"scavenged" poems
My friend and I talk about it
Neighborhood got decimated this year
One after another the corners of community are gone
We touch the elder memories
as one might touch a head in blessing
as loved ones pass
We linger longest over John
Found dead after ten hot days
by other-worldly hazmat crew
flanked by cruisers
with their special, yellow truck
and zipper bags
...found 'im
glasses folded neatly on the night stand
in his jammies
all tucked into bed
No one thought it strange
that strange young guy would die
already decomposing in his head
Lost
among his personal effects
his fleet of rusting cars
and half-assed projects
Deck tacked to garage
his herds of “pets”
Easy to pretend he wasn't really there
between jail stints or some imagined threat or theft
of crap
haunted by the shadows of his persecutors
caught in motion lights
and cameras' blinding evidence of
jungle-jumble and malfunctioning alarms
going off in the wind
Everyone's out to get his stuff
We could dismiss him--
mostly
sorta
...except for times
he mowed his grass at night
or hand-built “the lunatic tower”
just for mom
from scavenged scraps and
hammered hours
power-sawed
through the housing codes
and horror
of the neighbors...
...Such a special spectacle...
******* crazy-- John!
He was enough for one day at a time
like when
he flung that threatening bolder
on bilco doors
for percussive effect
"Get off my fuckin' property!”
(not using his “inside voice")
“Next time, that'll be your head!!
He announces his intent
to not get mad, behave himself
to call the cops on me instead
Fake-dialing
While his mother screams in dread
“John is off his meds!”
My phone is set to speed dial
911
____
“How did we miss this?
How did we not miss him those quiet days?”
How we miss him now
How quiet
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 4:18 PM UTC
This is a place on the way after the distances
can no longer be kept straight here in this dark corner
of the barn a mound of wheels has convened along
raveling courses to stop in a single moment
and lie down as still as the chariots of the Pharaohs
some in pairs that rolled as one over the same roads
to the end and never touched each other until they
arrived here some that broke by themselves and were left
until they could be repaired some that went only
to occasions before my time and some that have spun
across other countries through uncounted summers
now they go all the way back together the tall
cobweb-hung models of galaxies in their rings
of rust leaning against the stone hail from Rene's
manure cart the year he wanted to store them here
because there was nobody left who could make them like that
in case he should need them and there are the carriage wheels
that Merot said would be worth a lot some day
and the rim of the spare from bald Bleret's green Samson
that rose like Borobudur out of the high grass
behind the old house by the river where he stuffed
mattresses in the morning sunlight and the hens
scavenged around his shoes in the days when the black
top-hat sedan still towered outside Sandeau's cow barn
with velvet upholstery and sconces for flowers and room
for two calves instead of the back seat when their time came
2.7k
the curling smoke
from warming fires
rise into the slate
gray sky of the
Beqaa Valley
sheaves of
rising prayers
expire in twisted plumes
dissipating into the
gloom of an ever
looming winter
overcast
refugees from
the Arab Spring's
uncivil wars
gather for warmth
around waning embers,
smoldering in the underbelly
of the lowliest bottom of rusted
steel drums, tended
with scavenged debris
some thought better
suited to fortify the
faltering hovels of
last resort
the fires
join us in
communal rings
straining the
tenuous links of
brotherhood, the
politics of men
assiduously tear
asunder
we count ourselves
among the fortunate,
blessed exiles recused
from the acrimony
of desecrated cities,
welcoming the
residencies of
bewailing lullabies
of colic infants, the
searing hunger of
stunted children and the
incomprehensible babble
the elderly eloquently
speak in tongues
of a desperate
exasperation
our nagging impotence
swaddle us in ambivalent
inabilities to master circumstances
profanely denigrating our humanity
privation is
our daily bread
the bitter manna
feasting on the
animosity the banquet
of rancor generously
prepares for
peace starved
pilgrims
in these
refugee camps
the cold cuts deeper
hunger pangs
grow sharper
our blighted dignity,
vanished livelihoods,
and the presence of
recently interred
loved ones trudge
through our mean
encampment as
fully enfranchised
citizens in our
distressed
kingdom
what was lost can
never be recovered
our homeland leveled
yet doors still stand open
silently pleading all
to cross a new
threshold
the full restoration
of our hope,
the reconstitution
of our flagging
humanity, the
spark of the
holy spirit
willfully uniting us
in the salvation
of reconciliation
is nigh
we are
the divine children
stoking the embers
tending the fire
that light pathways
through the cold
darkness of a
broken world
Oh come
Emmanuel,
dwell among us
Oh come
Emmanuel
ransom once
again the
poor captives
of Israel….
