"vinyl" poems
who knew that in about
4 years time,
or maybe
10,000 years lost in
10,000 multi hued tears,
id be on the same trip-
dancing to the same
shimmering inner grove as before-
braiding fresh cut
flowers-
delicate genital-hands, unfolding in prayer
into my subconscious mind
or perhaps into my hair-
saving colored prism fragments
of knowledge or nonsense-
digesting intoxicating
incense smoke into the
deep throated green streaked
laughter chasms
that are my lungs-
spinning vinyl, spun mind
unwinding, undulating
through string music-
contemplating the sunset's sweet
immaculate form, reoccuring
and balancing itself right outside my window-
dressing in shells, bones,
and beads; kaleidoscope fabric dripping from
the ******* like mother Kali in a Fellini
flick-
peeping out at heads slinking down
the ****** pavement streets-
my hairy angelic form grooving
intensely, spastic-
body flung, strung out in
hot patterns of
mirrored arms and legs-
brain brew bubbling; wicked, fantastic-
limbs waving and grabbing at
tangible tasty morsels,
smelling strongly of indigo
and patchouli-
the East smiling on me and
my intrepid journey to the ocean city-
head thrown back in
tranquil madness-
pipe smoke curling like
ancient hound howls from the corners
of my lips-
smiles spread like insanity, a wicked disease
lost in the forgotten finger painted
confounds of creamy
****** milk consciousness-
basking in lamplight
of the golden glistening
Now.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
I am slowly learning to disregard the insatiable desire to be special. I think it began, the soft piano ballad of epiphanic freedom that danced in my head, when you mentioned that “Van Gogh was her thing” while I stood there in my overall dress, admiring his sunflowers at the art museum. And then again on South Street, while we thumbed through old records and I picked up Morrissey and you mentioned her name like it was stuck in your teeth. Each time, I felt a paintbrush on my cheeks, covering my skin in grey and fading me into a quiet, concealed background that hummed “everything you’ve ever loved has been loved before, and everything you are has already been,” on an endless loop. It echoed in your wrists that I stared at, walking (home) in the middle of the street, and I felt like a ghost moving forward in an eternal line, waiting to haunt anyone who thought I was worth it. But no one keeps my name folded in their wallet. Only girls who are able to carve their names into paintings and vinyl live in pockets and dust bunnies and bathroom mirrors. And so be it, that I am grey and humming in the background. I am forgotten Sundays and chipped fingernail polish and borrowed sheets. I’m the song you’ll get stuck in your head, but it will remind you of someone else. I am 2 in the afternoon, I am the last day of winter, I am a face on the sidewalk that won’t show up in your dreams. And I am everywhere, and I am nothing at all.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
my stomach is in knots
and i feel so sick thinking about you
holding anyone that isn’t me
and i don’t understand why you thought it’d be a good idea
to tell me that you’re falling asleep at night
with another girl in your bed,
even if you’re not kissing her goodnight,
i tried to drown out my sobs all day with
modern vampires of the city on vinyl,
but it still feels like someone
sunk fangs in my lungs
it’s only been a week, the cuts from your nails
from holding my heart so tight
are still fresh
and i never asked you to stop,
i never told you i wanted to try
to be more than friends again,
i never tried to paint your hands red,
but all you could seem to do is defend
yourself and repeat that you’ve done nothing wrong
“you said we’re just friends
you said we’re just friends
you said we’re just friends”
and we are just friends
i just wanted you to understand and acknowledge
that it still hurts
and you can say you’re sorry, you said sorry,
but i’m sure she’s tucked in beneath your sheets right now
and you’re still repeating in your head
i’ve done nothing wrong
i’ve done nothing wrong
i’ve done nothing wrong
we’re just friends
we’re just friends
we’re just friends
and i’m glad you’re comfortable,
i’m glad you know you’ve done nothing wrong,
i’m glad you have someone to hold at night,
i’m glad thoughts of me don’t rip your heart out,
i’m glad you’re okay with being just friends
i’m glad you’re fine,
but, i’m sorry,
i’m not.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
Ha kamatuoran la, gin-susumhan na gud ako,
Diri ka pa ba gin-susumhan?
Hin mga buhat nga balik-balik nala?
Diri mo ba nahahalata?
Nga utro-utro nala kita?
Kun may napakiana ha imo, "Ano kumusta na?"
An pirmi mo baton: "Adi asya la gihapon, waray pinagkaibahan han kakulop!"
Ngan kontento ko na hito.
*The truth is, I am sick and tired.
Aren’t you sick and tired?
Doing the same things over and over again?
Still haven’t noticed it?
This has been like this again and again.
When somebody asks you, “How is everything with you?”
Your usual reply is: “Oh nothing’s changed same as yesterday.”
And you’re happy as it is.*
Usahay liwat nabati ako ha imo nga utro-utro an reklamo.
Nga baga hin kadaan ngan guba nga plaka,
Balik-balik an tukar, masakit ha talinga.
Reklamo an imo pamahaw,
Ngan amo la gihapon hasta panihapon.
Kay kuno makuri.
Kay kuno waray salapi.
Kay kuno waray kapas.
Kun may sweldo daw la an pag-rineklamo,
siguro maiha na unta nga nag-riko.
*Sometimes, I will hear you complaining again and again.
Like an old and broken retro vinyl,
playing over and over again, it is hurting my ears.
Complaining is your breakfast,
and it is your same meal for dinner.
Because it’s hard.
Because we don’t have money.
Because I am powerless.
If complaining will provide you a salary,
perhaps by now, you might quite be wealthy.*
Nagkatapo kita kanina ha dalan han "Kada Adlaw"
Asya la gihapon an imo sul-ot nga bado,
ngan an kabutang han imo buhok.
Asya la gihapon an pagkakurumos han imo nawong,
Ngan an bubble gum nga hasta yana imo la gihap ginsisinamsam.
Nangurog ako han kaluwad.
Tigda ako nahingasuka ha imo atubangan.
Pasayloa, pero magpapadayon ka nala ba hito?
Diri ka pa ba ginsusumhan?
Kay ha kamatuoran la, Naamin ako Nga Oo.
*I came across you at the street called “Everyday”
You were wearing the same clothes,
And your hair was fixed the same way.
You were having the same wrinkled frown in your face,
and was chewing the same bubble gum.
I cringe.
I suddenly felt vomiting in front of you.
I’m sorry, but will you keep on doing this?
Aren't you sick and tired?
Because to be honest with you, I think I am.*
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 10:16 AM UTC
She's more of a poet
'cause she went to school for it,
and she tastes sweet in the morning,
and in the evening,
sunlight filters through her
and lights up that slice of lemon
that I love so much.
I think I'll have a writer -
on the rocks.
Every time I come home,
my room smells like *** in the summer,
and it sounds like the vinyl is still under the needle.
Best album of two thousand and nine.
Best album of all time.
Sand between our toes,
we wrote prose
on a filthy mattress but
roses never grew here.
And they never will.
There was something about us though,
something that had a feverish pulse
behind it. I'd say it was something to
do with the way we have of never putting
a cheap laugh below us. I think it has
something to do with resilience but I'm not sure.
Humming trite voicings of things we'd heard
in the backseat of our fathers' cars, radios on,
you use to tell me to flash the turn signal,
in the black of night, just so you could make sure
we were alive. Dry, but at least alive.
A little beacon to justify us,
and just defy them.
Whiskey,
come over
here and
kiss me.
C'mon
Corinthian,
keep me
company!
Set this manuscript
to music and dance for me!
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 3:08 PM UTC
Small town,
starry night,
the playback of old times on vinyl,
small town had our dreams,
osiers standing silently,
along the causeway,
seeing shadows of days gone by,
against the wind,
memories of the small town,
bright and luminous like pearls,
small town has changed,
dreamers no longer dreaming,
laughter and tears demised,
and became our own treasures,
walking in this city,
you can go back to a lot of places,
but you can’t ever go back,
to the days of yore,
of the small town.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
you check on me many times a day
with my antique ears
I hear your squeaking shoes
on these vinyl floors
someone laid for those who came before
like passengers on a stalled bus
with windows that allowed only one view
I know you and I wait for the same thing
for you to check on the passenger who replaces me
he will be no different
a few more hairs, perhaps a few less stares
you will gently place your hand on his wrist
write in his chart, and maybe
glance at the date of birth,
do the mindless math
and wonder without wonder
if my replacement will have a bigger number than I
but I am still here
gazing at your angled eyes
while you count the beats
which slow a little each day
waiting for you to say
how long will this one last?
don’t worry, squeaking vinyl floor walker
when my drum stops pounding
I will try to make sure it happens
while I am asleep
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 7:42 PM UTC
I dreamt of you (again).
It's a bit weird
for that to happen
with someone
I so rarely talk to
but there you were,
there we were.
In my room
on a rug I don't own,
flat on the floor
staring up at
the ceiling fan
listening to some
indie band on vinyl
that apparently
you seemed to like,
and we were smiling,
(I don't know about you
but smiling isn't something
I do too frequently
outside of sleeping visions)
and it was
as if it'd
finally
found us, the
happiness
we wanted.
Like watching an indie flick that
uses too much 'cam filter'
I saw it all unfold,
those two figures there
on the floor, song
ending and
your hand,
mine,
together.
the dream was
over as
the alarm rang.
god I hope
this happens.
I don't own
a record
player but
for you I'll
buy like ten
to make this
reality.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
If there are infinite worlds,
there must be one where umbrellas never close-
hinges locked open like stubborn jaws,
gape-mouthed against walls in patient herds.
No one in their twenties owns one,
their hamster-cage apartments
too small for such luxuries.
They ask for rain jackets on birthdays.
Mary Poppins still drifts down Cherry Tree Lane,
her umbrella never folding,
only floating.
Children carry slips home
for violating umbrella laws,
forging signatures in loopy ink.
The Morton Salt girl wears a slicker,
yellow as a warning flare before the flood.
My mother walking me to kindergarten in rain,
transparent vinyl dome above our heads-
I, the opposite of a fish in its tank.
Her hair plastered to her forehead
by the time we reached the door.
Everyone looks most beautiful
with rainwater running down their face.
In the open-umbrella reality,
time can walk backward-
you can unwater a plant,
unpeel a clementine,
un-kiss someone.
Endings lift again,
fabric billowing, as if the story
had been left open in the wind.
Heather and Mike find the road out.
Rosemary tips the bassinet.
There, perhaps, neither of us was born.
What lay between us
stays open too long,
collecting rain until it sags,
slow and certain, like sugar
in the first storm.
Aug 12, 2025
Aug 12, 2025 at 8:06 PM UTC
Malcom was fed 16 bullets because of his. A slug kissed the jaw of King Jr. and silenced him forever. Gandhi shriveled like snakeskin. Joan of Arc became Joan of Ash- so you can understand why Melle Mel was jittery scribbling it all down, on a napkin, at Lucy's Noodle Shop in Harlem. Sweat poured into his green tea. He thought Jesus hanging from the dull wood. Heard about the poet Lorca under an olive tree, shot in the back. Everyone has felt this way through, he thought, never could he have imagined what would happen when he pressed his thumbprint into vinyl. Hip-Hop was still a tadpole. The DJ had just learned to scratch a record and make sounds no ear had never conjugated. How was he to know Tupac and Biggie would follow his lead and get plugged with lead? So he wrote it down, in big curling letters, emphatic: DON'T PUSH ME
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
Take my hand
Follow me
Let's waste away
Together
Let the music fill your head
Your soul
Ignite the fire
And let me burn for you
Gaze into my eyes
Let me fall for you
And make things better
Forevermore
The vinyl spins like I do
When our lips meet
Joining as one
Under the moonlit sky
I'll wait for you
For a chance
A moment to seize
To see your eyes glisten
Like the stars and beyond
Gazing into my soul
Where I ache for life
Let us adventure
Into the wilderness
A dark forest awaits us
The unknown beckons
Calling us to act
Discovering more than we know
And reassuring our minds
I see your thoughts
Not too fast,
You might trip and fall
But I'll be there to catch you
I hope you know
Open your heart to me
Let me hear you sing
The song of the ages
A beautiful voice
And when you fall
Deep into slumber
I'll wonder what you dream
As I hold you in my arms
And admire it all
-AJT
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
Ears pressed cool against
glass tables and vinyl flooring
words score high drained slowly
slow like wasps caught in guttered draining
not like velvet names etched in casing, but weathered like bricked and beaten graffiti –
Waning like wax always melting
Tools: spelling and grammar – uncheck
Don’t fret too many gerunds grounding air suffocating hearing between the lines that past lower truths out straight in dirt and stinky face: eyes drawn with pensive staring
lines drawn global remains of words unused: boycott form because it isn’t daring.
Adopt sonar because it traces the smokestack between eaves drop
and scrap metal hearing like thorns prickled cut by cleaver.
Clink, clink, clank.
Unlatch cellar doors of images fixed in meaning: glances slanted
heads poked out behind legs enchanting ink under eyelids.
Clank, click, click.
Wishing: Sunday morning came to rest and the cat perched rest without the windowsill and the space between my legs lost meaning.
Forgetting: Painted houses haunting furniture misplaced, training lessons in memory fading.
Dreaming: Sounds dipped in vegetable oil, Van Morrison in teething states caring.
Still lost without my last breathe wondering…
Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 1:31 PM UTC
Jealous Again
I put Black Flag, Jealous Again on the turntable
It spins and I spin
I hold my hands to my face like I have a mic
I feel like spitting as I pump my fist
MAYBE I AM JEALOUS
Jealous of the guy who has two kids
Jealous of the guy with a job
Jealous of the guy with a car
I put Black Flag, Jealous Again on the turntable
It spins and I spin
I make faces and show my teeth
My grill needs work
MAYBE I AM JEALOUS
Jealous of the guy who has nice teeth
Jealous of the guy with six pack abs
Jealous of the guy with a full head of hair
I shouldn't be jealous
I have me
My values
My family
My friends
I even have Black Flag, Jealous Again on vinyl
I have everything I need
I shouldn't be jealous
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
My doctor told me to find a more healthy way to release my stress.
She said that taking two hours to fall asleep every night was rather unhealthy.
So, she told me to come home and to write about the things that relax me.
Here we are.
Every day a thousand things run through my mind. I can't breathe because school sits on my shoulders. My job crushes me slowly and my family physically causes me pain. But through so many foggy images I can see you through them all.
I can reach out and almost touch you even when I am alone in my room and I cannot get up because the panic has literally crushed me.
You are there in the simplest way.
The few moments in my life when I think the only way out is to let the weight of the world crush me entirely I can feel you.
The times that everything is in pieces and I am vulnerable and on the floor of my bedroom sobbing, you happen to walk in.
You physically pick me up and you carry me to safety.
A bath and you will bathe me and you will hold me and I will collapse and you will support me.
You carry me to my bed and put on a vinyl and a candle and you clean my room because it being ***** stresses me out.
You turn the lights off and the fans on and you consume me in your warmth.
You kiss the demons away and you strip off the suffocating clothing on me.
You make love to me and you wipe away terrible tears and you drench me in your love.
The seconds become minutes and minutes are now hours and you spend what is almost days with me in my bed wrapping your body around mine.
I cannot breathe still but now it is the best kind of breathlessness. The kind that happens when you see heaven in the eyes of a human and your life is paused while you try to remember how it all happened.
I am crushed still but now with the weight of your love.
But there is no pain. None. Only the most beautiful feeling my small body has ever felt.
And in the moments of bedroom bliss I am free. I am free of those things that eat at me and those thoughts that stress me to tears.
With you I am free.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
Heart skips
like a warped record,
trembles over scarred vinyl
until "I love you"
tastes incomplete:
(I) love you
I (love) you
I love (you).
My Swan Song mewls off key,
cascades across the
marred terrain of my soul
in a thick lacquer of tears.
Notes flatline
in unison with my
waning pulse
(waning, like the face
of the moon on the night
of my eighteenth birthday).
My breath
resigns to static,
dances in slow decrescendos--
sputters its way
towards nothingness,
slipping rapidly from
my consciousness until
I no longer hold
any recollection of the music
(or the poetry).
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 6:00 AM UTC
Everyone you have lost is gone forever.
If you try to call the dead, the phone won’t ring.
You won’t hear their voices.
The ground will shake like your wrists.
You will realize this sometime, when you’re in the bath and every nerve in your body is screaming at you to put your head under and count to a thousand.
You are more than a suicide note.
You are more than a suicide attempt.
You are more than cuts and bruises, and friends that abandon you and don’t even say hello in the hallways anymore.
People will leave you, daughter. People will leave you alone and shaking.
You’ll find solace in the most unexpected places, in the boys that look like they belong in the 1970s and in the vinyl that whispers to you while the sun is going down.
Eventually you will find the people that will bend the sky down to you so that you can touch the clouds.
They will become your motivation, they will become the glow in the dark stars on your bedroom ceiling.
You will forget that they are plastic, and often mistake them for the night’s sky.
Memories do not always hurt, it’s okay to be nostalgic but do not drown in it.
Do not drown in anything but love, daughter.
Love every leaf, every lover’s vein.
And every single time you think you’re going insane.
You’re not.
Remember that the door is always closed, but always easily opened.
Remember that you can leave.
Remember that you can take the next flight out, start a new life.
Remember that the world is in your piano hands.
You’ll meet someone and call them love because they don’t know the difference between the dull and sharp edge of a knife.
You’ll write poems.
Lots of them.
You’ll write enough poems to fill the walls in all of the rooms in all of the houses you have ever lived in.
You’ll scrawl them on the tree stumps you find temporary homes in while walking in the forest.
You’ll engrave them on someone’s bones after they tell you that they would rather die a thousand deaths than go a second without your energy warming their cheeks.
For every accomplishment, erase five shortcomings from your mind.
Be yourself before you forget who that is.
Be, daughter, be who you want to be;
Be who you know yourself to be.
When the world is sleeping on your shoulders at 4 in the morning, don’t wake it up.
Take a deep breath, rock the earth into a deeper sleep.
Tell the walls your secrets because they don’t whisper.
Don’t tell anyone with a tongue something you wouldn’t want to end up floating back out of their mouths like a catchy song.
When you’re standing up on stage, waiting to start your poem, do not avoid eye contact.
Make everyone nervous with your metaphors.
Make everyone nervous with your passion.
You are the strongest soul you’ll ever be.
And when I die, shall we not meet again,
Remember that I am your mother, daughter.
And mothers, always know best.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 10:24 AM UTC
I'm taking it kinda hard--
Not having you around any more.
Sometimes my heart stops
And I have to remind myself
That living isn't just a thing I have to do
But something I want
Even more than getting you back.
So to that end,
I gave all your favorite records
To the local vinyl shop
And donated your sweaters
To the thrift store down the street
And sold your bike for twenty bucks
To the neighborhood paper boy
And finally bought myself
A new set of dishes (after breaking
All of yours).
I think I'm finally ready to say
Regardless of what you think of me,
My life is my choice.
Like the poetry I write just for me,
I'll live each day in just the same way:
For me.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
The tightrope expires
And the skyscraper hollows out.
This hate is vicious and repeated,
Repeated; repeated on the news reel,
And in a Hollywood romance.
We’re skipping generations
Through faded vinyl sound
Of dust mite and crack;
I’m folding digits over chords,
Extinguishing lovers
By turning them to songs.
Oh, reality convenes, convenes
On the mind, and on the consciousness
Of fact. Don’t steal my job,
Don’t **** my land,
And never fall asleep
Under the sun.
There is poetry to mathematics,
Scaling the harmonics of the sound,
Some universal language;
Some bottled message to our brothers
Who are looking back at us
From the distance of the stars.
And, terror is called from every side,
Until we’re terrified to eat or breathe,
In the tremor of a terror
That can never come to be.
The tightrope fell down with the buildings,
But its idea, it still lives on.
We could be on the precipice of better times,
Or under the shadow of a nuclear bomb.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
The record player keeps spinning the Vinyl
black & white pictures on the walls
are beginning to talk
And the lights blink on and off
The same dark feeling of despair settles over me
during the early hours of the morning
It's a shame 'cause I've run out of whiskey
to help chase the inspiration and sleep
I desperately need
My thoughts cross to you sometimes
and I wonder where you are now
I guess you never kept that promise
as I've yet to see your name on a spine
I guess I'll go to bed now
I'll put on one more record
and muddle into the fog
These black & white pictures
are beginning to talk
And the lights blink
On and off
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 6:12 AM UTC
Clad in vinyl
Bound and gagged
My whip cracks
Cleave clefts of flesh
And the blood trickles
Lightly
Pain is pulsing
Penetrating prior unknowns
Chains and leather
Inclement weather
The pain and pleasure
A pinnacle of understanding
Transcending
Our reality
Like lsd
A mind ****
Of the brutal but beautiful
An ode to those beyond
Rather above the pale
I tie your hands
Bind your feet
Kiss your face
And release
The Master.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 4:21 PM UTC
I
Stacked green crates by the futon,
records sealed as buried letters,
each sleeve longing
to be drawn out into daylight
by her small, thoughtful hands.
I just want to play that Nick Cave again
teenager’s resolve in her voice,
she drops the needle on "Tupelo",
traces Peter Murphy with her thumb,
holds Kate Bush to the light
like stained glass.
She laughs
at the ****** box on the speaker.
I tell her it’s never going to happen.
She grins, unbothered,
says she only came for the vinyl.
I watch her tilt each sleeve,
never touching the grooves,
brush the dust,
lay the needle like a secret,
slide the disc back without a wrinkle.
Each time I’m surprised
by her precision.
It’s the third time
she’s dropped by.
She makes mixtapes.
Pressing pause,
pressing record,
stitching songs
into a spine of hiss.
Once, to me, or to herself,
she said her father wanted a tape.
She’d mail it when
he had somewhere to send it.
She follows me across the bridge,
talking about her brother,
an ex-best friend,
mimicking her professor,
how he wags his tongue
when he writes on the chalkboard.
I haul a duffel:
apron, uniform, boots heavy with grease.
She skips in the rain,
strumming cables, humming
the last song played, still in the air.
II
I unlock the door,
steeped in garlic and kitchen sweat,
boots leaving grime on the boards.
She isn’t there-
only the crates, stacked neater,
jackets squared, spines aligned,
as if her care was meant for me.
The room settles with her absence,
yet holds me upright
in its small, thoughtful hands.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 8:11 PM UTC
the beatles on vinyl,
the bright sun shining through our silk curtains,
***** clothes scattered about the room,
our skin sewn together in messy stitches,
your cologne adding a favorable twist to the scent of stuffy-room air,
the buzz of your hum flowing lightly with john's vocals.
she snaps her fingers in front of my face.
blink!
back to reality.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
Remember when
We took a daycation?
Waterfalls
For days.
Milk bottle
Sepia vinyl.
Ice cream and
Truck drivers.
Ballerina buns and
Bare necks.
Waterfalls
For days.
Oblivion, the
Falling leaves.
Backseat
Views.
Gravel paths, we
Walked.
Waterfalls
For days.
Blue, blue
Skies.
Crystal
Springs.
Damp red
Leaves.
Waterfalls
For days.
Apples
Were just in season.
Photos
Wagging tails.
Honey tea
Quilted snuggles.
Waterfalls
For days.
Maybe it was
Just a dream.
Next thing
I knew.
I was throwing
A textbook at the wall.
Waterfalls
For days.
I was
Okay.
I swear, for
One day.
I was
Myself again.
Waterfalls
For days.
Remember when
We took a daycation?
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
Scraggly curl hair bounces in the air
wagging with whisky eyes breezy pleasing the eclectic electric hectic now mind
like finding a papaya inside an oyster
battery powered like a pomegranate passionfruit flower growing and glowing
around my trinity heart with the noise of a sphere's galactic ******
Crystal Citrine Mountains provide water fountains of sunlight
as so tye-dye t-shirt hip-cat hippos smokin' coconut shisha bathe in barrels
of bourbon.
Lion snakes spit words of worlds hurling nebulous timeline's spiraling
and crashing and splashing baptism ripples together painting Pollack Splatters
with the aroma of Byrd Jazz Jam on rye-whisky bread.
Fractal Berries served by the Far Out Faerrie Ferryman Skeletan with bejeweled emerald eyes
winks while I read in the reeds panting in pan-flutes while water rabbits scamper
into clay enclaves to bathe in pinecone designed sand-tubs.
The hieroglyphic phoenix twists and skip-scats neon green vinyl
turning the wind inside out to x-ray flames of fireworks.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC