"refurbished" poems
I feel as if my head is sliding off my neck like ice cream melting down the cone. I am a witch melting, shrinking smaller as my spine stacks horizontally like shiplap. My body has been refurbished into a pinball machine. Something so tiny as a silver ball destroys so much. It bullets through my body, shooting off like Cuban missiles. I feel the turmoil and chaos seeping through the gutters of this old home of bones. It's like spilled oil sludging through my blood vessels or rats scattering through a sewer, nibbling and feasting away on these muscles of mine until they are frayed like gnawed-on cable wires. At odd hours of the night when time is propelled by the safe travels of breath (that weave in and out like Victorians at a ball) from sleepy children who have yet been touched by monsters or nymphs, whereas each of my breaths steer Odysseus's weather-beaten boat through ten years of treachery. My heavy, melting head slowly sloping like clay off a bust makes its home on my dingy pillow as I lay on a prison bed with cold shackles around my ankles that make my bones shatter into a mosaic as if that could shrink my ankles so I can slip out. I feel like a chained hawk at these hours of the night when I just want to fly until I screech to a halt and flail over the cliff that waterfalls into the ends of the universe. I'd be reluctant at first, perhaps, but what other escape does one have other than to make an autopsist's Y-incision on one's body, then slip out like a hermit crab freeing himself from his heavy shell? Embarking onto a new dimension where there's hope for a radical swap of atoms that don't shape a crippled, deteriorating human is the only choice when you want to live a life other than what you were cursed with. May we then find peace and live as naked souls bearing no heavy shells.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 4:53 AM UTC
When you sit in a chair you sink into it's warmth and comfort.
It's like it's hugging you and making you feel like everything is alright in life.
As you sit in that chair you start to wonder.
Wonder about life and all of it's treasures.
That chair is magical giving you happiness and light.
And replenishing you for the rest of the night.
You finally stand up and you feel uneasy and faint.
Feeling like you can't move and your constraint.
You sit back down and all of your colour comes back.
What just happened? You wonder.
'Maybe I should just sit back and relax.'
You fall asleep in the chair and the next morning you wake up fresh.
You feel so good and you had such a great rest.
But when you stand up again you just fall back down.
The chair is holding on to you and won't let you go.
It's afraid you'll never come back to it and you'll just leave.
Abandoning it never coming back to see.
See if it's okay and if it's been refurbished.
Or to see if it's torn down to little pieces.
You don't care it's just a chair.
That will collect dust in despair.
So you get up and say goodbye to that chair.
And you never come back.
Because that's what you're best at.
That chair will stay there and hope for another.
Another to sit and ponder.
And then that person will also get up and leave.
Leaving that chair to stay and grieve.
Grieve about the loss of all the people that have come and gone.
And only used it as something to sit on.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
ghosts of slumber parties past.
just a haunted betamax & a stack of oreo sandwiches.
sisters braiding eachother’s hair far past the witching hour,
contemplating life without supervision.
blue house. yellow lawn.
silverback gorilla in one garage.
two garage: empty.
three garage: a woman entombed in exhaust.
[her bloated tongue]
a gang of bmx boys pizza-fed and friday-high,
hopped up on mountain dew and trading card collectible rituals ‘n rhythmics.
they conjure a demon just to **** and dismember it.
for funsies.
for keepsies.
a fang for the shrine at the foot of the old oak tree.
history on the skin, long history, long thoughts, long in the nod like a calm dead frog.
bubbled, boiled, toiled, and troubled.
the woods aren’t haunted.
you are haunted.
you are the conduit through which the darkness displays its vivid colors.
[treefort aflame]
the seasons furrow/
/ the leaves fall.
little plots of land etched out – subdivision and sprawl.
on the avenue, heaven
& hell made tame and tangible.
built, re-built, and refurbished – a lawn and a lantern.
a mortgaged glory of sparkle and decay.
[dead cat is a new cat is the old cat ran away]
pictograms of morning light display on mom’s face
as she instructs us on the gusts of love [scrambed eggs]
& teaches us the truth of nettles sprung
from violent pine.
[toast with raspberry jam]
the television.
the microwave.
the blender beverages.
hymnals of an electric kingdom.
one mom dances, the other expires.
[restless armless girls in orange sunsets]
girl with a gun at the edge of her lawn and selling lemonade.
girl in an old wicker chair.
save her horror story for another day.
boy with a bent frame bicycle limps his way home
from one end of the avenue to the other.
his pockets full of sparkly rocks found in the lime quarry pit.
one boy in a long line of lost planets.
the driveway.
the refrigerator.
the hum of a saturday night commercial-free cassette.
where’s dad?
the glow of an eerie crystal
(continued…)
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
A borrowed attire
A ***** curly fro
A slant set of shoulders
A "lawn" that is mowed
Soft caramel skin
Four new tattoos
Old holes from piercings
No longer in use.
A taller frame
And a nice juicy ****
******* to match
But a small little gut
A refurbished heart
A genuine smile
A great listener
Keeps old things on file
A charming stare
But not much to say
She'll sneak in your heart
In a phenomenal way
Ready for anything
When put to the test
Yes, she has her flaws
But she's close to the best.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 5:16 PM UTC
You’re wishing plus wanting
to win the other side
remove your pride,
you untied tidal pool,
the wide subdivide of these paper pages.
Unrelenting numbers
remind you of the next stages,
taking you wildly to Namibia,
surrendering you to Zimbabwe,
the terminal station.
The narration vocalizes the translation of quotations,
your obligation to the violation of the rules, the regulations,
vulgarization of spoken word.
Pretty paintings plaster typecasts,
the pitter-patter of pity’s pretty ******
quickly shifting refurbished velvet sofas.
Overcast symphonies outlast
witty recast stanzas,
scores with notes naturally quote
verses romancing seltzer spines
noticing the negotiation of sore throats.
Oblivion’s oblivious to the people,
obnoxiously obscene with syncopated
saturation of public vital signs.
You’re the vain strain of virus
photocopying yourself within skin,
waste your sin on tattoos trapped on shins
safety pins selecting prints
pinning sets of twins to tanned wrappers
protecting official reports.
The ossuary welcomes records printed on thick paper
suspiciously missing skeleton swords.
Writing stories reversed while tipsy,
quickly preforming risky poetry smog,
sweetly omitting secret words,
trying to spell simply without the proper prologue.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
fed the birds.
fed the birds a
book about
my dead
weight.
fed the
birds a heavy.
fed them from
my thin
hands. The words
that live.
The birds ate.
The birds ate words that
lived and always
lived
in
separate
houses. if...
and i mean if
and only if
they
could afford
it.
if these
clever pagans
ever had
a dime.
they found
it boring rich
folk to
death.
i fed the birds
my indigenous
nomads. they dined
in high style...
dined black and
fancy
on
shabby
addicts, as they
hopped
trains . i fed the birds
my
swarthy tribe.
and they supped.
i fed the birds
a monologue
with trains of
thought
the words i fed
them... the vagabonds...
hopped
trains.
of thought.
I fed
the birds.
i fed the birds just
outside.
i sat
and fed them
black light and Harmalade
fed them blackly
fed them with
piano keys; the black
ones, the ones
that radiate
i fed
i watched them. watched
them fancy peck. and peck
and fancy
pluck.
i watched. they dined
on serene defeat
by technicality.
it was surreal
to watch a blackbird
pluck from black
keys - peck
a morsel of glum
from
the black rays, yes.
the black rays with
opposable thumbs
and a
lifeline. the only one i
know forbidding gypsies
with three eyes.
an open
palm.
a paranoid
black radish
white dwarf star
with piano keys
for black rays
of
nimbus, yes
mine is the hand that bites the hand
that writes the book
it wants
to ban, that ain't
a fan
not at all. just an appendage. a pen dirge ? What ?
i fed the flock lots
I fed
the black ones -
with dolls'
eyes...
tucked
under
wing.
i fed them, yes.
a book
about the size
of any welcome
malcontent.
i fed
them sorrows
and ellipses with
adjacent lawns.
wutherings in
stately manors, squatting
on either side
of memory
lane, like
a bourbon and
coke had
practically crawled
across shards
of hard
things to break,
with a drink
in your
hand
and crawled, well blended
down the hatch
of enormous, well appointed
gothic frogs, that -
were mostly refurbished toads
with odd columns.
i fed
the birds,
broke out the
Good
Chi
na
hang the tantrums !
yes
One should expect
a rich metaphor to want to
watch you
eat it's every
word
or
by extension;
lick the toad with 15 rooms,
three stories, unfit for children
and a full staff
of Adjectives,
highly trained
to
short-sheet the Bedlam, and fluff the pillories.
one should sip the liqueur
off the floor, inside the huge
and tipsy
gorgon
and be thankful
for the dank
and
the solid gold flyswatters.
they're complementary. take one
as you leave out
thinking
" toads, eat flies.... so it follows...."
apropos of nothing, on the
' Good China ',
now in the belly of birds, well fed
an unwell.
a book about
my dead-weight's
dream
to eat fewer
flies and
more
steak.
to grow wings.
yes.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
The little black book I keep next to my journals sits on a bookshelf I made from recycled wood. A fresh coat of paint may hide a splintered past unknown to me, but that is of zero importance when refurbished trees that died for a purpose hold books containing paper collected from a different tree that is now dignified in service.
One that expands as more hot air is blown, and shrinks when cold shouldered. The little black book holds numbers without faces, but the pocket in the back holds a face that could never be confused as paint by number.
It maps out the girl I've been searching for that never deserved a page in this book of lust, only the pocket in the back that will one day accept my trust.
And the reason this little black book is kept on the recycled bookcase is because the paper is also recycled, the same as the trash that litters the pages.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
Who needs terrorists?
They are redundant
When over 60 poor people
Can perish
In a raging inferno
Caused by their own council.
For years the resident action group
Were poo pooed by the authorities
With, “Don’t worry your pretty heads!”
When they warned about fire safety regulations
Being ignored
Just like them.
No sprinklers and only one fire escape
In a twenty four storey building.
Only last year the tower was refurbished
With cheap plastic cladding that’s
Banned in the USA.
Our prime minister has been accused
Of failing to show humanity
By only visiting the Emergency Services
To avoid the angry public.
All this has happened
Not in some God forsaken third world country
But in the fifth or sixth richest economy
In the world.
For sure, that all engulfing tower-fire
Has made the blood of the people
Boil.
Let’s hope this volcano does not erupt
Like the one that caused
The London Riots of 2011.
Let’s hope our administration
At all its levels
Learns something from this:
To Care for its People.
Paul Butters
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
The Gift of the Sleeping Magi
**"But in a last word to the wise of these days
let it be said that of all who give gifts,
these two were the wisest.
Of all who give and receive gifts,
such as they, are wisest.
Everywhere, they are wisest.
They are the Magi."
O. Henry**
The woman, traveling alone, thru dangerous
West Side badlands, dancing lands,
where resident fairies, ex-ballerinas all,
magical mystify a passerby's thoughts,
mesmerizing them with their mercurial maneuvers,
tango dancing upon shimmering glass pieces,
enslaving all who gaze upon them forever,
turning their captives into sleeping beauties.
Restlessly awaiting her return,
the hombre-lover early retires
to the bed chamber,
weary from another day's
woeful world worries,
long past midnight, he awakens,
disoriented, discombobulated,
and alone.
Fearing the worst,
he summons her return with text spells
and magical ringing cell's bells,
all to no avail.
He dresses,
readying for the search,
to bring her home.
Ready to depart,
he opens the door,
only to find the woman
asleep before their door.
Unwilling to awake
her sleeping hombre,
she gifts him a
rest undisturbed.
Shoulder grasped, elbow guided,
her eye glasses surgically removed,
he returns her to their bed,
to complete her own rest.
instantly, she is re-gifted,
colliding with a gravity pulling her,
into a pleasurable deep sleep.
Now wide-eyed awake,
the hombre muses and
poetry pens this tale
of his restless confusion.
O. Henry's words refurbished,
rise up, infiltrate his consciousness.
**Of all who give and receive gifts,
even the simplest,
rest undisturbed, rest completed,
they are the wisest,
everywhere they are wisest.
They are Magi.**
2::03 AM, a few years ago.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
Dusk and dust envelop this intriguing Amish couple,
as she watches through the windshield of her parked car.
She's been observing sporadically for well on seven weeks,
as they've taken the old relic of a house
from disrepair to today's refurbished splendor.
It will be their home.
Away in the adjacent field, his straw hat barely visible,
an elder guides a team of Belgians five across
from the furrows of the tract toward the dying sunlight.
She follows them with her eyes, marveling their magnificence
and his unassuming control of their power.
They are the source of the dust.
Outside the house another Amish woman, perhaps
their mother, unhanging clothes, while a baby
plays upon a blanket on the ground. Black bonnet on her head,
flowing soft blue dress, and bib apron, she works
serenely as the sun melts warmly down the western sky,
leaving in its wake the dusk.
Dwindling moments of a day that mark a turning point
for the young couple and their unseen spectator.
For them a place to make a loving home amongst
their brethren and for her a revelation in her life.
She's committed once again to love's entanglements.
Dusk and dust have claimed another.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:16 AM UTC
Detox needed, salt enzymes, mother Apple cannot purge
Somewhere under the soul is hidden
Deep heavy air, speleothem drips, blind salamanders fish
White light is in the mind, refresh, delete, refresh
Delete
Hardrive needing replaced, mother board comes on like a crippled play thing
Eve is there, canines sunk in the mother apple
Pages sunk in
Sun's of God
Has now refurbished and has now encoded for the next restructure
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
Redolent May sings,
lays of perplexing antique,
wooden rose flounders.
...
Fungi is in rout,
war of mushrooms is halted,
desolate treescape.
...
This is not a game,
the colours rest in spindles,
the flag is in truce.
...
Paragon of ice,
tractive glacier, no friction,
chronotropic death.
...
Scourged almighty sea,
symphonic ocean blasted,
tranced undertaking.
...
Mort, syphoned blood grass,
waving like entrails, flooded,
blood spins, grave now swims.
...
Gritty stagnant bole,
refurbished hybernation,
the scent come to play.
...
Reminiscent moon,
gather ye, encompassed light,
that we may know life
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 2:56 AM UTC
1.
pushing blindly
through carpet of old leaves
phototropic
buds anew.
2.
rare, potent connect lies
yet, affection unslung,
only
cloak refurbished.
(on lit trop)
S T, 12 May 2013
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
Merely Love Is Not So Strong At All,
It Requires Cementing From Trust,
More Hard Work Keeps The Promise,
Inputs From Romance Are Steroid,
Many Failed In This Hardest Exam.
Both Of Us Feel A True Form Of Love,
Happiness Tinkling At A Distance,
Bathing In This Elixir Of True Love,
Helping Live Each Other In Being,
Being Happy Or Happier & Happiest..
You Are My Antioxidant-I Am Yours,
I Am Living This Refurbished Life,
Yes You Are The One Who Loves Me,
I Have Committed To You My Life,
Your Youth Yearns My Experience...
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
Aim well, aim true
A refurbished face,
From a cry and hue
A bottled song just for You
From a stretch of tissues
From inches of a grin
Oh hark the heralds
Extra! Extra!
For Dobbie is free from the ******* of sin!
That's all I can stands, and I stands no more!
Mis-sized forearms can cause a little Thor!
A clean slate and a comma,
A rid of blight
I won't strap-out without a fight
On a zero to none I could still stand a chance
Place your bets on the duel of a pure heart and bad romance
1-2-1-1, 1-2 to 2
Pure heart hits turned the black birds into blue
Jab-straight-hook-straight!
Straight!-straight!-straight!
For bad romance it was always never than late
In arms a-clinched,
In needs of each other's cleave
Oh but stand up for the Greatest Warrior who ever lived
This habituated mantle only craves for;
A clean slate and a comma,
A rid of blight
I won't strap-out without a fight
On a zero to none I could still stand a chance
Place your bets on the duel of a pure heart and bad romance
Alas, after the bout the canvass had its slain
His subtle dance, a downpour and in vain
Raise your arm on bell's a-cue
The winner of this match; it's up to you
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
I turn and look at you
And I speak my peace, urging you to leave all you secondary notions at the door
Patiently waiting at the turn style for some one who I know will never show up
Because he is already here
He is me
He is everyone
A genius
Another futuristic constructuralist
Studying equations
Where the answers lies in eternal joy
The difficulty to burn and the ease to understand
Only separated by patience and time
Overthrown and renewed
Refurbished
Barking dogs crafted from jade kissing your palms, bursting through parlor doors smoking on a long stemmed pipe
Writing in blood with a raven-wood quill
And a distraught agonizing yelp echoes in the library
Denouncing the existence of love
Brining what is mistaken as such to surface
Gain, satisfaction, self esteem and companionship
Love is up for redefinition
Bargains and betrayal
Vacations in plains never explored
Taking trains filled with ridiculous faces
Stark raving madness with clarity
Disapproval of sonnets of old that now in the new age are no longer suitable for the forward thinking minds
Necessary brashness
Eminent affection
Everlasting adoration of the suns embrace
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 6:05 PM UTC
You can surely decipher the scratches
On my interior wall, just inside the pile of bones.
There are hieroglyphic reliefs on my brow;
My simian eyes are the windows to my genealogy.
I am refurbished, re-modeled, re-drawn, re-worked;
I am not born again.
Along the hollow trunk, dragged to the bone pile,
Scratches and claw marks attest to the competitions.
On the flip side of the tablet, evidence the wax impressions
Of migrant refugees landing in Hibernia.
Nuclear scan my revealing contours
Of imperishable, ingrained, indelible markings
To unearth former loves,
Parsed and re-read in the morning light,
Not unlike outlines of Mesolithic settlements.
The male landscape is as seismic as the plates beneath the seas,
Where no winds sculpt, no suns scorch, no moons shade:
Only the timeless, steady, relentless currents.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 10:31 AM UTC
Dig deep poet;
You too reader;
Commandment One:
Both must obsess to possess,
Air the curvature of each line
shape with two hands, creasing and
no ceasing not till the air waves have filled
your flushed face with compressed comprehensions
You weep as you compose!
Good!
The well of tears where hid
the pool of emotions
in cavernous reservoirs
in the center of your
gravity,
needs a daily tapping,
a draining, a purification,
a quenching sweet and
raucous
where you dig, salted water will come
in the soiled, imperial but imperfect body/mind cappuccino,
there are swirls of treasures, sins and histrionics
that need discovery, expiation, expulsion,
when~then, object is surgically removed,
accept surging water will desoil,
and you can revel
in the revelation
of honest effort
Debate Commencement:
reveal, which, what and how
much, how much? how much?
(this reverbs)
what must be shared,
what must be reburied,
what must be refuted,
what must be reconstructed,
refurbished,
and what must be
demolished & deconstructed
ah, but as soul judge,
you hold yourself to a higher standard,
but in all of this but two constraints rule:
the quality of the recalled data,
the quantity of storage space delimitation
do not tease us with rivulets, nor bury
us under thunderous rushes of memories
spilling and cresting with a reek of abandon,
unless, you’re abandoning the memory en tout,
giving us your newly orphaned all innermost,
then, we must accept the product of your labor,
whether it be spoiled fruit or glorious
truth
Tuesday Apr 16
8:32AM
(the year of pollard, a/k/a 2024)
Apr 18, 2024
Apr 18, 2024 at 8:51 AM UTC
It is a bright new morning
You settle your feet on the cold marble
Freshly refurbished,
A mirror to the light
An inverted world reflecting in your eyes.
The chill from the polished floor
Infusing through your bones
Reverting you back to yesterday
Remembering it,
As a carpeted foundation
That tickles your skin,
With flocculent strokes
At an instant,
You pull back your feet
And latch onto the memory
Of yesterday
This moment,
Now,
Is a clean gleaming slate
An unmarked palette for today
For you,
To scratch the surface and stride across
Carve new tales,
To make another,
yesterday
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 12:19 PM UTC
*You want me to tell you what happened,
don't you?
You want me to bare it all,
every sordid detail.*
..... And so she sat there at the dining room table,
even now 20 plus years later, I still feel sorry for her.
How hard it must have been for her to say,
"I think we have become too familiar with one another,
and I need to find myself".
What the **** did that mean?
She has never said anything like that in the 10 years we'd been married.
What the ****
I didn't know then, but those were euphemisms a friend had told her to say.
She wasn’t really all that good at communicating you see.
She took a bight of souffle and kept blankly staring at the refurbished china hutch,
the one she picked out at the flea market and said we would refinish it together.
We... never did.
I said, with a new found fear in my voice, "So this is it?".
I hadn’t yet felt the sting of actually getting a divorce.
And with a heart stopping seriousness in here eyes she said,
"I think it is."
Blood rushed to my head, like a car running a stop sign in front of me,
I crashed.
On my one shoulder was a devil that wanted to yell and scream and call her names.
On the other was the Angel of Karma, telling me that this is one of those moments in life
that you are either going to be proud of,
or regret.
So quietly I said,
"how can I help you find yourself ?".
All the while frantically thinking.....
Think, think, think of something to say that will keep her from leaving.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
The priests could not be bothered to talk to me..
..as the Bishop took them off for tea..in their finery
Eating roast sham and drinking champagne..
..down by the river in the refurbished winery.
And this I felt as I knelt down to pray.
Religion is dead
It just doesn't pay.
And the rosaries become hypocrisies..
..this I understand.
It was never planned but the pomposity of ceremony..
..and the incense they burned
Turned..me cold.
I believe that God does exist..though the richness of the clergy..
..is like an allergy to me.
I want the church to be free for the saint and the sinner
And dinner for everyone.
Let charity begin from the place where it started.
Charity..alas has become so hard hearted..
..and it tightens its belt.
All this I felt as I knelt down to pray.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
Joel is a doorkeeper
for a rusty warehouse
and has a wife
a very angry spouse
and a son
one day his hip was out
two bodies going
on different directions
his blue uniform T shirt
floating in the powdered air
barely walking up and down
he fell
while cleaning the murky water
that flooded the region
of cement factories and grey hills
two weeks without his employers
to even pay for the pain killers
or severance pay and no off time
his face had the expression of a struggling
red snapper
together
we would watch a gossip show
on the TV
while he ate spiced dry beef
boiled eggs and rice
the stories on the TV were mostly about
spouses, children, abandonment and
violence and
girls sleeping with their step dad
a psychologist and the skinny loud mouthed
blond moderator
who acted as the defender of society
completed the act
Joel could not stand up to open the door
a doorkeeper who couldn’t open the door
finally, after two weeks of silent pain
they gave him an assistant
we packed the last China bound container
bellied up with modems
to be refurbished and resold
to a billion internet hungry
Chinese beings
My job was done
two weeks past and I came back
he was not there anymore
but I found him
200 yards away under his shack
a crammed cardboard cluster of homes
he was in bed
lost 40 pounds and was
piped up, draining blood
from the chest
and a bag of ***** attached to the waist
someone was laying next to him
sleeping the afternoon
he smiled at me
missing two front teeth
skinny as a mummy
had three tumours
one trapped between the kidney
and the spine
one more in the stomach and the last one
next to the liver
he was to be taken to the hospital
with a danger of loosing
the kidney and his life
I gave him a kiss on the forehead
and left
It was the same pink sunny day
the same old trick of a life
but something was not right
it never usually is
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
One day this building will become old and shabby
with peeling wallpaper, ratty carpeting, and cracking plaster.
One day the only option besides the wrecking ball will be
to sit and wait to die.
To crumble and decay,
to rust and fall to pieces.
Termites will find homes in the banisters,
moths will eat at the books left behin
by the pillaging teenagers that steal the furniture.
Chesterfields and repaired ottomans
will show up in the neighbourhood,
refurbished and reupholstered, saved for mother’s day.
No one was going to use them otherwise.
Better they don’t go to waste.
The old piano with the cracked keys
will slouch alone in the empty sitting room,
savouring what little memories weren’t scraped from this carcass
like the last of the peanut butter from it’s jar.
One day this building will disappear,
making a grave of it’s foundations.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 11:49 PM UTC
I don't lock glocks
An' I don't ride with a nine
I don't pack Heckler and Koch
But when I step over the line
I'm packin' more heat than a Navy Seal
I got both hands free
Because I gave up the wheel
I got my arms stretched out
So I can seal the deal
He had his life snuffed out
So He could finally heal
Us
The killers and the accomplice
When He said "it's finished"
His plan was accomplished
His face beat and anguished
The Devil thought he'd vanquished
The One by whom he was banished
But he must've been astonished
When the only Lamb unblemished
Made good on His promise
That was given to the Psalmist
Death had been demolished
Its power was abolished
Humanity refurbished
He suffered because He cherished
The impoverished and the ravished
Malnourished and the famished
So I pack heat, but it's a different kind entirely
Not a weapon, not of man that is
I cary knowledge, that His spirit lives inside of me
I cary peace, in the knowledge that I'm his
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
Write me a melody.
Nothing too simple, though that’s what you lead on
Building a bridge over a lake of fire
Ah!
If only fire could swim
Grilled fire on a side of living gargoyles.
Forked tongues shoveling rice,
And chicken,
Into a newly refurbished brain.
Does it burn?
All the seaweed and hackneyed
Washed up krill,
Burnt up, skewered, and caught in the nets.
New mesh scales
Mashing mesh sha shooting into the skin
While the sun circles
And the animals follow and dance
Preying themselves into everything you’ve done
As though you’ve done anything new.
Like addition multiplication,
Surely you’ve done all of that.
A tear in the paper
And you’ve spilled the white out.
What a mess.
A great tear in the universe
Arranged.
Separate colors of
Grass and sky,
The trees and sidewalks form into one.
Everyone adjoined and nothings lost
Because even this idea has a partner.
What a lovely
(shattered)
Dream.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 5:07 PM UTC