Selah
Music Selection:
L'Accorche-Choeur, Ensemble vocal Fribourg
Veni Veni Emmanuel
Everywhere
Christmas
2013
jbm
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
I tried so **** hard to forget you, so hard. But you telling me how long you've been here waiting just shows me why I held on so long.
It just shows why I scavenged ever piece of the shipwreck that floated up to the top. Those were the enjoyable memories, but the anchor is still at the bottom of the ocean.
And that is why we can't fight this any longer. face it, neither of us can pull the anchor out of the water anymore.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
Winter's edge flurries -
snowflakes converge,
a carpet of fox scavenged litter
re-emerging like
iced puddles of hubris.
Whilst The Christmas message is relayed
Rebecca erects a humming line
to keep away the crows and parquets
from her prized cabbage and kale.
but the threadbare sound is
reminiscent of cymbals,
carrying thoughts of a lost carnival.
She journeyed to the coast
and caught an amateur performance of the
"Seven Deadly Sins", in and out of situ.
The deserted beach, ghostly
yet littered with wicker creels
the fisherman their whispers silenced,
better console with tomorrow's wise
in hope of an epiphany.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
wandering
across
the splinters of
squandered
seasons
the Hajj
of the
lost ones
completes
a broken
circle
returning
with hope to
burrow back
into the safety
of desecrated
graveyards
welcomed
home to the
embrace of a
cadaverous cloak
and the kiss
of carrion
smudged lips,
Hajji's eye
the decrepit
visage of
criminal
depravity
germination
of this
Arab Spring
mocks us
aromas
of jasmine
elude us
emulsified
concrete
clogs our
nostrils
burning eyes
filled with
asbestos dust
form
grateful
blinders
to the
ruination
of reason
betrayed
arcane
remnants
of our life
lay inert
in the open
****** of
fractured
habitations
amidst
jumbled rubble
the decaying
carcasses of
razed buildings
boast grotesque
sculptures of
twisted rebar
cradling artifacts
of a past life
pink
hair curlers
splashed
with sickly
blood grown
mold
scavenged
bicycles
limp on
banished
parts
smashed
skulls of
dolls weep,
her
dismembered
limb reaches
for a lost child’s
nursing
hand
the charred
remains of a
Persian rug
maps the
scale
of a city’s
deconstruction
and a frayed
regions
disconsolation
electric luxury
flowing water
the friendly bustle
of the street
bespeak
expired memories
foretelling an
unimaginal future
sectarian strife
enforces a communal
solitary confinement
in cold blood
we willingly
murdered
compassion
we
butchered
trust
we
euthanized
our
common
humanity
constructing
buildings is
easy
rebuilding
ourselves
impossible
Music Selection:
Segovia, Capricho Arabe
Oakland
5/13/14
jbm
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
Child in bubble
In the delineated rubble
A bone to be scavenged.
Cobbler tying butterflies
The polish left dry
A bone to be scavenged.
Tailors stitching suit
Tape measured six foot
A bone to be scavenged.
Bullet tattoos is to bliss
Is this the balance?
A bone to be scavenged
A hunger to be avenged.
The inner vulture.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 3:33 AM UTC
"Whose life is the most meager,
the monkey or the *****
To screech and wind the
same dreadful tune
a mildew forming on your screws
What a way to grind your gears,
counter-happy through the years
Or
To pantaloon a penny nearer,
wearing outfits scavenged
from old graves
To jingle shackles,
worship Cesar's
To have a smile filled with nails,
a heart fashioned of broken stares
"But who has the most meager existence?
The undertaker or the priest?
The coffin or the corpse?"
To love the man who appoints the pain
to the monkey and the box
To praise the God that has made love
a traitorous paradox
To be the one that bears the wounds
of every ****** child, or sage
That is to live the worst of lives,
the bleakest death
That is to understand the blackest hole
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
She noticed the basking shark was wounded,
weeping vaginal blood.
The tall man in a fedora whispered as he passed.
Whipped by exploratory waves, she blushed.
The horizon was a hazy green line dipped in red.
She had been there since morning
searching for love,
and found it
from a six-pack merman offering solace
as he rode on the silvery
back of a ray.
As he approached, the sun at his back,
she moaned and threw out her arms
like a supplicant.
Complete at last, the sand grasping at
her shoeless feet, she sank
towards the earth’s distant core
using her arms as uncertain ballast.
She awoke with a shiver
brushed away the sand
and headed back home.
The shark had turned belly-up,
scavenged by seagulls.
Another day-dream enjoyed in the
empty hours between lunch and dinner
between her third cup of tea
and fourth cigarette,
her children snoozing in
the back bedroom. Half-slumbering
in a town barked at by bothersome seagulls
where an unencumbered sun
set on a postcard shoreline.
Planning the rows of petunias to be
planted by the hedge,
making shopping lists,
writing novels, never to be published,
staring out of her windows at the sea
she waited for her husband’s return,
tedious evenings of T.V.
and coition under the brightly coloured duvet.
The waves that overwhelmed her, flooding her senses,
were her own. The man
in the fedora had made her smile.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC
Who'll know where the doors are?
Would you guide me till the end?
Would you lead me to a dead end?
cos I thought I saw what was a mirage
was nothing but an ugly entourage
where hawks and vultures scavenged
the dead; to witness; burial at the sea
to witness; ashes in the snow….
Will my music break the doors?
Will the lizard ever smile?
or will it burn away juvenile?
for I feel like the analogue guy
One hour behind the clock's alibi
Some sang love's the way to roll
so I loved; but lost all control
seemed like an addictive lust
like I choked within animated dust….
The doors!! could you walk your way to me?
think I'm on the other side
for the enchanted key; for the bride
I've painted static words in exchange...
else I'll lay in gloom beside the Stonehenge
I'll lend you my baby so you'll mourn when she's dead
and one day I'll see the sun shine yellow and red
and one day I'll unlock the doors…
the doors of perception!!
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 5:27 AM UTC
I don’t want to get high off of drugs.
I want to be high on life,
the crisp october breeze outside.
I want to be high off of you
breathe into my lungs.
you are the blood in my veins
so warm to the touch.
whether you’re here or not,
your body will forever haunt mine.
a ghost, a soul, always on my mind.
when you scavenged my virginity,
you also discovered my heart.
I realize now these things
aren’t far apart.
I can’t separate love from lust.
I don’t mean to bite your neck-
but when our bodies ****** as one,
I feel like a vampire.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
i dreamt
i moved into a apartment
with an old brick wall
and its decaying face
the old light hanging from a thread
swings on the open breeze
from the window
time seems to slow down to a crawl
so i can see each and every flaw
so i can feel each and every thing she wanted me to feel
so i can know each and everything she saw
and so i see the the moment captured in ink
on her sketch pad
a drawing of the wind in the trees
a image of the smell of the fresh cut grass
the thoughts of the passer-by
who looked with such stark wonder
at this open display of what we have all taken
for granted we could never achieve
the old brick wall
leaned into the wind
and held
for one more day
kept safe the world she held so dear
safe for one more stormy night
the old brick wall
with its spray painted messages
like how joe loves daisy
and how we should make love not war
the old brick wall
holds back the world
from coming into her quiet soul
into the paper flowers and lace curtains of her life
the old brick wall
was once the west most piece of
the boxers rebellion
he was sad all his life
torn from his violent profession
and forced to retire
and his fists lay idle
with objections written on them like scars
but after years he came to terms
with the reasons great and small
with the rationalizations made up and real
and found peace
he found his fists could be hands
and hands can pet a cat
hands can paint a masterpiece
write a love poem
hands can touch another person without hurting them
and he suddenly he didn't want to hurt anyone ever again
because he loved having hands
and all the beautiful things they could do
he would never have fists again
and that change in him
was so profound that it became magical and
part of the old brick wall
so it will endure past its years
to protect her little scavenged world
her delicate life
her frail thoughts
because beauty isn't always
what the world thinks it is
a boxer can tell you that
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
The wood and it's ashes
Suspended into the atmosphere
Embraced the fog and the curled up cat
Who purred
And drifted into her dream
While the old watchman
Watched the fire go out
Reflecting upon his bifocals.
Drunken boys
Walked with a drunken walk
Into their houses
Also
Drifted off to sleep
Wishing they woke up
To lust and money
That came from nowhere.
The homeless
Slipped into their rags and papers
Wanting to wake up
To, oh well,just another day
With promised food.
While rats re-scavenged
On the scavanged morsels
The women sang songs
Of elves to their newly born
Who understood none
Yet slipped into a world
Of ambiguity
Till the dawn
The day slept
Within the blanket of darkness
And a moon
Full of cheese and a rabbit within
Made of a whole bunch of craters
That soaked up
Hunger,thirst,failure and fatigue
Of the day
Love
Falling in and out of people
And tears
That only fell out
Whispered into the ears of tomorrow
To be better
To be less deceitful.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
You have a gift,
my lovely monster.
I get to own you in the dead hours of night,
all mine and rough and ravenous for pounding blood
and heated touches.
Words are putty in your claws,
my lovely shadow, chasing my body, so close.
They are malleable, leaky,
drizzling sweetness and love in sugary promises.
They crack apart when I reach to see if they are real.
Days are completed journeys, changing sides of your heart,
my lovely animal.
Softened heart melting in my fingers, wrapping my body one day
and bruised and brittle red glass leaving blood marks
painting crude patterns and ruptured brutal bursts on beaten skin.
She just doesn’t know how beautiful she is…
Through anything, I need to hear it, I need to be here…
You make me feel like I never have before…
I love you and I need you right now…
My body wants to wrap around you, when the shadows return
to rest along my lonely cold walls.
I devour your words, hungry and lustful, tempting,
the juice and hope of them leaves gloss on my lips.
I remind myself dazed and sleepily to lock your words in today’s box.
They can be shelved; raised and at once forgotten among the other
treasures you give me.
Each day is a new box my dearest monster.
I cradle and store your words like delicate porcelain,
only usable for one single day.
Only clean for one slim moment.
Right now I curl beneath you,
the smell of you stains my skin and littered clothes.
You breathe on me.
Your words are crashing noise; they ring and slice the air,
my head splits and my eyes weep salty remnants of your words.
Cleansed and rid of the filth you breathe into them,
your tongue that slithers through my parted lips, scorching my throat.
Your hands cold and threatening,
I can taste the dusty feelings you shed, like dead skin
flaking away its layers.
The words you mouth just spread ash around me, circles my body
like a dead hearth.
You never meant them.
They cover the frightening parts of you I can finally see-
Rip.
Seams exposed and blood making its slow passage to the floor.
I feel its sticky pool beneath me, my back lies wet and limp in your hand.
A husk bleeding out.
Lead me on and take what’s yours.
My heart. It hurts. It shrivels in the wake of your betrayal.
Stung and stopped,
you crawl off your prey.
Leaving it to be scavenged in the dark to come.
My lovely monster.
Come back.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC
The owl was in her nest
thinking
She scavenged for food
fed her chicks
she slept in the sun
she flew and fought
for a meager mouse
and hoped it was enough
she questioned her life
when all she wanted to do
after a long day of flying
was to learn how to run.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
There is no light,
I tried to find it.
Every day I spared my consciousness,
I searched and scavenged
to no avail.
There was only grey,
and it so happened,
that the brightest day
was the darkest of all.
The light of august
fated to fall
the minute morning came
so mourning goes
and all thereafter tarnished.
Oct 4, 2022
Oct 4, 2022 at 11:46 PM UTC
I've got an ice pick
to remove the frosty caverns of my heart.
On my journey, I scavenged two twigs from a dying tree.
My deft fingers at the ready.
I knew they'd come in handy.
Once the cold has flown, heat would undoubtedly be needed
in its place.
So with these sticks I'll start a fire,
Right in the center,
So when it catches on,
It blubbers and gasps for more,
until its red greedy mouth
has emblazoned the whole ***** and things change.
And I'm not as I once was.
