will walk together again once you have time to adjust to your prosthetic"
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
I think we're going extinct
I hate to even blink
...
I remember when we were in sync
But things changed
We will act strange over change
Being caged and attached by chains is voguish
Are we hopeless?
Why can we polish our pinky rings
But leave rust on our linkage chains?
Our words don't bond anymore
Our words are shackles
Our words are like crooked spurs
And unbalanced saddles
Yeah It travels
But lies are to be told
Only to smear what we really withhold
I think that we're going extinct
I hate to blink
As my eye lids flicker
More and more existence spills from our mankind
Man-kind
We're turning into the kind of men
Who emotionally melts when we see celebrities
Where's our rectitude?
I think we're going extinct
I hate to blink
Where's my natural woman?
Every time I twitch
More and more she accepts the word *****
And in no time a guy can become exposed to her hips
Where's our morality?
Are we going to expire
All because we create our entire empire with desires?
Desires and thirst that require us to hurt
We smile and we smirk
We loath from good work
We poke at nerves
We drown our minds to swerve
We absorb potion
Only to tranquil our motion
We indulge in copulation
With a stranger
But somehow for consolation
...
We are endangered
We are a few more trends away from complete annihilation
Eradication
Liquidation
Obliteration
Cancellation
Our tendencies are cancerous and if we keep being patient
We will need medication
I don't feel any radiation
To not become subject to our decimation
I think we're going extinct
My instincts tell me that
Though we're a percentage and a contributor to this nation
We are approaching ruination
My instinct senses that I am one of the few who mentions devastation
And if I blink one more time
And if we keep wasting time
We'll be wastage
We
You and I
We'll be ejected from the race
And they'll use a prosthetic ethnic affiliation for our replacement
Can we come together with cooperation
Resisting this operation
May we all stand up
Before they go through with this amputation !
Blink
Lets see
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 5:55 AM UTC
Listen to you with your lip-synch promises
You kiss me and take a bite with acid tongues
Spiked with sugary smiles
Your words are liquid lead
Your letters bleed loudly through their envelopes
Bubbling like broken dreams
How do you know what you seem to know?
It is a black skinned paperclip globe
A slow ticking suffering sickly
Strobing life
Watch you with your face of clay and prosthetic eyes
You stroke me and scratch with a headless finger
Sliding in my heart to lay your egg sac
Whenever you speak
Your words are biting back laughter
How can I take you seriously?
You hair in black chains
With synthetic singing locks
Double tracked and prerecorded
Sensual loops
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
Spring. Same plants, same order.
Monday morning, open for business.
Tractor-trailers, day care centers.
Every leaf that’s coming out is out.
To tonight’s town meeting I will go unaware and foolish.
It’s delicious, the unimportance of my feelings.
Even our particular war was small.
Europe had one last a century.
Hubble photos of events 13 billion years ago
Do not put me in mind of the species’ insignificance.
Just the opposite having witnessed the universe’s birth.
But birth from what preceding state? God again rears his hoary head.
They say one must let go and will let go,
God will decide what tragedy you need.
Not every seed becomes a flower,
Not every branch breaks out a truelove knot.
While the ancient Romans wrote of love
The ancient Britons wrote of war.
The Romans should have been perfecting their republic.
No god could do that work for them.
The November moth's the fall cankerworm
Slender-bodied, beige, beginning life as the well known inchworm.
In our war more children may have died than would have had
the tyrant lived in fear and awe.
We'll never know because we can't help being here.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
Prosthetic monster men playing heavy rock
A laderhosened Austrian gives his squeeze box all he's got
Desperation dance routines, too hard they always try
Wailing divas, rigid smiles,
Do we laugh or cry
A Fin from the back woods plays a fiddle fast
Our song is pretty good but still we might come last
Hello Bratislava, hello Tallin, hello everyone
Votes are cast for friends as the evening never ends
At last we have a worthy winner, well done indeed to you
But with too many 'nul points'
Once more we meet our Waterloo
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 5:27 AM UTC
Let me tell you a true story of tragic love;
And you had better believe it, for there's no lie.
'Twas on the Isle of Kos that I met Helga one day,
Sitting in a taverna, sipping an ouzo.
I sat down and we soon exchanged a word or two,
Flirting and teasing 'til the sun sank in the sea.
I suggested a walk on the beach (subtle move)
Which is when I received a nice little surprise.
She stood up in all her glory and then I found
That she was well over a eighteen inches shorter than my humble self,
A genuine short-arse with a prosthetic leg to boot
Which promised me something rather special.
Nothing put out, we ended up in my bedroom
And I shoved my hot tongue right up her angelic ****
"Did you like that?" I enquired (a gent as always)
"It was repulsive," she replied with a slight sneer.
And when we woke up together the next bright morn
I found she had vomited on my bedside jeans,
Before leaving me alone on the encrusted sheets.
Unfortunately the jeans shrunk a bit when I washed the puke out
And their exquisite tightness on my private parts
Reminded me for several days of this amorous encounter.
Was her criticism of my oral skills her unusual Norwegian humour?
Perhaps she really meant to call me her Übermensch?
Maybe it was sarcasm and got lost in translation
So stimulated was she post-orgasmically.
One horrid thought still remains - she might have meant it
(after all, as Nietzsche once said so observantly
"in revenge and in love woman is more barbarous than man.").
And thus I am left with confused memories of that night:
Her face was that of blond angel but her tongue was sharp
And it really was a crying shame about her leg-stump
Which wept slightly.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
you enter my dreams with such audacious curiousity;
examined the void with intellect- deprived precision,
inspected every crevice painted in colour.
you left the blue for last because you say
the amphetamine matches my eyes.
you sample every syllable ever borne from my mouth,
denude the metaphors to their unchaste nakedness,
reach inside for unfleshly meaning.
you say all my filthy secrets implode into
ugly saliva bubbles on the brim of my tongue
and that is why you bite it off.
you make the drain spin out water. you make reverse hurricanes.
you euthanise my suffering mind with vulgarity and sliver-veined chalks.
i like it when the moon is yellow and not white.
spread me across your bones, you make me cold
**** in flesh. you wear me on your head as you would a stubborn fever.
you lick the lily, burn away its petals and
then you use the ashes in your next drag.
there are ghosts in your hair, they want idiosyncratic judgments.
they want anatomised angels and amputated wings.
they want ribs, signals, vessels and chlorine and aileron segments.
and electric ***
i am thinking of lexemes and lycoris, the vulnerability of artlessness,
prosthetic fingers and cigarettes, the umbrella under metal rain.
i only remember realities when they are expired.
the ribbon between cognition and the ventriloquist.
the psychology in undesired sentences.
this is the only immortality you and i may share; amongst ourselves
like teenagers filching answers before algebra, like dealers exchanging
eight-balls, pipes and profanity, like animals in chemical heat.
this vanilla immortality that we no longer need.
i'm watching the end of the world
from underneath your clothes.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:42 AM UTC
the place was *****
***** like only the South can be
i was drinking bud lights
drinking the daylight away
drinking the outside, and the noise, and the heat away.
i was sitting amongst several gray-haired men
and i knew i didn't belong, but
they didn't seem to know,
or care.
they had toothless sisters living in trailerparks in Alabama
they had sons they had not talked to in years
most had seen war and death and destruction.
"vietnam!" yelled a man in the corner,
and threw his prosthetic leg on the table
the men nodded their heads,
and mumbled in secret agreement.
they were all missing some body-part or another
i guess that's what made them whole.
outside, wild chickens were roaming the dusty parking lot,
pecking on cigarette-butts and empty beer-cans.
we laughed, we drank, and we hid our tears
and as the bar closed down, Patsy Cline was singing from the jukebox
or maybe that's just how i want to remember it.
"i'll be ****** if this ain't the greatest nation on the planet" i said
and they all agreed.
then we stumbled out into the night
a night filled with crickets and fire-flies
and the occasional fist-fight
all in all it was a fine night.
one for the record books.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
I am a glass of skim milk.
I am a reconstituted congealed protein fixture-ate
molded like a rack of ribs.
I could be alien technology
if I weren't christmas lights and a projector.
In fact if I were any more prosthetic I'd be...
a picture of a painting of a plastic rose.
I'd be at the globe theatre.
I'd be lear, othello, hammers, macky, romero and roz.
Cuz I'm a lick-on-stamp of higher education,
and I'm a bottle of **** that you find under your seat in the van
when you're so thirsty you can hear Berbers in the distance.
I could be the mermaid on the front of wooden ships.
I would be the black olives on your gordita cruch;
and I'll smile at you with 9 inch long teeth
as I dutifully hang your laundry in the rain.
With dozens of laughs all covering up
tender spots I'm too chicken to cry about
I am a master parade floating up, up,
in the middle of the street,
Til I fall with a big black box of bottled bourbon *****
for my buccaneer bravado's.
And fists
I make while walking
and beating sticks
I carve, still beating,
with imaginary reasons
that I find a bit disturbing.
When I go walking I go walking off into the ending
cuz I'm just killing time while trying not to go crazy
i-I-eye-shouldastudiedmore
I shoulda beat up my *** drive in a dark alley
while it was still raining,
and a I shoulda
red more
bled more
sweat-ed more than I did,
cuz I'm standing here in a bucket
with the thunderstorm looming
clutching onto a flag pole for dear life
like it was my mother.
Hoping just for one big bang
to send me off into the twilight
to shoot me out past the moon once again.
Cuz I'm drowning in the rain that doesn't hit the ground.
and I'm smiling like Bob Wiley on a tree stump,
as I sip at strychnine
like it's Chianti.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
Love is like,
A man born without arms,
He lives his life accepting his disability,
But Constantly jealous of those with arms.
he sees people with arms of every variety; skinny, tattooed, bruised or muscled, and even some like him.
Everyday he watches people use and missuse their arms,
Yet Barely appreciating the mere existence of their own arms.
One day, he hears about a new procedure that could give him fully functioning prosthetic arms.
He is hesitant about the cost and risk,
but decides he must try.
A week later after a successful surgery,
The bandages finally fly free, and so do his arms.
He flexes and bends them every way possible,
testing the boundaries of what feels like a new world to him.
There is an endless beauty in their function.
He feels a joyous wonder,
to experience the touch and precision
of his sweetly sensitive fingertips caressing the surface of anything in their reach.
For the first time, he finally knows what true freedom feels like.
Months pass as he becomes familiar with a new world under his fingertips.
But as time goes on he begins to notice occasional malfunctions in his daily tasks.
He thinks hes losing touch with the connections used to communicate with the main circuits,
But doesn't think it could get worse.
As Weeks pass more connections falter between him and his once perfect partner.
The day starts like any other winter morning,
an icy cold, cloudy drizzle.
He's driving the windy back roads to work,
rounding a sharp bend in the road, when he suddenly feels a spasm ripple through his arms
ripping his hand from the wheel and all control.
His car veers off the roadside cliff
leaving gravity to doom him to an icy river below.
The car careens through the droplets of rain in the air.
His world slows down as the car begins to plummet downward,
only seconds before impact.
The freezing icy rain and air rip
through the broken windshield,
but nothing feels colder than the betrayal of the arms he once held so dear.
And in that moment,
he wishes that he'd never had arms at all.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
Why it took me so long to grow up?
While you were pouring yourself over beds
I was fighting demons with my head...
And if I find myself at a crossroad,
no one to turn to, no man's land
I still have my friend's hand
I still have the heat of those
who never go far
I'll go back...oh no, I will never go back!
Because
I do love you, I do love you
but I cannot fight my life
And your insistence
makes my heart pound
but not in a good way
And if I find myself at a crossroad,
without you, without him,
I don't have time to cry, because, oh,
this is life....
And if I find myself alone again
I've been here before
I've got a crutch, prosthetic legs
I've learnt a lot, that never wanes.
And if I find myself again alone
I won't spend my time in the Tinders of the world.
And if the cloth's about to tear,
let it tear down, tear us down
and go on, go on...
I'm prepared for the worst
and I'm standing strong
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 1:09 PM UTC
Cardboard boxes containing a fabric
Of something quite similar to corduroy
Converse high tops and a ***** old mattress
All the while oblivious to the boy.
Stacks of old donuts and Burger King fry bags
With whiskey and wine and a strip of barbed wire
Wrapped around a pair of prosthetic legs
And in the meantime he couldn't get higher
I see the photographs flashing in his eyelid telescope breastplate
He slams the sky and dances to the end of days
Crawling on the floor and throwing wet sweaters
Into rusty old dump-trucks on days of red letters!
Sunglasses mimicking Kanye style on a sweater-vest
With hands crawling up made out of glass bowls and jewelry
To encase the black chin made up of the camera-rest
Leading back to the nose jutting forward; a full-finger ring
Molly was her name and her fair hair flowed beautifully
Made up of plastic bags and empty pill-capsules
The eyes are glowing so bright and the mouth gaping open
He screams his dark magic right into the night!
The ******** techno disc-jockey ******
Runs up the telephone pole into kaleidoscope starlight
Eating the moths from the mouths of the dancing girls
Laughing quite gaily and not looking quite right!
The objects unfold and the man crawls from underneath
Surrounded by possessions, clinging to everything
Trying desperately to breathe, dying from a quiet disease
All the things he owned ended up owning him, you see!
Oh! Oh!
Red, red lungs!
Whoa no!
A wire undone!
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 3:41 PM UTC
But then, in that instant of plastic smiles and disco rain, I strode away from my first cradle. The air was northern and sliced my lungs open into startling clarity sliced my brain open into startling clarity. And when I looked around, I saw, and when I felt around, I touched. My trunk was slapped into shape, and in a blazing radio tower of language it became un-unique. I fuzzed my skull and rejected the lull and became recognizably human.
And while school strobed by in a prosthetic ferris wheel, I jazzed to a different beat. 'Cause my friends were kids, but neon dashed through my veins; playing saxophone with irrational exuberance. I woke every sunrise with an occupation syncopation: they breathed air while I smelled bass guitar solos in the sultry breeze blowing by the office's oasis. And paper is a flimsy wall for desire, and I never could read a point twelve sized STOP. I spread my arms and heart-orchestrated yearnings in the moon-clouded evening in the mist-drenched night in the raindrop-fresh awakening, but grey can't do but see only grey. And neon doesn't come in that shade.
No food but life no air but life no life but life. That advertisement sky is still looking at me, but I can see with my off-beat eyes that it was never a smile, but a frown of grim satisfaction. I was just looking at it upside-around. But my hair is people-colored, and my breath is derby muted, and no one puts money in my can. And then I looked around and saw, and then I felt around and touched, and then I
Those glass windows melted and gaggled themselves across my tongue, spewing honeyed drops on my flaring trombone soliloquies! My vision spiraled into a black pond of bebop and my lids and lashed fainted: up up and away into the fading light of day.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 1:08 PM UTC