"radios" poems
She's more of a poet
'cause she went to school for it,
and she tastes sweet in the morning,
and in the evening,
sunlight filters through her
and lights up that slice of lemon
that I love so much.
I think I'll have a writer -
on the rocks.
Every time I come home,
my room smells like *** in the summer,
and it sounds like the vinyl is still under the needle.
Best album of two thousand and nine.
Best album of all time.
Sand between our toes,
we wrote prose
on a filthy mattress but
roses never grew here.
And they never will.
There was something about us though,
something that had a feverish pulse
behind it. I'd say it was something to
do with the way we have of never putting
a cheap laugh below us. I think it has
something to do with resilience but I'm not sure.
Humming trite voicings of things we'd heard
in the backseat of our fathers' cars, radios on,
you use to tell me to flash the turn signal,
in the black of night, just so you could make sure
we were alive. Dry, but at least alive.
A little beacon to justify us,
and just defy them.
Whiskey,
come over
here and
kiss me.
C'mon
Corinthian,
keep me
company!
Set this manuscript
to music and dance for me!
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 3:08 PM UTC
i don’t want to sit around all day
impatiently waiting for him to call
and when i finally hear his voice
i don’t want to feel like he’s
the air in my lungs i need to breathe
and when it’s time to say goodbye
i don’t want to fight over
who should hang up first
i’m not looking for someone
to make me feel whole,
because i already am
i’m not looking for someone
to save me because
i’ve already been saved
i don’t want to be holding
hands at the wrist so if (when)
he lets go, i’m still holding on
i don’t want in-between
fake promises from prince charming
i want diner breakfasts
at 3 in the morning and
long car rides with broken radios
and handwritten letters with
nothing scribbled out because
he doesn’t care about perfection,
he cares about being real
when it’s time,
i want to be in love
not in love
with feeling loved
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
there is a buzzing
it's coming from the walls
the tiny electrical snaps and synapses
the mindhive that seethes
the radios and beeping pulses
we have reached the
singularity.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
The cool slush of tires
rolling over puddles sounds just like
waves falling on waves in the distance.
As the sound gets closer, as the cars rumble
just out of arms reach,
the white noise from the radios
becomes a gentle breeze.
I stretch my leg out,
as if to dip my toes
in the surf.
The floor beneath me
becomes warm sand
that comes to life -
wrapping around my feet like a blanket
on a cold,
wet
afternoon.
God,
what I wouldn’t give for a good book
right now. Anything to pass
the ‘unforgiving minute.’
Because, just dreaming of waves
isn’t enough.
The sound haunts me and wakes me from a quiet sleep.
As they beat a cadence on the
helpless sand,
the waves are a constant reminder of time
and its limits.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 1:51 PM UTC
All hail the Lizard King,
whose esoteric words crawl like sirens
over hungry rocks
baring teeth to the hypnotized sailor
steering his ship into the jagged maw.
All hail the Lizard King,
perched upon his Dionysian throne,
ambrosial ecstasies fill his cup
while jongleurs dance to psychedelic chansons.
At his feet
prey the nubile maidens of yore
flower-eyed and pearly-teethed.
His eyes, mighty azure pools of madness
within which Byzantine kings were murdered--
blood darts through the mysterious waters
into the hysterical white void.
Alexander the Great
sits poised like a statue
where his libido crouches like a panther
'til the aural adonis
leaps from his confines
an amorous figure of tantalizing flesh and blood
with supple lips pouting, naked muscles taut,
mad eyes gleaming.
All hail the Lizard King,
from lush lips poetic decrees
sing forth into the endless night
penetrating taverns and bedrooms and radios
and stadiums.
The electric shaman leaps from his throne
to cast his wicked incantation,
a spark from his eyes shoots to the pyre
where a lustful blue flame erupts from
the bones of the prophets.
HIs voice soothing, haunting,
the sonic alchemist
sings his siren song into the cataclysm
where we are cast in abeyance--
We follow him,
but is he only leading us deeper
into the darkness,
or does he truly see the light?
The endless night.
All hail the Lizard King.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
Boredom #2
I’ve never seen so many synonyms for one small noun,
Blocking maturation and enjoy-dom:
Boredom.
“Weariness, ennui: frustration;
Restlessness, dissatisfaction, unconcern: frustration;
Lethargy, lassitude, flatness and frustration;
Dreariness, repetitiveness, apathy: frustration;
Tedium, monotony, dullness. yes, frustration.”
Can it be overcome, this boredom?
No more war - the boredom won,
Exchanged for something more like fun?
It can.
A friend who, when we speak, says,
“It’s a part of nature…has no answer...”
Reasoning fallacious,
She is wrong as wrong can be
And her reasoning a fallacy.
Awake at night: hormones, full moons;
The glut of light: electric gadgets and devices,
Radios that play a song too strong, too long..
A trick I’ve learned that’s brought results;
A knack, a shortcut worth consulting
Is to train the brain to focus on/in/with the brain;
Travel round in, sense and feel…
Make it real – as if you really feel
The part you aim at, frame then tame.
In seconds you’ve an object that’s becomes a subject.
Boredom fled, you freed,
You and your mood well pleased, released
And taken places least expected,
Un-objected to by you,
The burden boredom’s through.
And doomed!
Boredom 11.24.2016/ #2 revised 2..16.2017
Revelations Big & Small; Definitely Didactic;
Arlene Corwin
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 6:30 AM UTC
She never noticed
books of poetry.
Her life was busy
with empathy
for those troubled
from pains scratched
on psyches from
neglect, abuse
or sacraments to fallen Gods.
She seldom heard music
except when,
heartsick from lost love,
she wallowed in vain misery
or during her youth when
hit parades blasted from
solid state radios
in dashboards, or from
jukeboxes flashing
come hither.
She thought little of flowers
nor paused to note scents,
shades or grace on
stems of green. Her head
was busy with
important matters,
day-to-day grinding
away on work or play.
Now alone,
she absorbs whiteness from
clouds, motion from birds,
or fragrance from flowers
with senses dulled by
age, injury or illness.
She sifts through her
day looking for
fresh tranquility.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
There is a city inside my body
With cars making their way through my veins
People are on rush like they’re insane
My organs make up the industries
And the people are the workers
They work twenty-four/seven, tirelessly
Waiting for the food
Which they make into goods
And supply to all the smaller towns
But in my body,
The day never comes
So they’re accustomed to night-time
And all the routes and all the buildings,
And all the cars with their honking
Even lampposts and payphones
All the houses’ windows
Maybe even TVs and radios
Together, they make their own city lights
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
1969, one voice sent the world's radios to dancing because we were passing the torch from dreaming to reality as we took to the soft landing
That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind
and for just a second, everyone alive got to feel like Einstein but
I bet you as Armstrong looked down he didn't picture the strife and denial of life to so many in sight 40 years later
street riots and technology gone violent controlling the fears of children peering through glass stained in dust as nightmares rush passed the idea of life, crushing everything in sight
we even wrote it in our constitution
Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.
but you'd have to sell your soul to bail from a life ended where money knows no measure
and you can not tell me that shooting an innocent human on mistake is neither cruel no unusual
but the constitution has turned into a wall
to push people so far back on that they couldn't turn and run
or read what was suppose to be a guarantee in the land of the free
and that's just the beginning
we're denying people from entering a country for body modification
when we've been altering our appearance longer than we have had boundaries to deny people from
because we're still leveling cities like we did when we were daydreaming and knocking block castles down
because we're still enslaving humans because of their genetics
but behind sheer curtains, it's all ok
because if you don't see then there's no need to worry
it's easy to ignore it when you have comments and feeds to read before you give the world news a chance at your attention
but what i've never understood
is how innovation and careful thinking placed a device in your hand
and all you came to do with it was carefully craft a 140 character string of ********
but i guess it goes to show
like our constitution
that though manifested to be great for the people by the people
at the end of the day, we're still too self obsessed to look at the rest of the picture
we're still too afraid to peer down at the entire world
so, Neil, I'm sorry, one giant step for man but mankind hardly remembers
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
It’s 6:47am on a Monday morning on I-71 south towards Cincinnati and I’m driving in the middle lane entirely surrounded by semis and service trucks and out of nowhere, like it was some miracle act of God, it starts pouring down rain so hard that all of the traffic stops in the height of morning rush hour, everyone’s radios playing morning talk shows so loud it vibrates the ground our tires are on and everyone’s coffees move back into their hands from their cup holders, I guess we’re all just trying to wait it out right now
I guess I have no choice but to wait it out right now, he says, hoodie wrinkled, two all nighter’s deep and still no passing grade, standing outside of the campus Starbucks, as it’s pouring down rain
I guess we’ll have to wait it out, says my sister to an 8 year old me, as I wait on the curb of our neighborhood for the ice cream truck, no matter how disfigured the spongebob popsicle’s face looks by the time I get it in my hands, and no matter the fact that I never understood that his eyes were bubblegum
I guess I have to wait it out, my father says, watching my grandmother lying in her hospital bed, getting tests taken for her potentially and what would be proven deadly, lung cancer,
Her eyes glossed over and her lips still yearning for the pull of her usual afternoon pack of cigarettes
You just have to wait it out, says my grandpa, standing next to me in his garden, after having helped me plant my first tomato seeds,
The summer has felt like forever at 10 years old, I wish it stayed that way, and I wish I liked tomatoes
I guess we just have to wait it out now, the head of police says to his crew of swat members, after having everything fail towards coaxing a young high school boy out of his boarded up bedroom, the shotgun he killed his ex girlfriend with, still in his arms
Well, we’re just going to have to wait it out,
I think to myself as I sit in this traffic at what is now exactly 7am on a rainy Monday morning in the middle lane of I-71 south towards Cincinnati, entirely surrounded by semis and service trucks
The rain will stop eventually
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC
so it begins when it begins
blasé grass serrates
past herds of carabao dreaming anxiously
of the day's toil;
the countryman stilts through
mounted in gray mountain
with dippers, casserole, mirrors
with imprints of ******** clad women
and women who are (really ******** clad) ready for bathing work,
collections of red days and even
tenderly the ***** sing attenuated songs of rooming-houses —
the crunch of basil over the afternoon.
waft of a pasture's death my eyes well
up rivers and ponds of elation. dog days, feral nights limp behind rusted
kennels and makeshift asylums
there is nothing left of the world
(this small world
that only rises when bellows
of festivities harangue the many streets
bending in them, the curve)
men moving from neck to neck
of bottles — (in the north there
is only four corners of bottle: gin,
pristine brook; in the Visayas is
the redolent Vino Kulafu of the same
potency) plucked out of the vermilion
and on benched careening on half-painted gates crooning Sinatra
gets stabbed, bloodied on the floor,
named after elegies; native chicken held
upside down and beheaded as many blacker days stifled; what do you make
out of this?
carabaos, equines, hens line up
the slaughterhouse behind the
TODA; you know a fine day when
it happens — breaking eggs
against the lip of the kaldero. crumbled
archaic sensurround, barrage of
simmer round the clock cycling
before the child wakes and wails to suckle
our mothers, faster than repose
of milbrightlions of stars falling asleep
to silent radios, leaving windows
open revisited by the eve of cold.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
Can you hear the strange noise in my heart? It makes vrruuuum, vrruuuum , vrruuuum every time you nap fondly on my pillow.
My heart is a spy, tic tac by the clock, carrying the breeze in the ball of a thumb, while 's quietly de flowering your dreams, layer by layer.
As if exists a collection of you in the ******* of mankind !
A small brute , the naughty child playing kalasnikov games and puzzlling the answers, the teenager tucking the drums, loud in all radios and smashing pumpkins on nirvanaheads spooning on MDMA flying .
The grown up's ready for work, bored as Peter Pan growing and sometimes funny when life's a ***** I just saw you drinking Madeira wine in public toilets, splashing *** on your toes while dreaming in rainbows of plastic.
I'm the frame of your dream. I'm here to take care of you while you're the squeeze of the petals and the whistle into the sound of the music.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
My brain is a factory,
producing every toxic part of me.
************ until my hand gets lazy,
fantasizing about Lexi Belle
and being Martin Scorsese.
My blood is a vacuum,
alone in a crowded room;
my white blood cells like to
travel to my *****
so I can someday infect
designer uterine walls.
Locked and loaded,
my heart exploded.
The tissue and issues
attracted crocodiles
that swam from the mall,
for miles and miles.
Store-bought baby, my body isn't ready,
to be stripped down to the bone,
and sold to teenage radios,
that'll broadcast my American moans.
Caucasian nightmare:
my skin is not fair.
Peel enough off with chemicals,
until I decide there's no more,
and hide the layers in bathroom stalls,
located in the bleach of Baltimore.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:30 PM UTC
Feeling fine
I am a paper cup full of ice
An inter-dimensional (being)
Laughing
And
Agreeing
Take off your disguise,
Beautiful
Let me see those pearly-eyes
Ruby lips
Diamond cheek bones
May I kiss?
May I sit?
Good to see you
Great to be here
Can I pour you some tea?
Two cubes of sugar
A tad of cream
A little rat poison
To help you dream
Half-closed eyes
And leaning
Gossamer dreaming
As you play piano
For no reason at all
You play with the treble
Line to line
Perfect pretty rhytm
Dancing in time
The melody of your thin dress
And the shape it reveals
Limbs and weeds
The music swells
A dash of lust
Your summer smell
A fragrant perfume
The jump of eyes
Northward
Eastward
Westward
Skys
The spark of fingers
A flash electric blue
The kitchen light
Is dripping on you
The teeth of your smile
The color of white
*No my love
I cannot stay
With summer here
It's time to play
If your mother says you can't come out
I'll stand outside
I'll scream
I'll shout
Over radios
And t.v screens
Shooting cap pistols
At everything
Because last night I had a dream
You called on the phone
I heard your whisper
Infinite dial tone
On the reciever
Lie dreamer*
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
The men kept to themselves:
they were waiting for the swiftness of the last cyclists.
The women kept to themselves:
they were expecting the death of a boy on a Japanese schooner.
They all kepy to themselves-
dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds,
the sharp parasol that punctures
a recently flattened toad,
beneath silence with a thousand ears
and tiny mouths of water
in the canyons that resist
the violent attack on the moon.
The boy on the schooner was crying and hearts were breaking
in anguish for the witness and vigilance of all things,
and because of the sky blue ground of black footprints,
obscure names, saliva, and chrome radios were still crying.
It doesn't matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin,
or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers,
because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the arches and
freeze you from behind the trees.
it's useless to look for the bend
where night loses its way
and to wait in ambush for a silence that has no
torn clothes, no shells, and no tears,
because even the tiny banquet of a spider
is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky.
There is no cure for the moaning from a Japanese schooner,
nor for those shadowy people who stumble on the curbs.
The countryside bites its own tail in order to gather a bunch of roots
and a ball of yarn looks anxiously in the grass for unrealized longitude.
The Moon! The police. The foghorns of the ocean liners!
Facades of ***** of smoke, anemones, rubber gloves.
Everything is shattered in the night
that spread its legs on the terraces.
Everything is shatter in the tepid faucets
of a terrible silent fountain.
Oh, crowds! Loose women! Soldiers!
We will have to journey through the eyes of idiots,
open country where the docile cobras, coiled like wire, hiss,
landscapes full of graves that yield the freshest apples,
so that uncontrollable light will arrive
to frighten the rich behind their magnifying glasses-
the odor of a single corpse from the double source of lily and rat-
and so that fire will consume those crowds still able to **** around a moan
or on the crystals in which each inimitable wave is understood.
2.3k
Ghetto child, dusty brown face, hopeless eyes, dandelion flower,
piles of dirt surround him.
He quickly runs across glittering pieces of glass
that mimics the sound of ice crushing beneath his
paper-thin soles.
Sirens scream! Radios blare! No angels to be found,
at least not here.
Tall brick building,
six stories high,
so worn and torn from many loveless years.
Baby doll, blond and white,
tossed from the high rooftop late last night,
cracked face,
broken smile,
she once brought solace to a lonely child,
she now lies forgotten amid a maze of discarded trash.
Drunken man leans against a blood-stained wall to
support his failing body,
brown papered-bagged bottle he clenches in his bandaged
hand;
he struggles to reach his lips to swallow its pain-killing
contents.
"How bout a date, sweetness?"
He slurs to two young girls passing by,
who carefully ignore his cry,
but jokingly remark of his haggard condition
as they quickly pace down the noisy garbage strewn street
and he fades within the darkness of the heated night,
without as much as a prayer to soothe his waning soul.
In this neighborhood lost,
at high human cost,
in the heart of the thriving city......
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
It comes on
and he laughs and you laugh nervously along.
(This song saved your life.)
The radio blares the **** of the latest joke, but songs
aren't allowed to save lives any more so you keep quiet.
Music isn't a cure, and The Cure have been long out of style and
it happened
before anyone had ever heard of Twenty One Pilots anyway and
since long before Rose killed herself with a twenty pill crash diet.
it happened
but he laughs and you laugh nervously along.
Those chords saved your life
But "can you believe we
ever listened
to this song?"
The sunset looks beautiful with the windows rolled down
and you wonder how you ever survived this long, anyway.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 9:53 PM UTC
gallows on the rooftop
where window washers go
to suspend
metal gibbet
quick hinge, raise and lock
secure against the weather
whipped
combed and packed snow
ice crusted dunes
strain the winds over the buildings roofing
an extreme combing exposure
doubtlessly
they'll be no labor done today
On the seventh floor
i watch from behind
an environment sealed window
wolfing my lunch on a short break
in the warm fire escape
i watch
a solitary worker is ejected from a hatch in the exterior wall
cuffed by a spasm of wind
he descends a short bolted ladder
and makes a geared approach
crouching
his weight against the wind
he drags a heavy kit
mummified in protective clothing
passing my spot and he then heads outward
towards the bounds of the rooftop
he mends a stable stance
one foot close to the edge
the rest of him
in a low defensive pose
clips his harness to the gallows
stands to take a confident beating
of the breath stealing
brawling winter gale
he radios for the gantry to be raised
Mar 10, 2022
Mar 10, 2022 at 2:07 PM UTC
It's 9 am your throbbing eyes
pull you towards awake
The town hums hot outside
to a tune of 13 minutes,
buzzing nerves; roll out of bed
and try to calm the ******* shakes
and 6 times
in the last hour,
tried to swallow
those distinct, familiar notes
swollen throat won't go away
You're drying out. You're mopping up
the yolks of eggs with half-burnt toast
And hearing snips of songs on radios
down the alley from your home.
But the paint's all dry on this one--
and this breakfast's monochrome
One more time
choke back the losses
on a streak that's growing long
and ever thicker
It's 2 pm and coffee's tasty
it's making your eyes ache
The town shares your migraine
And streets laugh at your footsteps.
with the strangest sympathy
Try to still the ******* shakes
as you cross the Lewis bridge
Just to shiver with the spirits
while they howl about your head.
But, outside, the town hums hot.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 11:42 AM UTC
On a scale of 1 to Lord of All,
how important is your
opinion of what others create?
I see you, through these sigils,
pretending every breath you took
is a doctorate.
Did you know you dont have to choose between being the brush or the brush stroke?
You could build boats,
hunt ghosts with broken radios,
climb mountains to commune with the dead,
stare at the stars and make
your own constellations,
or play ukulele alone with a head full of acid.
All I am saying is
there are far better plotlines
than playing sovereign king of the
swamp that swallows you
and believing it be noble.
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 7:49 PM UTC
We exist within—
the hollow spaces between dissonant piano keys,
love notes hidden under dusty bookshelves,
the underside of the mattress
that has never been dreamed upon.
I gaze,
not at you—but through you,
translucent skin beckoning to encompass
the opacity of my own being.
I can no longer pass minutes
without blurred illusions of your face,
laugh lines and rose petals in silhouettes
that beg to be understood.
and there you are,
a familiar face in every fading photograph
I keep tucked within the musty pages of my journal,
in crowds of strangers and static radios,
within the cardinal’s scarlet flight
and oceans of words that can no longer describe
even fractions of your importance.
I can keep pursuing synonyms
to paint you porcelain poems of my love,
but then it is cheap,
nothing more than a human
worth writing about.
and you are everything
and everywhere— you and those hands
that refuse to loosen their grip.
on days I lose track of time,
you become a mirage stuck somewhere
between heaven and reality,
the remaining shadow
of everything I cannot bear to lose.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
over filled radios
holy bedding &
i guess i'm yours now
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
Please help me spread the word. This polar shift is really about to get bad. Human kind may not survive. The wobbling, earthquakes, meteors and flooding is going to be so violent that it might split this earth. The ice shelf is already falling into warmer water and layers of our atmosphere are gone. There will be so many tornadoes and lightning storms that you won't survive in a home or building. If you want to survive, you better go under ground, in higher elevations of hills and mountains. The oceans will flood the USA 200 miles into land. There will be a billion dead bodies floating and on land. This will be getting bad around February 4th or so, when planet 9 makes an appearance beside the sun. The push and pull will make this planet wobble so bad, that there will be waves 50 feet high in places 200 miles from shore. Rivers will rise to three times higher flood levels than their highest flood levels ever. Wild animals will be attacking people. Look at the clouds near you and they have a purple tint. That's energy and gases that will turn to fire, possibly. Please....help the innocent ones. There will be no water for to drink, and not much food. It is like the US government is not going to help, and will probably be killing. This whole storm will last thousands of years. This is not a joke. I have worked with energy fields since I was a kid, and was amazed by magnets and electricity and I used to help my step father work on tube radios and televisions. I also used to manipulate a giant satellite dish and I would watch NASA stuff up in Ohio, in the 80s. I watched polar shifts happen and it can turn a planet into a gas planet, and possibly a black hole. I have no doubt that it will happen, and it is speeding up now. The pole shift is slow at first, then it speeds up. Then the planet will abruptly stop. I don't even know what advice to give, because no one will have control besides the rich and the violent. We won't even see the same, as our eyes will be switched to different frequency. This is going to be pure terror. I hope that you survive. I don't like poetry reading, but I know that some of you are a lot like me. We feel things differently. I will post some links to some videos that will tell the safest places. The guy really seems like he knows what he is talking about, and he knows more than I do. Please, shelter the innocent from the death and mayhem.
Apr 1, 2022
Apr 1, 2022 at 5:46 AM UTC
Cliché is the glue of our bubblegum-flavored MTV culture,
Because we order language to go and with extra cheesy.
We pour words into televisions and radios,
And sent those waves to space.
We do this because the very vastness of our language
Is oozing from our ears like a runny nose,
And the torrents of tongues cannot seem
To penetrate the walls of the Jersey Shore.
Sometimes at night, Katie Couric weeps.
She bawls into the darkness when she realizes
That most of her viewers are waiting for her to shut up,
Like parents waiting for the baby to fall asleep,
Because there is *** to be had
And maybe Charlie Sheen will say something funny tonight.
We are tweeting away our TV-dinner monologues.
The cardinals miss our singing,
The way my “s” swishes against my “h,”
And the slightest stutter of my best friend,
Like a drum-solo-blue-jazz-soul-snare.
There is a river of modified nouns
This world has not had the privilege
To have run over their naked bodies.
Words that are chocolate-flavored like “cinnamon”
Curl up in your lap and scratch
The deepest part of your throat,
Where syntax has gone to hide away.
This river has been ****** by a thesaurus
That wants everything to be a synonym for ****
So I’ve got cliché stuck to my brain
Like gum beneath a classroom seat,
Like *********** that I can’t turn away from,
Disgusted though I may be,
Because everybody’s doing it.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 6:22 AM UTC
On Monday
you are sponges
Squeezed empty by
Pokemon tournaments and
Supernatural Watchathons
On Wednesday
you are dictionaries
lexicons of hyperbolic histrionics
thesauri of sturm and drang and
angsty angsty goodness
But Friday
you are IMDB
airbenders and Fassbender and
light bending across the sails
of a ship bound for the
unreal
implausible
impossible
unnatural
illogical
while Monday
you are rabid
like word-eating mongrels
and Wednesday
you are 1930's radios
spewing never-before-heard myths and mysteries
but Friday
you are careening
between the moons of Jupiter
ungrounded
unfettered
untethered
unrealistic
imaginative
but Friday
you are
gone gone gone gone
gone
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC