"solars" poems
8AM strikes like a *****
And romping the losing street -
The engineered reptile stalks the hound we are.
The soldiered army, oozing molten pride,
Spike me in the side with their knees
Lifted to caution, so-so below the chin
The cold, dead breath bullies like a child
Never been taught, never have they ought;
I give them pity like spit, the drool reared.
The glands of my sodden state are nucleic
They spark and fizz and pop at the slightest fix
And they mount the green turf as they say the things they say
They say them in spite
Their eyes to register a flat-line, the pulse of my eyelid
Froths staring into their granite granules, you call them eyes
I do despise, I do despise,
The heartless range of those hunter-deers,
The wet pathos that criminals invoke
And then, I woke, the rage, the rage!
A mountainous affair, cracked into your skin
You wished I were dead so you could be thin.
And when I am not hot,
Risen, aired by the microwaved Monday dawning,
I can almost laugh about the spaces between your eyes
The slight disgust, the frozen musk
Awns over me, little fist tight of pink
Ears rabbited off -- a sharp, twisted empale
And then, you are there--
Frozen and dominating, your coffin spooks to me
A spoken longing and then all we know wilts
A running red cloak of tartan regrets
Jades the illicit wail bespoken after the instrumental twist
The torture device you call your words is broken out
I ask for one thing, beg for it, screech it
To the solars like I am owed.
Knowing Death, if not heed, the spited greed--
Give me strength, for the thoughts
The thoughts, that blow through me
Windswept, gliding the dead human ash through my marsh
Do not upturn the limped greyed grass
And blow through, a harmless storm,
With nothing to say about how I carry my day.
Move on to your homeward-bound, your
Concentration plantation, reeling off dead spinners
Like your words, your cold ******* words.
You slimy ******* you ****
I have spoken, one million syllables,
For your satisfaction.
You lord it over me like a raw-meat hand
Of the disciples. Well, well, Judas, Judas --
I bite my tongue. I bite it so it jades.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
Each word was heavier then the next
Punctuations were blackholes
Trapping solars through the text
Translations read "I am not afraid of death"
I am however petrified of a timeline
Terrified of an algorithm trying to define the textures of my rhymes
And the tendencies of the contingencies that disorientate the frequencies of the bell chimes
Pitches that were left to malnourish in these chambers
In the same crucible that replaced its rudimentary nature
With walls of foam that absorb the most infinitesimal of vibrations
Along with windows with shades that annihilate rays of the most miniscule of molecules of the nights constellations
I continue mediating
Eternally Waiting
Forever Creating
Until I hear a voice
It slices through the vapors
Telling me to trek and claim terrain
To march to a candice on clay
Even though grass was my choice
Now Im Forced to grow the green In my psyches Elysian fields
Because as a man dress in all orange
The color of Freedom will always systematically appeal
Faceless reapers come to visit dressed in business suits for a deal
A contract drawn in blood to harvest my crops for their sacrificial meals
I signed knowing whats to come
And at the time I wished to leave with the skeletons
Hold their robes of night
Dance my digits along their scythe
Because I see the beauty in every one of them
And I would too
That's the purest of truths
If I only knew the right numbers to dial
But I have no clue
So I'll dance in limbo for awhile
Until Deja vu
Because I was promised as a child
That they'll give me a call when its my time
I just hope thats true
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 7:35 PM UTC