"vhs" poems
they emerge from the wooded neighborhood ridge and fringe at dusk
into breadth of lawn
& limb.
witchy chicks
casting banter n bitchcraft.
teenage dead end dreamers tipped in black magick lip gloss
& glitter, their
genderfluid familiars &/or wayward boyfriends apparate
in the street pink cloud spinning wheel,
& hawking bile.
****** stella smile.
swallow a hex, send a snap, tongue along his neck
promising to fold bodies before sunrise.
the effervescent gasp
of post-ritual clarity.
in the house,
is a kid.
a gig.
the devil with a younger grip.
& the kid thrills on a bit of the ol’
u l t r a v i o l e n c e.
****** videogames, ****** anime, ****** mayhem n melodic music.
he is a conduit of dark energy.
a pure blooded offering of the stone age/video age,
mind in a kind of kaleidoscopic way.
he is me.
bred on televised bucket slime ceremonials.
she checks her purse.
drugs & snacks & juul & a pretty dead bird.
a daughter of delphi watching your kid.
tending to him.
trending him.
popcorn smelling him, the texas chainsaw massacre on vhs just before bed.
palace of teeth n twigs.
just a short walk to the edge and then its bath time.
the demon version is grisly and cruel.
the angel version is starry-eyed and adventurous.
to conjure some
thing,
at the cliff jumping.
it was fun.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
the dendrites don't know what's right anymore.
the tipsy balance is falling off the table,
and there's nothing there to stop it.
gravity is such a *****
but, so are a lot of things,
and i can't seem to grasp onto anything good
anymore by standing
right in front of the doors
that lead to something better.
i knew it when i found my body
still in the second row of the
dark movie theater,
crying at the smiling stars
on the explosion of a projection screen.
i'm pretty sure i was feeling
sorry for myself
lapping up some kind of
enlightenment.
i've been too nice for too long,
but i've been old since the
day i turned eight.
that was when i learned about
the rough bodies
portraying the new style of
***
on a vhs,
and my eyes stung
because i didn't want to watch
and it seems to hormone driven
boys that it's ingrained in my dna.
i have been uncomfortable for ten years now.
but not as winded on the
day it burned a hole in
my solar system,
the milky way
told me to love the metal hearts
and
always be kind.
i can't do that anymore,
there's too much anger
in my stomach
for my body not to
convulse in shame.
it was never my fault,
but everyone else likes to think so
and
i've always held it gently
so no one else would have
to breathe in sawdust
and exhale hurt.
i always had it covered
with my hands lined with
fortunes.
palms,
can you tell what's in store for me now?
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 6:40 PM UTC
THE ALLAN FAMILY STORY
YOU SEE MY FAMILY WERE A GOOD CAMPING FAMILY
AND WE HAD THIS BIG ORANJE TENT, WHERE THE
FAMILY BROUGHT TO CAMPING GROUNDS, TO
ENJOY WEEKEND CAMPING, I REMEMBER CAMPING
EVERY WHERE AROUND NSW AND THE ACT
AND AS A WAY OF EXCAPING THE NORMAL LIVES
ME AND MY BROTHER PUT THE TENT UP IN THE BACKYARD
AND HAD OUR OWN CAMPING GROUND, AND I HAVE
SO MANY GREAT MOMENTS, LIKE NEW YEARS EVE PARTIES WITH LYLE
AND YEAH, I WAS LIKE A NORMAL TEENAGER, WITH SLEEPOVERS IN THE TENT
AND HAVING AN ESKY OF DRINK AND SAUSAGES AND OTHER THINGS LIKE
CHIPS AND I GOT SOME GREAT PHOTOS ME AND LYLE ARE HAVING A GREAT
PARTY FOR NEW YEARS EVE, WE CELEBRATED WITH POISON AND DEF LEOPARD
AND LYLE BOUGHT AIR SUPPLY, OH MY GODFATHER, I HATE THAT BAND
I REMEMBER WHEN ME AND MY BROTHER WENT IN THE TENT, WE WATCHED TV
AND WE TALKED FOR HOURS LIKE ME AND LYLE, WE HAD A HEAP OF ****** FUN
YA SEE I REMEMBER LYLE SAID HE WASN’T SCARED OF THE OLD BOOGIE WOMAN
AND I AM NOT SCARED OF THE OLD BOOGIE WOMAN EITHER
AND MY BROTHER LOVED TO JOKE AROUND WITH US
YA SEE, LYLE WAS ENJOYING PUTTING THE TENT UP
AND WE BOTH HAD OUR STEREOS, AND WE PLAYED GREAT TOP 49 HITS OF THAT ERA
YOU SEE, MY DAD WAS A GREAT CAMPER AND BUSHWALKER, AND BUDDHA’S SPIRIT
MADE ME INHERIT DAD’S ADVENTURE BLOOD, BECAUSE, OF MY LAST 2 HUMAN LIVES
BEING GREAME THORNE, AND PATRICK DUNBAR, BOTH KILLED AT 8
AND BUDDHA MADE ME AN ALLAN, TO KEEP ME SAFE
BUT I WAS A KEEN BACKYARD CAMPER, COOKING ON GAS BBQS
AND EATING CHIPS, AND HEAPS OF CHOCOLATES, AND ME AND LYLE BOTH WATCHED THE CRICKET
ON THE TELEVISION IN THE TENT AND NEW YEARS EVE, WE WATCHED THE GREAT
BICENTENNIAL NEW YEARS EVE CONCERT IN 1987, ME AND LYLE HAD FUN DOING THIS AS
WELL AS WATCH GREAT MOVIES ON THE VHS RECORDER,
BUT THAT ALL ENDED, WE RAGED A BIG PARTY IN THE TENT, WITH MUSIC AND GREAT FOOD
I CAN’T REALLY HAVE *** I AM NOT THE *** TYPE, I TALK ABOUT ***** DONORS
BUT ONE THING I WAS GOOD AT, WAS TALKING, WITH LYLE, PATRICK MY BROTHER, SCOTT,
AND MANY MORE, AND THE BIG ORANGE TENT WAS FINALLY BOUGHT BY A FAMILY
I THOUGHT I SAW IT AT THE ABORIGINAL TENT EMBASSY, IT COULD’VE BEEN
IT LOOKED LIKE IT, AND IT’S GOOD THAT, IF IT IS, THAT POOR PEOPLE WITHOUT A HOME
ARE ENJOYING THIS TENT AS A HOME
GREAT ALLAN FAMILY CAMPING OVER
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
The sea cast a gift ashore
one stormy sullen day
and the barren rocky coast
was suddenly recast
as a natural history museum.
A whale.
A real whale, just lying there
shining on the shale
In another time,
we'd have known how to react.
This astonishing bounty
would have been quickly stripped
Bones for building
baleen for support
blubber and oil for fuel.
But now it lay
surrounded by detritus
made of better stuff.
The truth was,
we didn't really need it,
couldn't really use it,
like being presented with
Casablanca on VHS.
A sign appeared:
"Quad bike rides, £2",
red paint on rainsoaked cardboard.
I wasn't tempted.
Children poked it with sticks
in a desultory way,
stricken, intrigued, ashamed,
and utterly dwarfed.
The weeks passed
as we coughed in embarrassment
not knowing what to do,
until finally
someone brought a digger down
and discretely buried the beast.
By now, it will be a perfect skeleton
a prehistoric wonder
an artefact from unjaded days
when nature could still astonish,
trampled by unknowing tourists
as they dream of sunnier beaches.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 3:06 PM UTC
Good Day spoken in a bad austrailian accent
bad juju voodoo clear light poltergeist on disablity
Hoarding every scrap of miserable memories attached to trash
your apartment is a holiday for nightmares and childmolesters
******* magazines, old sanitary napkins , bad vhs movies
lay like dead soldiers waiting for the war to end
Black bags and boxes scattered every where are villages to rats
and every unknown pestilence you can only read about in medical textbooks.
half eaten pizzas covered in pickles dried up sadly looking at empty pills
You have no hold on me I can't understand your pain nor will i listen to your overdramatic ******** about whoever
or scheming to defraud Walmart
Your mutilation is a scar spelling sociopathic miscreant child trapped in an old mismatched shell of no clear gender.
Your diagnostic prophecies from the dsm5 dismissed like school on a snow day.
Will commands the unentanglement
uncurse
unfear
dispell all your contradictions accusations monologrhthyms
bad music choices and echoes of muttered mustard.
only truth will be uplifted
Peace be with you
whereever you are currently infesting enjoy your dora the explorer ice cream
Was there ever a floor in here?
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 12:53 AM UTC
It takes me back
as I sift thru years
of collected basement junk
a rainbow milk hurricane
thru time
I jump into the vortex
emitted from my dust-bound
N64
an old tv I used for video games
sits in a corner by
boxes of board games
& VHS tapes my dad bought me
memories like shoelaces
now untied, I trip on them
an evanescent trip.
The things in the vortex are
warped by time
blended from real things
into memory cards
memories like bodies
decaying
in the basement
memories like apparitions
diaphanous & ethereal
but always somewhere in that dark
it's a trip that I'm used to
it takes me
back
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
I woke up
the sun softly breaking through
resting on the wall,
i left my radio on
playing songs and songs
that i love
my hair is glued to my forehead
i feel it scratching against my skin
i look around piles of clothes
laying on the corner of my bed
empty bowls of cheerio cereal
my guitars laying up against a wall
one that is laying on the floor
two burnt matches on the floor
a poorly painted zebra mask
and a yellow leaf that fell from its place
a lot of dried pieces fell off the dead leaf,
old VHS tapes against the wall
***** dancing,breakfest club,ferris bueller , blues brothers
so much more
books piled in each other
dorian grey,to **** a mockingbird, a farewell to arms
i'm missing two books
i lent them to my friend
red ink from a pen on the floor
i had to keep the guitar cord at a certain bend to it would amplify
it gave in and exploded
a green paint mark on my wall
and a cut out mustache
an old keyboard of the 80's
sometimes it turns on sometimes it doesn't
notebooks of poems
and boxes of drawing i did when i was younger
a big jar with two dead roses
pencils and pens cross in and out
a little emptied out honey jar
filled with all my train tickets
my bracelets laying on the floor
except for the blue one my wrist
it never comes off
my camera lays beside the camera beg
drawings on the wall
and my hats on top of each other
and my sweaters all over the place
vinyl album covers
of the Beatles and Pink Floyd
My mom calls it a mess
i call it
me...
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
[ final, before flight ]
learnt through dusty feet
and stomachs growlin’ their
dyin’ growls. days and weeks
with leakin’ roof, and
nature’s bountiful army
marchin’ on and through.
candle-lit synthetic canvas
absorbin’ fired raditation,
*** upon baked ground
starin’ at drunken fire pit –
conversed two hours, and
with dawn one side meld’d
in the dancin’ orange and reds.
walk’d macadame, in full June
the tar bubbled to the surface
and patch’d holed soles –
surfaced skin, turn’d black.
graveyard of gypsum;
burnt out child’s playground;
horse protectin’ territory, or life;
pawnin’ everything not bolt’d down –
death of materialism,
birth of a **** off mentality.
bought Black-and-Milds so to
reroll a few cigarettes,
save wood tip for later use.
save everything for later use,
stash everything for later use.
stab’d in stupidity and
made to mend the wound with
worries of:
will i use this hand again?
[ C ]
cryin’ for Annie, cryin’ out,
knowin’ she will return without
my concern. knowin’ she’s
probably rummagin’
through some neighbor’s house.
cryin’ out. cryin’ out.
lyin’ down on pallet’d floor,
gettin’ usher’d out so
she could ****
[ A ]
mouse detectives on VHS,
an awkward glance at left –
all the signs, none of the glory.
misdirectin’ for no reason,
reappearin’ without reason,
disappearin’ for every reason.
[ T ]
road impart’d day’s heat
through all the night, and
moon lit unknown paths.
cryin’ out, peddlin’ faster,
carryin’ weight in
hope at final penance.
no penance.
[ O ]
an artist’s rush,
turn’d paper to masterpiece
with seemin’ lack of effort.
stole heart, keel’d in, cast off to
placebo girl in roomate’s bed.
- - - abrupt ending
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
I wish I could wish I was more in the moment and less in the haze of a memory
Find me in a nonregulation tankless sensory deprivation simulation to deep dive into why my history grips so tightly
It's not lost on me that it feeds off of the litany of my bad energy, a never ending supply and still greedy
Can't say it's a mystery, not completely, hesitation is hard wired in on the heals of every lesson in misery
Honestly it's never a surprise, not really, the first complication to arise naturally is my own reactionary jurk of the knee
Even though that's never worked out for me, never seem to benefit any, quite the contrary actually
It's entertainment for my inner dialogue, continuously laughing menacingly as it nurtures this three-ring calamity
And I'm left to recite a sorry apology with the conviction of a hostage on VHS tape through a grainy TV
So why do I do it? Clearly it's not a chosen journey but rather some hopeless, helpless destiny
One I prayed would never find me but it was as timely as untimely could be
And now, this is me
©2023
Jul 8, 2023
Jul 8, 2023 at 7:22 PM UTC
I carried you on my back
Like a sack of potatoes.
Back and forth and back and forth
Caught between Daddy Issues and
Words that call forth memories
That call forth pain that call forth
Vomiting Monday nights before therapy.
All of our VHS boxes are packed up neatly
In the attic between old photo albums of
Broken family after broken family after
Generations who don’t know each other’s
Stories. We’re ****** up.
That’s all we’ve ever been as a family.
And she sings jellyfish clouds
While he rhymes puppydog tears
Somewhere between the nature of agender,
One gender, two gender, red gender, blue gender.
They’re the first kid in generations to write.
They’re the first kid in generations to escape.
They’re the first kid in generations with mirtazapine dreams.
And no one lets them forget it.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
You’d do well to keep in mind
The lines falling short inside
And all the people standing outside
Looking in
Feeling the sin
Sink down their arms
Into their shoes
And out of brain range
This is it
The reckoning
Of sorts anyway
The lost keys found
The square peg round
The light at the end of the tunnel
On an extra long chord
Finally being pulled
Nighty night
Let all that ails you tuck you down tight
Bring back the child of let’s say 10
That version of you
And start explaining
As you have much to do
He might look up and say
“Who are you?”
And that’s a valid ******* question you know
*Valid ******* question*
Cause he won’t know
And neither will you
The disconnect is growing moss
Off the side of Highway 2
And memories are like old VHS tapes
That nobody watches anymore
Don’t have time for that
Too much going on
With all the nothing to move and stack
Rearrange
Sifting for change
Like it’s in your pocket
And you’re at the soda machine
After walking back into town mid-June
Cause your car breaks down
In the middle of the Middle(est) West
And you are thirsty
But the machine is all out
And the clock is broken
Along with your need for concern
It just doesn’t matter now
And you are more than well aware
You are ****** scope
From 300 yards up and away aware
There’s no move (even the slightest) getting past you
You guard that tower
Like an insecure guy guards his bestest (crush) girl –friend
You know the one that takes him shopping
And tells him secrets
That should be dropped in a volcano
– but regardless
He will never see the color of her *******
Unless she has him do her laundry
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
Was watching Disney's The Lion King on VHS
Got it from the thrift store for a dollar
When it started up
It was halfway through
That realization made me wonder
Someone somewhere started this movie
But they never finished it
They stopped it
Took it out of their VCR
They never picked it up again
Except to pack it in a box of old forgotten things
I wonder what made them stop it
Was it a child who went to play outside with his friends?
And when he returned
Was he grown with no desire to be a child again?
Did he find a better movie to watch?
Or did he find the movie boring and never bothered with it again?
Was it a Mother watching it while feeding her baby?
Did she leave to get more food?
And while she was out
Did she come across the new and improved DVD player?
Did she find it on sale and thought it must be better than VHS?
Maybe it was an old man reliving an easier day when he was younger
Was it the last movie he watched
Before the paramedics stopped it
And took him away to his final resting place?
Was it his daughter who took it out of the VCR
Placed it carefully in its casing
Put it with all the other VHS tapes she found in an old box
Gave that box to the thrift shop
Where I inevitably found it and brought it home
Why was this VHS forgotten?
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 5:38 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
She stands to pass the test,
With a brand new vhs,
In new York, in new York,
I don't know what I could do,
But to be right next to you,
In new York , in new York,
I could possibly put her in the first lane of my mind set as I swerve,
Trailed down with minor regrets I did later,
Love you deserve,
Turtlenecks itching my skin,
Foot on the gas,
Too much caffeine In my system just to let her pass,
She didn't fail the test , so its only temporary that she ....
.....stands to pass the test,
With a brand new vhs,
In new York, in new York,
I don't know what I could do,
But to be right next to you,
In new York , in new York.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 10:54 PM UTC
Is it my counter-counterclockwise
mind wasting time? Elbows
on the dining table pulling my angel
hair into grid-like times tables.
I’m invested in this non-conversation
table. Ich liebe dich, mein Freund.
I’ve got commitment issues and four-ply
tissues for when my eye lashes start
peeling apart. My grandpa died in 2005
and I’m all but over it. I’m holding
his kite string, but the reel is almost done,
like VHS tapes rewound then fast-forwarded
to the good times. Power Ranger birthday
and everyone’s wearing dunce caps
with elastic chin straps ‘til they snap.
Snap! Snap! Snap me back to three-years-old,
and I’m singing in a Robin costume
‘cause I knew I’d always be second best.
I had an identity crisis around fourteen,
so I stopped buying sunglasses
because I found myself in other
peoples’ shadows. But now the only shadows
they’re casting are the ones from their headstones
and from the fields of flowers cradling
them like they once cradled me.
Fast-forward, I’m genuflecting in gym shorts
before myself in a mirror smudged with plum
felt. And I seem small compared to my life
spelled out in Expo marker markings.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 9:31 PM UTC
Chapter I
I once was young minded,
vulnerable with wide tooth grins
and fluttering words,
binding soft skin with liquid
metals - like gallium,
clustering in my ribbed fingertips and
letting love level in my lips.
I turned old the day I watched
rough bodies portraying the new style
of
***
on a vhs tape, and he
gave me a shaking milkshake to
turn off my developing
voicebox.
I always wore this barbie nightgown
that had tears from the nights before,
but that's ancient dust that folks
flip past in encyclopedias.
as he knelt down to tie my veins
together in little bows,
I untied after each loop was set in
my bones.
his acidic fingers braced my eight
year old metal frame,
so I broke the nuts and bolts since
I wanted to see if he was
a part of the human race,
I wanted to see if he could bleed
iron-richness that kept myself breathing.
Chapter II
he was beautiful.
his philosophy branched in
segments and he tasted of
earthy tones, but sometimes
he couldn't smile easy and
I felt his love only in acts of passion.
The football game stuttered in
pure vertigo,
as if my body was still
positioned in missionary.
he held me in concern, his arms
laced as protection from myself.
as a survivor, his words felt like
whiplash or lagging from too much
flying in the high altitude.
I needed to forget, float, forgive
and begin the process over again.
I would never see the shades of love
from anyone other than from him,
his words used to brand me.
Chapter III
I drank too much.
I wished on meteorites,
lead-filled, hoping they wouldn't
fall on the tent.
my luck was never strong enough.
I felt as if a wildfire was singeing
my dysfunctional limbs.
I wanted him off. now.
and my tongue was made of
parchment paper. crisped.
I woke up ten after nine.
my body repulsed me,
throwing up the last of poisonous
alcohol I left stranded the
night before.
I devoted that I will never sleep in
a tent again.
Chapter IV
I am finally free.
I still have energy in these
old bones,
and I want to put them
to good use.
so I'll walk for centuries to
find truth and trust.
I use my voice to tell myself
I am more profound than the
surface film those insignificants swept
on my skin.
I found my voice again.
Mar 31, 2011
Mar 31, 2011 at 4:51 PM UTC
In my house there is a cupboard
Full of VHS tapes
One of them is a recording of a news broadcast
On it I stand
Hospital gowned and smiling
Clowns are there on the terrace where it was filmed
Painting our faces
They all smile
I smile
The other kids smile
None of us over 4 feet
But balding
Black eyed and missing toothed
A clown takes my hand and begins to paint
It is cold
The paint
And the Terrace
I tell her how I want to run away with her
She smiles
Maybe
On camera
You can see my back through the open gown
The bones make me look like a brontosaurus
I turn to the camera
Remembering I was told never to smile with the paint on
or it will crack
The circles under my eyes are gone
My lips are red
My cheeks are tan
I look normal
Off camera
mommies and daddies are crying
Off camera
the clowns are crying
On camera
There is a terrace full of dying children
In a hospital
And we all looked normal
May 10, 2011
May 10, 2011 at 11:25 AM UTC
something about you. something about october
the dried up leaves and the way everything feels quiet
in the middle of the day
like living inside of a vhs tape that hasn't been rewound
in a decade or two
makes me want to start visiting the cemetery
make friends with the forgotten
when we ended up walking the dogs there on accident
it felt like coming home
i'll bring my books and a bag of dried cherries, peanut butter
bars of dark chocolate wrapped in gold foil, sunflower seeds
the nightstand with the warped wooden drawer
that's always getting stuck
where i keep the half-melted birthday candles
and a box of matches, just in case
prop my pillow up against a headstone
read vonnegut until i fall asleep
grow closer to death until it doesn't scare me anymore
i used to think ghosts lived in mausoleums but now i know
they live inside of a twenty-four-year-old who watches
the same vampire movie every time it rains
just to feel safe inside the familiarity of the past
i'm still the twelve-year-old girl
just waiting for something to happen to her
i burn my skin in the shower just to feel less alone
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 3:32 PM UTC
Ring the Bell for Old DePauw, Ha!
Here's to Cold DePauw
Here's to passing cars.
Here's to winter, Here's to bars.
Here's to frozen Noses, rigid Fingers
Sore Livers, rough Throats.
Here's to Shivers.
Remember the beginning
Remember waking up
Remember lost keys.
Remember yesterday,
A year ago?
Remember that longboard we found
Amongst the art.
Remember that sculpture,
And the moving stone.
Remember Heathrow.
Here's to dreaming.
Let there be Lighters!
And ashtrays!
Let there be fireworks
Keep the air and the friends in
Keep the door closed.
Keep it locked,
But let the noise out.
Keep the fan on.
Give me shelter
give me recollection,
give me choice
give me space.
We need more love
more canceled flights,
need more VHS,
more wine
more cheese,
we need more heartbreak,
more sweet dreams.
Let us keep pictures
Let us keep letters
Let us keep papers
Let us keep sweaters
And glitter,
Keep it all.
Let us keep it alive.
Jul 31, 2011
Jul 31, 2011 at 5:37 PM UTC
In her cartoon world in shades of pastel browns and reds,
Little orphaned Ann Marie skips through twisted nightmare scenes
On corroded tape on VHS or a flimsy plastic five buck DVD.
Come home, come home to my heart
Kneeling on pale, cartoon knees and singing sweetly of secret dreams,
A haunted melody forgotten by all but a few jaded '90s college kids,
Ann Marie wishes on stars in dingy cellars on days she cannot go outside.
When you come home, we'll never be apart
Trapped in her B-quality version of immortality, Ann Marie repeats her lines
While the girl behind the microphone drops dead in a puddle of blood.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
this very fall reckoned
everything loses its meaning under the
strain of redundancy.
I know this to be a perfect truth
but I still revel
in the images I keep sacred behind my eyes,
with all my autumns boiled down (a bare bone),
to a single one for me
that was warm crisp and altogether virginal-
my last one, as long as I live
for it is replayed as each monarch rests in my sight
and with each bird arrowed south-
and I tongue things spiced to remember
so I can go down with memory’s ship
willingly with collapsed and stunted lungs
tenderly warping it into something it never was
bleeding it dry of auburn reds and gold,
my attempts at keeping myself loved-
young.
but now what do those moments mean?
there have been many falls since that one,
nothing but I love yous on walls-
played back so many many times,
like warped vhs, warbling and clipping
the inherent meaning gone or completely scrambled.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
Plasmatic schematics
mold plastics
& filament
dangles in the doorway.
Grape fuit sweat,
enough to fill a
Basilisk flask,
stains my nostrils.
Thermodynamic hammocks
solved the energy crisis
between me
& her.
A golden silhouette
postulates in my doorway;
speaking in tongues
to her ****
She is the structure
of water.
The process
of a thought.
Gouge out my eye
&
hold it consciously
between those clammy palms .
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
Lost in the fumes of a cloudy exhale
I search for a glimpse of myself in grimy water.
My remains are scattered somewhere
between boyhood and gutter trash.
The present is hardly of concern
when the blankets of mud offer such astounding
silence.
This swamp was flooded with the prosperity of quitters.
-
The face of the street I grew up on
has been radically warped and distorted.
Leave a good thing to the elements long enough
and you’ll see it begin to degrade.
Dust gathers and mold begins to creep in
from the moisture lingering in the air.
It happens to our childhood toys
just as easily as it happens to the people we know.
-
Everything still holds the same shape;
the same structure that casts a shadow in memory,
it’s just that now the cosmetics have worn off
and you can see the tired lines start to show.
You can hear the creak of arthritic wooden steps
to front porches where old kin with liver spots
sit and drink a shared Ice House 40 oz. while spitting into the wind.
Cavities from a candy coated childhood.
-
There are strangers in my old home,
that place where my uncle lives
surrounded by VHS tapes, pictures of Brett Favre,
and reminders of dead cockatiels.
The biggest struggle is trying to recall
if he was always this way,
or did it take a forty year dope binge
for the hoarder to finally stir?
-
I wrote my name in the sidewalk at the foot of steps.
I search for a glimpse of myself in grimy water
and check under the bushes for garter snakes .
My stomping grounds have been wiped of footprints
and grandma’s violets don’t come in very well anymore.
They cut down the walnut tree, and got rid of the porch swing.
No time for whimsy, no time for strays.
The cicadas will sleep for ten more years, ‘til summer.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 3:57 AM UTC
1 Oz. Passionate Obsession
1/2 Oz. Dread
1 Oz. Insatiable Hunger
2 Cubes of Sugared Words
Garnish with Broken Hearts and Candied Intestines
Serve Cold, it’s what she would’ve wanted
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 11:17 AM UTC
Bright horizons rise up
Over the broad, soothing,
Pixelated mountains.
A parse in the code wakes
And shivers under the
Blazingly cold sun.
Drifting clouds, silvered with
Pixels, flowing like a
River of neon lights.
The data streams above,
Dreamy and nostalgic,
Like quiet afternoons
Inside, listening to the
Cool, pattering rain tap
Gently at the window.
Dark clouds outside, stirring
With a roll of thunder,
And a screen, the music
Chimes gently in your mind.
Hums, chords, thrums, and a quiet,
Beckoning warmth, waving
Back through the pixel clouds
Under the pixel sun.
The colours blend with
The sweet taste of cola.
Salty crisps, shaken, bagged
And popped open at lunch.
Fresh tuna sandwiches,
The click of a cassette tape.
Unwrapped magazines.
Old smells mingle on your
Cool tongue. Lavender oil,
Peppermints in Winter,
Strawberries and cream. You
Feel the pixels in your
Pockets, like loose change.
Those soft chimes return still
To the old windowsill
In the light breeze. Each leaf
Its own story, washed in
Streams of pixels, flowing
Timid through the sky.
A bird tweets. The dreams stir
And fade into the clouds.
Softly lit, glowing sun,
Bathed in warm nostalgia.
Nobody really goes
To Earth, anymore.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 2:57 AM UTC