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
Girls who drive Mustangs will break your heart
They want what they can't have and know from the start
Semi-pro, they drive. Even when damaged-
Leaving behind boys they have hunted and scavenged
Girls who drive Mustangs are fast and deadly
As soon as they have you they'll spit you out empty
Treat them like trash and you're sure to score
Just be careful not to fall in love at their door.
Girls who drive Mustangs will tear you apart
Don't give them your all, just give them a part
Know they have others, it's never just you
Don't give them control, they'll run you right through
Girls who drive Mustangs have a look that can melt
They have a touch that can silence, a voice that can smelt
They have lips that can poison, skin that can light
A smell just like summer, just put up a fight
Girls who drive Mustangs are not to be trusted
They should only be used, mis-treated, and lusted
It isn't cruel, they know it's the truth
They need to feel something, no matter the ruse
Girls who drive Mustangs don't play by the rules
They are cunning and ruthless, they are nobodies fool
I once had a run-in with a girl just like this
For I was the road, and the speed limit, she missed.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 1:11 AM UTC
Rip me open
Dig inside
Please tell me what you find
Because I've searched and I've scavenged
I've tried to reveal
Nothin to satisfy
No greater appeal
But go ahead
And sift through me
I've been told there's a treasure
Covered in my dirt
Between my sweat and my tears
My ripped up brown shirt
Maybe it's an idea
To keep me alive
To have something to live for
A reason to strive
But please go ahead
I say as I turn
Show me what I missed
I move towards the door
And before I can take
Even one little stride
You grab my arm
And stand by my side
You hold me with your gaze
You and your twisted smile
With a soft expression
A generous while
You spin me around
With a soft gentle "whoosh"
And you tell me you've found
The most beautiful truth
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
empty expression on your face,
a weary traveler with untied shoelace.
you look years way off your prime,
now a remnant left by time.
where were the vultures who preyed on your ****
who stayed with you for they scavenged your meal.
now you solely walk the streets,
glancing at the faces of people you meet.
life gave you so much then,
you have everything except for a queen.
but you lose yourself and went astray,
overdosed and overused you went the wrong way.
you stayed on that track for years,
cause you can't escape the devil in your ears.
finally you saw your reflection on the water,
a blurry image so clear you staggered.
what happened to me? you asked,
and shook your head as you remembered the past.
tears trickled down to your lips,
where you taste your own anguish and the nightmares
from your sleep.
your heart cried out in agony and pain,
for you left behind those who waited in vain.
you washed your face and turned around,
walk the opposite direction,
you're homeward bound.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 3:35 AM UTC
the old truck
I'm guessing from the 60's
now being devoured by trees
at the edge of this farm
melting into the hundreds of acres
a remnant
I took the back roads this time
on my latest sanity saving trip
to the Outer Banks
Where I'll pick through the
fragmented shells
looking for the few that made
the journey in one piece
like the scavenged souls we meet
I took some pictures where the
lighthouse peeks over the dunes
and spotted something in photo
after photo
an orb appears in each
and changes position with
every click of the camera
perhaps a soul
victim of a ship gone down
from one century or another
stepped out from his grave
the Atlantic
to enjoy a stroll along the beach
Aug 24, 2021
Aug 24, 2021 at 10:06 PM UTC
This morning was cold and a foggy one.
It reminded me of a past colder morning,
When the holiday hustle and bustle had just ended.
I was here....at Windwood Park,
My arms squeezed across my chest.
While briskly I walked, a strong wind blew
And by me, a flock of black birds flew...
I passed along house gardens, with Christmas trees,
With angels and stars on their tops still lighted.
Further on was a row of evergreens,
Upright, unaffected by the cold December winds,
High above the Magnolias and Hollies.
Beside the orange-purplish Birds of Paradise
Stood two smaller, obliquely grown pine trees;
Leaning, but undaunted by the sway of the winds,
No angels, or stars to show....instead, I watched as
The Crows approached, and on the tree tops, they alighted...
And then came another group of three,
And then several more followed suit,
And settled
On the nearby trees,
Blurring the tree line...until
The treetops were darkly shaded....
High above, they perch...on the grass, they search,
On the streets, they cross, pick up food, doing
What birds of the same feathers do---to survive...
A group of beaked, footed, dark crescent creatures
On top of those trees, so green with life,
Against a sky pleasantly clear and blue...
The contrasts, the events I witnessed, lingered with the cold...
A small patch of darkness...emerging,
Widening, prevailing, gaining power,
Can eventually conquer a whole world.
The White Egrets, Herons, the Finch,
The Bluebirds, Junkos and the Parrots
Usually grace Windwood Park with their presence...
Only the Blue Jay was brave enough that cold morning,
While a large number of Crows scattered,
And bravely, skillfully scavenged,
Through the wet, verdant grass,
Through the tall cans of thrash...
This morning, the cold brought back these events...and
I thought of the violence and starvation existing in places worldwide,
The prevailing restlessness, the senseless killings...the children....
No more concern for human lives...and
I thought of Nigeria...
And Pakistan,
And Paris, France,
And those that happened before them,
And those that are about to happen...
Sally
Copyright 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
...we never know what we may witness when we step out of our
comfort zones...
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
It's gone.
I've checked.
I know.
But then,
it never was
much.
Made mostly of scraps;
A rough frame of old bush lumber;
Walls of flattened fuel cans
and lime coated hessian;
A roof of corrugated iron,
battered and rusting.
Scorched by searing summer heat;
Blasted by dust storms;
Chilled by winter frost.
Insubstantial
against the vastness of desert
that stretched in every direction
from the tiny bush town.
But it was home.
Within its walls
were love and care.
At its table
were sustenance and conversation.
For three years
we lived there
when I was a boy.
I'd rise early
and sit on the edge
of the gibber plain
with our dog
watching the sunrise.
One morning
I heard
the jangling of hobbled camels
returning to town
from a night
in the desert.
On another,
there were herds of cattle,
walked in from
an outlying station
for drafting and yarding,
then transport southward
in a train
hauled by a small steam engine.
At the stock-yard
we'd pretend to be cowboys,
prodding the cattle in the loading race
with sticks,
revelling in the dust and noise,
caring little for their terror
or their destination.
One day we hiked
out past the stock cemetery,
of carcasses leering sightless,
scavenged by crows.
We trudged
to the red sand hills,
then back to the rail-line
for a ride home
with the fettlers.
We went barefoot often -
foot-soles like leather
from the searing sand.
In the heat of the day
we'd pause in the scant shadow of a bush,
to choose the next meagre patch of shade,
then run like the wind
to roll on our backs,
waving scorched feet
in the air.
It's still all there in my memory.
Every few years
I take the old track north,
just to check,
to experience again,
to remember.
Other than the vastness of the desert,
it all seems smaller now -
one tiny settlement
within the compass
of an unbroken horizon.
The old house
is just a memory.
It's gone.
I've checked.
I know.
But then,
it never was
much.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 11:03 PM UTC
in remote valleys and hills
and in the forests
where we scavenged
we knew not what we looked for
and what we wanted;
we talked long in open grounds
and discoursed under the trees
and in the night skies
and wondered what the breeze
and the winds spoke of
and what was written on the lakes;
and then we said:
*'we have found nothing in these;
let us try
civilization;'*
and so we wander in cities now
and we look for entertainment
and we consume and fight
with boredom
with fat and restaurants
and centers to make us well-presented
and we say
in the height of our city wisdom:
*'Let us have our revenge on the
country and the remote valleys
and hills and the deep forests
Let us lay them bare
and eat them from this distance
while we are safe in our cities’*
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 1:26 AM UTC
In dull radiance he came to be, humbled in the belittle of broken, and dying trees, he gleams, in the darkly unseen seams of beautiful, beautifully, rippling through his being, where even the stars shall sing of dustly dreams, twisting and drifting into the lully, uplifting, sinking of doubt, as he drown in an endless ocean of sound, precision thoughts, but not, to be gone in his lossless spawn, of the epiphanies sprawled upon his heart, and from the dead Earth he grew, born anew, in the molten fluid of lucid wounds, strewn about in floating tombs, shattered and scattered upon the planets, as the latter scavenged trinkets of testimonial pull, in the disharmonious hum from black holes, crafting his soul, in the gentleful stroll, to existence.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC