"stylistic" poems
"sly wordplay, it glows, feels like a shimmering address, half warning and half blessing, really alive with cadence"
read Kiki Dresden poetry^
once more into the sea trench divide,
I dive to devise,
Your provoking comment,
demands my full attention,
you divert me from struggling with
ginger & clay,
a contra concept
that molds and enflames,
yet strikes overtly sweet,
it does not
come so easy
as this playful notion
But
your words deserve the
attention immédiate
atenção imediata
that births this script,
tumbling forth in an instantly
instantaneously
me student, you mistress~master,
schooling me on sublimity subliminal,
capturing the capering
stylistic that bursts forth from within,
that my fingertips provide,
while my brain connives & connivers
continuously
you overlay analytics
that never are to me
revealed,
the what and wherefore
of the whom
hiding within
of the im~perpetuity impish essence of
i m p ishness
by charmingly doing me, not once,
but many times better
here a spillage:
an observational ditty,
dressed in a tux,
most formally,
to render the greatest
wordplay
ever invented
t,
the uniqueness of a simple
thank you
my favorite poem
a forever for ever,
the song that
plys and plays me
in the me
so often,
the linguists have banned the word
repeatedly
from my lexicon
so in its stead,
this all-in-one mighty steed
(verb phrase, a noun, or an adjective depending on its usage)
this phatic expression,
here disguised in
Portuguese,
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
nml 5:39am nyc 10/4, 10/4
Oct 4, 2025
Oct 4, 2025 at 5:44 AM UTC
I just don't understand
why so many Guitarists,
and moreover Musicians,
so disdain drop tunings;
Just because that technique
may well differ from yours
does not necessarily mean
either is inherently inferior.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 11:02 AM UTC
Let me tell you about myself.
I am a mosquito magnet.
I have little scars of itchy memories all over my scrawny legs.
But I think it means my blood is sacred.
I find my laugh unique and one of a kind.
My walk, resembling more of a bowlegged wobble, allows me to stand out against the crowd.
(My walk isn't that bad, by the way, I was merely exaggerating for stylistic purposes.)
What's more, the fact that I am prone to blushing at even the slightest glance my way is kldjaf;ldjfoiad;htija;ji;ajf.
I love it.
My clumsiness only adds meaning to the moments in which I am fleetingly graceful.
Yes, my posture is rough around the edges,
But it signifies that I have been around the world a few times.
At least I don't jut out my pretty decently sized *******
You're welcome.
I find my lack of arguing skills in the moment cute.
My mistakes are adorable, and my obvious flaws are endearing.
The fact I can't **** an ant without showing sympathy is amiable.
If only somebody thought the same way about me.
If only people looked and analyzed others as closely as I do.
They would see.
That way I wouldn't be the only one loving myself. (Or trying to.)
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
Consanguinity: A Commissioned Poem
(How Well Do
You
Know Me?)
This request, from wolf spirit aka quinfinn, accidentally hit the spot of what was foremost on my mind.
Cosanguinity: A relationship by descent from a common ancestor; kinship (distinguished from affinity). A close relationship or connection.
Poetry, mine, yours,
Ours,
Invades my consciousness.
We write poems on the same subject,
Even the same title,
But a few days apart.
Insanity,
Coincidence,
or
Consanguinity?
Perhaps we are reading each other's stuff
Too much.
But that's crazy,
Or
Consanguinity?
Yet,
And yet,
We see the same things
So incredibly different.
That is the answer.
We see the same thing and I am
Struck down.
A billion sights.
A billion words.
Yet, the human computer,
Sorts, collates, and generates
A billion different writes
In a similar spirit,
Employing the same phraseology.
All right.
Alright.
Malaysia.
Minnesota.
East Coast.
West Coast.
Geographical differences.
Time differences.
No difference.
A billion differences.
The stylistic differences enable,
No, correction,
Ennobles us to coexist,
Value each other,
Learn.
Observable differences.
But more interesting,
More pleasurable,
are the incredible, visible, signs of
Consanguinity.
Mere affinity?
Kinship.
A poem?
Nah.
But at 1:11am in my location,
It's what's on my mind.
Now that I know the meaning of
Consanguinity.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:21 AM UTC
Dost thou even go here?
Can thou even read?
Doth thou know the website thou art on?
Poetry be what we breed!
Ye foolish man!
Ye simpleton!
From whom unrefinement flows!
Thou shalt not write,
On a poetry site,
A work of ****** prose!
Oh yeah? Watch me.
Hello beautiful people. I'm in the mood to philosophize. And this being a poetry site, let's make the topic poetry. (WARNING: this piece will be filled with opinions, personal beliefs, and probably a little butter. If you don't agree with anything I say, good for you. Way to have opinions. AND WHATEVER YOU DO. DON'T SUBSTITUTE MARGARINE FOR THE BUTTER!) Ok, so poetry. I like poetry. And since I'm the one writing this, I'm gonna tell you about my philosophy, and my personal style and influences.
My philosophy that I try to live by is minimalism. Which is NOT laziness! Minimalism is quite difficult really. Anyone can write a nice fluffy poem (and yes, nice fluffy poems can be dark pieces about death and the like.) What minimalism is to me, is the stripping away of all of that fluff to get down to the raw emotion of a piece. An abundance of words pollutes the emotion.
Now, my stylistic mumbo jumbo. My aesthetic has gone through a few phases. A lot of my work is very modernist. What that means is that it deals a lot with... well with failure. Failure of the human race, failure of people, and my own personal failure. But also with separation. Some prime examples of my modernist works are "here I lay a martyr" and "of my faults and follies"
The next phase is when I started writing music for my band (Bisclaveret Marie, we're on Facebook. Check it out.) I became enamored with a man by the name of Jack White. (yes, that Jack White. The one formerly of the White Stripes.) Also the source of my minimalist approach, Jack revived my love for the Blues. When that came crashing into my poetry, it was definitely for the better.
The next phase was surrealism. The use of images and metaphors and weirdness to paint a picture of the emotion I choose to write about. (I don't really know how to describe this, just go read Though There Be Dragons, A Journey Through The Mind of a Madman. It'll make more sense.)
And most recently the Blues have seen a renaissance in my work. The simple lyric structures and rhyme patterns tickle my inner minimalist.
Yeah, so that's my spiel. If you actually read this, you freaking deserve a medal
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
The old peasant Lady
Of cheeks gullied deep
‘N dreams sultry-tanned
Sawn into the furrows
Of hardest times, which
The stylistic constraints
Of the post-impressionist
Van Gogh hid behind
His vibrant bush strokes,
But seeped as oil of toil
In to the lap of the Earth
And squats as the Deity
Of all our moral codes.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 5:39 AM UTC
The down of the gown of the dawn of some gone day,
A ray day that has downed and dawned at sunset,
They have diabolically colonized our divine state,
Belligerently gang ****** our stupendous democracy at will,
The demonic bloodthirsty ********* barbarians,
Declaring a violent war which no one wants to fight,
A losing warring war of one against all.
Impetuously slaughtering our defenseless defenders at will,
Turning the blue-clad fierce hunters to the fierce hunted,
The hunted that are being haunted,
Hounded and hunted by the hunted,
Converting every corner into the hunters’ hunted ground,
The church and the charge office,
The home and the street,
The here and the there.
Who will protect our “toy gun” wielding protectors,
Protect our trigger-shy protectors from the cunning detractors,
As one by one they are won one by one,
One by one by the one that is supposed to be won,
The defenders of our slate state,
The defenders of our democratic democracy,
The defenseless defenders of the defenseless.
They have been plunged under siege,
As every one of them personifies some certain demise,
Every one of them is just some subterfuge death in waiting,
Some truculent death just waiting to happen,
Bust, rust and dust in the waiting,
Stylistically stylistic starving yawning mobile graves,
Prey of their own prey,
The ultimate fray prey.
As day in day out they live the life of a cigarette,
On one side they are smoking,
On the other, they are being smoked,
Any attempt to fight back is regarded criminal of the worst order,
Police brutality,
We forsake them, they forsake them, the law forsakes them,
Who will defend the mighty defenders?
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
Too revolutionary for this square planet
Mind's body too curvaceous to fit within this world's average fabric
Man cannot live on bread alone
so I added wisdom and knowledge to my dinner
got fat in vocab to make the element of eloquent expression
effortless and clearer
Guard Your Ears!
I use my tongue as a weapon to spit rhapsodic
rapid rhythms
You call it poetry
I call it AK-47!
The National Guard can't quiet me down
just when they think they've surrounded me
I morph into sound
Not Clark Kent
but I change in a booth on 1 Samuel 16:16
become a lyrical musician
spitting smooth harp things that King David could not believe
I write
to be righteous
write just to expose the wrong
rid men of evil spirits as if all their names were Saul
spit melodic strings in stanzas and bars and lull them to calm with my psalms
Thunder slower than the light
so I let my voice rumble
while I speak the truth
Phat in delivery
but humility helps me float above stupidity
this creative remedy way more healing than chicken soup!
Uncle always said I had green hair and wasn't nothin' wrong with it
Ain't nothin' in this world I'd rather be than
eccentric
stylistic
funkadelic
complex yet simplistic
exquisite
efficient
effervescent
arT-Tastic
aRT-DICUlous
ART-RAGEOUS
FREE
&
UNLIMITED!
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 8:51 PM UTC
Oh, smooth, smooth unity
A stylistic rhythm penetrates the
boundaries of the world's
appraisal of orthodoxy
AVANT-GARDE
Lively arpeggios and Righteous
time lift the soul with
tones of emotion
LANQUIDITY
Transitions that manifest an
endless terrain of flowing
continuity
BLISS
An orange kite
swiftly descends
from the ominous,
yellow skies
Spontaneous strokes
of my brush dance in
a pool of glowing,
comfortable mist
The angry bullfrog
sits aimlessly in a
black lagoon, waiting
for the return of his heart
IMAGERY
You can see more than the eye
Music is your telescope
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 3:33 PM UTC
I DON'T WRITE LETTERS, JUST POEMS
BUT IF THIS IS AN OPEN LETTER THEN IT'S GOT THE ADDRESS
OF ALL YOUR HIDEOUTS, ALL YOUR GHOST TOWNS
TATTOOED ON IT
SO **** YOU FOR ALL THAT WE'VE BEEN THROUGH
I FEEL LIKE I LEFT ALL MY PIECES IN YOUR BEDROOM,
THERE'S NO PEACE HERE IN MY HEAD
LAST TIME I SAW YOU I FELT LIKE I RELAPSED
BACK INTO MY BEST BAD HABIT
I’M SO ******* STUPID, SWORE I WOULDN’T BUT I’M A LIAR
PAST BEHAVIOR IS THE BEST INDICATOR OF FUTURE BEHAVIOR
AND IF YOU'VE BEEN AN ADDICT,
I'VE HEARD YOU'RE ALWAYS GOING TO BE ADDICT
EVEN WHEN YOU'RE CLEAN
I'VE HEARD THAT YOU'RE ALWAYS GOING TO BE
ITCHING FOR SOMETHING
SO DOES IT MAKE ANY SENSE WHEN I SAY
I THINK I LOVE YOU AGAIN?
I THINK THAT'S A GOOD METAPHOR
BECAUSE WE DIDN'T HAVE A LOVE LIKE NURSERY RHYMES
AT OUR BEST WE WERE A HORROR STORY,
AT OUR WORST WE WERE JUST AN ALLEGORY
AND THE SUN FELL IN LOVE WITH THE MOON
WHAT A ******* TRAGEDY, LOVERS WHO COULD NEVER BE
LOVERS WHO COULD NEVER EXIST
AT THE SAME TIME AND PLACE,
ALWAYS PASSING EACH OTHER BY LIKE SHIPS IN THE NIGHT
EXCEPT I'M NOT THE SUN
AND YOU'RE SURE AS HELL NOT THE MOON
WE'RE MORE LIKE COMETS ONLY DESTINED TO COLLIDE
AND CHIP EACH OTHER'S SHOULDERS
ON OUR WAY OUT THE DOOR
AND IF WE WERE A SHIP THEN WE WERE A SINKING ONE
SO WHY DO I FEEL LIKE THE TITANIC WITHOUT YOU?
TRYING TO BAIL MYSELF OUT
I DIDN'T THINK THIS IS WHAT LOVE
WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ABOUT
AND YOU KNOW WE HAD IT COMING LIKE A TRAIN EN ROUTE
INESCAPABLE,
I'M ABLE TO SEE LIKE HINDSIGHT IS 20/20
BUT I SWEAR I NEVER SAW A BETTER VISION THAN YOU
AND I THINK I'M A LITTLE SCARED THAT YOU'LL ALWAYS BE
IN THE BACK OF MY HEAD, AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS,
HIDDEN EVERY POEM I EVER WRITE
I'M SO SORRY THAT EVERY SONG ON THE RADIO
FEELS LIKE IT'S ABOUT US
YOUR VOICE USED TO CRACK ON ALL THE HIGH NOTES
YOU'RE STILL THE BEST THING I'VE EVER HEARD
AND THIS IS A STORY THAT'S ALREADY BEEN WRITTEN
PLAGIARIZATION OF MY OWN DREAMS
I THINK THINGS ARE JUST AS OFTEN WHAT THEY SEEM
AS THEY AREN'T
AND I THINK SOMETIMES ANGRY IS JUST A STYLISTIC CHOICE
BECAUSE BEING SAD IS PLAYED OUT
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
I'm just giddy knowing you like mi mole oboe poetry
Anime he it it it's ssôœks
Right ok
Thus stylistic origin
You like! You so don't you
Overnight just in implosion you'll see
Quantities it quaint bin secession cast
kind really cool touring n stuff
I'm happy but it's crazy you nar?
Oh guy guy guy it , it's good fri
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
Anyone who is so inclined is urged to check out my newest track (still a work in progress):
https://soundcloud.com/apexparadigm/thunderstorms
The song is for my lover. She loves me(tal) and I love her. :3
It's in the key of E flat, in Dropped C# tuning.
begins in 6/4 time and dabbles with 7/4,
then ultimately ends in exclusively 7/4.
6 and 7 add to 13; the day of our Anniversary.
Yay for subtle numerology!
It's sort-of Math Metal.
If you've heard much Tool, you'll recognize some stylistic similarities.
Tool is a major influence on my style of composition as well as my perceptions of Music in general.
Comments and critiques welcome.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
For Adrien,
San Francisco is asleep
On the lips a vermillion souvenir
Of an unthought dream yet
Paralyzed from a wound not mended yet
Red iron body in the night
Of two lovers we have observed
Hurt by a somber Beauty…
Two naked children, to Charity’s breast
Born and tortured by a majestic Love
Loving each other, two men as on Humanity’s
Very first day, in the large bedroom America.
In the passion of a bridge their two hands link
That time… Freedom! And tenderness heals
Devoted fingers, divinized with desire…
Trailing down, delicate, along backs, pleasure
Awake and keeping watch in the large bedroom America
Love comes by, patiently, Pacific
Two entangled lovers, male Galateas
Protected in the silver of their gold, protected from decay
Discovering each other, deliciously, in the bedroom America
In a California, stylistic seduction,
You too are dreaming about your bedroom America!
Montpellier, France July 19, 2015
Translated on July 20, 2015
Lyon, France
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
Macros are the single greatest advantage that lisp has as a programming language and the single greatest advantage of any programming language. With them you can do things that you simply cannot do in other languages. Because macros can be used to transform lisp into other programming languages and back, programmers who gain experience with them discover that all other languages are just skins on top of lisp. This is the big deal. Lisp is special because programming with it is actually programing at a higher level. Where most languages invent and enforce syntactic and semantic rules, lisp is general and malleable. With lisp, you make the rules.
Another one here:
Understanding why macros are so great requires understanding what lisp has that other languages don't. It requires an understanding of other, less powerful languages. Sadly, most programmers lose the will to learn after they have mastered a few other languages and never make it close to understanding what a macro is or how to take advantage of one. But the top percentile of programmers in any language are always forced to learn some sort of way to write programs that write programs: macros. Because it is the best language for writing macros, the smartest and most determined and most curious programmers always end up at lisp.
An interesting parallel to learning macros in Lisp and the FORTRAN-in-any-language symptom!
An interesting parallel to learning macros in lisp is that of learning pointers in the C programming language. Most beginning C programmers are able to quickly pick up most of the language. Functions, types, variables, arithmetic expressions: all have parallels in previous intellectual experiences beginners might have had, from elementary school maths to experimenting with simpler programming languages. But most novice C programmers hit a brick wall when they encounter pointers.
Pointers are second nature to experienced C programmers, most of whom consider their complete understanding necessary for the proper use of C. Because pointers are so fundamental, most experienced C programmers would not advise limits on their use for stylistic or learning purposes. Despite this, many C novices feel pointers are an unnecessary complication and avoid their use, resulting in the FORTRAN-in-any-language symptom where valuable language feature
Dec 30, 2023
Dec 30, 2023 at 12:36 PM UTC
i just want to stay up to midnight and watch the footie...
see, already, it's there, he wannabe blind man
turning phonetics upside down
using optical symbols to sing with his eyes closed
and acting out a sloth piece of a stage's curtain call for encore,
footie can be american slang for football: or ensure a bag of
flour explodes while i get scalped;
otherwise footie means football:
you know it's round enough to be kicked
rather than thrown for a touchdown...
never got the hang of it... n.f.l. means
as much to me as does excess of hair
on a cranium crop of expected hair with no beard,
and vice versa, loss of hair and a donned
beard for the plucked sucker of the 2nd ball drop...
baldy over here met elvis and in levis took
to a cattle stampede with aria: la la la lee lo lo he he
(mike jackson slam dunks a quack for the moon pond,
like it was n.b.a. anyway: walking on ice
the musical... now the encore... signature the
sound of applause);
so this married man is rebelling...watches football
till midnight, rebel...
watches the footie...
a. foot, i.e.
b. foot, e
c. foot eeh
d. footy
e. foo' tea
f. foo' tee
now you guess the accent...
cumbrian? glaswegian?
north london or brick lane? which?
a, b, c d or e or f?^
see what happens being judgemental and sober?
you get drunks doing picassos! and that's not good
not good one bit for the worth of investment in plagiarisms.
the stressor marks / diacritical marks missing in english
obviously gave us scot spelling and a welsh 1 + 1 of
a middle finger longbow stylistic for the v long
before churchill... i wanted gaelic i got trainspotting spelling...
about as relevant as catcher in the rye relevant by now...
so... don't teach accent rubrics... and you'll get a heartfelt
superiority in the former colonies, while the pigeons coo:
or simply curl the famished tongues
that were silenced for man to speak in spasms
of an electrician checking the sockets for an electric depth
of the pigeons' coo into an aqualine echo of a sneeze,
if not snorkel or a gesundheit.
^*i hate how syllable splitting into compounds
show diacritical marks all too relevant, missing.*
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
What is imagination, but life's
longing an impossible dream,
a tickling of inner cravings
as the voice of splendor,
wherewithal's purpose
flourished in veritable endeavors
of stylistic appropriations,
yearning amidst clouded vapors
dispersing recognition's
declaration of id's odyssey,
an idea in transformation
that which awakens
substantial sustenance
nourishing spirit's nature,
a psychic boon, abstruse or surreal
motivating individuality's
creative impulses
differentiating experience's
uniqueness mid an ultimate
mind blowing instinctive force
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
We sit together,
On old chairs with cracked legs
And upholstery of a dated pattern.
My hands:
blackened at the fingertips
nails in ruins
calloused.
it appears that my guitar is the victor of this battle.
The dining room is a mess-
textbooks strewn about, proclaiming that
a change in buyer preferences will
cause a shift in demand
and that
the Amarna Period reflected
a number of stylistic changes
and the clock on the oven says it's nearly midnight.
Retire with me to the front porch.
Sit down in a white rocking chair
with green-and-brown striped cushions
And feel the cool, clean mist on your cheeks
As the rain comes pouring forth
From the opened mouth of Tlaloc,
And we will sing, and laugh, and cry
Until it is quite late indeed
And we become
dizzy,
giddy,
wobbly-minded
And fall gratefully into bed.
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 5:40 AM UTC
Her eyes they shine
The deepest blue, matching the sky
In the evening, looking off east
O’er the Cascades, latest July
Through smoke roasting leg of beast
Can’t look away, though I do try,
My mind recoils from the feast.
Across the office, right at lunch
I notice the tumbling sea
Crashing waves cause pebbles to crunch
Tsunami rolls in, wild and free
Afraid to move, I ponder brunch
And ask those eyes to come with me
Across the table, crystal clear
Aquamarine gemstones shine bright
Facetted perfect shed no tear
Refracting starlight in the night
Bringing me peace, removing fear
Those eyes make me feel I’m alright
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC
Circa Holy Roman Empire
between ninth
and thirteenth century
after common era
(approximately 800 AD and 1200 AD)
benchmark year 780 bracketed
Benedictine monks
of Corbie Abbey
devised cheeky guttural lingual rapartee
vis a vis European
calligraphic standard script inked lined
writ via extant Irish and English monastic
members nsync
strong influence of Irish literati
eased communication
popular Latin cognoscenti
common lingua franca
spawned Carolingian Renaissance
Codices, pagan and Christian text
plus educational material
written viz Carolingian minuscule
Emperor Charlemagne issued prescription
(hence named Carolingian)
boosted unified modus operandi
he advocated learning,
though somewhat illiterate
recognized value of education
predicated on singular
codified regional alphabet,
the then webbed wide world
linkedin, sans uniform symbolic shapes
uncontested salient advantage
offered up ease to master
clear distinct explicit letter formation
simple logic boosted
rapidly transmitted standardization,
especially with exceptional legible
readable characteristic
adequate spaces between words
Merovingian "chancery hand"
still reserved to draft traditional charters
Gothic and Anglo Saxon
favored traditional local script
as opposed to Latin
learning latter involved less tricked out
embellished flourishes
or interconnected strokes
drawn by a scribe
allowing, enabling, and providing
greater popularity to teach masses,
latent etymological nuances apparent
centuries following implementation
quasi initial Carolingian letters
steadfast, where Carolingian
influence moats strong
adopted local stylistic signature flavor
divergence woke since proliferation
stoking diffuse prospects
decreeing entrenched footing,
where auspices boded prescient
until groundswell didst surcease
sub limb mated into modern patois.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 7:39 PM UTC
unfolding like a stanza
whirlwind A cappela
A stylistic opera abbreviated Sestina
with no background singa's
A minor sung song
ending in the key of G
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
i make up rules for myself and then i break them.
i have spent so much time picking out seeds from my brain.
i am trying to remove the rot i planted.
i promise i will smoke less,
and drink less, and
write more.
i promise i will spend less time living inside of my brain.
i can't explain this method of self-destruction.
it is not detonating.
it is perpetual loneliness, like sand through an hourglass.
i dissolve.
a steady rain
for days.
and maybe its stylistic,
as every writer enters a page the same way,
to pour.
to let the flood cleanse your skin, to feel
relief, reborn.
i make up these rules for myself as terms for falling apart.
i am only human, i have been buried with these words
and have the grief to prove it.
i smoke too much,
i drink too much,
i haven't been able to make it out of a poem alive
in months.
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 1:00 AM UTC
*“My wound existed before me;
I was born to embody it.”*
Joë Bousquet
No anaesthetic rhyming with aesthetic for the cracks of words now **** it! This pain keeps inventing skies to fall into, glass screams, corroded nails Crying comes from far away Words grow flesh Between fingers Herds are trampling on my heart inside plastic horizons This stupendous silence then Take my bones from yesterday Future is a catapult What if I am only a girl facing this Breathe out
I am the possession/oppression The oppressor is me Pain is not a stylistic experiment Where can I hide my ears I crawled I bent Disfigured I had to pick up my eyes from fences, my lungs from the mirror I have a body full of used words, slapped doors, walls swollen by silence Hope to get used to be treated in the third person No poetics of space Pain is this quarry in me L’habitude of memory
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
the anxiety of my body arrives
before the patience
of my mind
-
my soul is a pop gun
or is
convinced
-
*I Apologize
For The Eyes In My Head* – Komunyakaa
-
for the aftermath
of witness
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC