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Sara Kellie Jul 2018
The opening night,
in front of packed house.
The story, a fight,
between a cat and a mouse.
The cat with her guile and
the mouse, all the while.
Powers up a ******' chainsaw
with a knowing wry smile.

So never bet against the mouse
with either money or your house
because the crafty **** takers
have slashed the odds at bookmakers
as to what's in the pies
at the new high street bakers.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Old enemies retold.
Jamie Riley Aug 2018
If I could sculpt a memory
I would sculpt your eyes

looking at me like
I've made you proud and

rooting for me and
crinkling and twinkling
with wry courage that disintegrates
dishonesty with some righteous intent.

They see me for what I am
and what I could become.

A catalyst and judge.
A canvas on which I could paint
the world.
You can trip and take me down
You may hurt and make me cry
Even back me in a corner
Take it all from me, you’ll try

Make this pain inside my brain
Till the water works run dry
I’m confused or now insane
How I was when I was high

Spit at me and give me shame
Say that all my words are lies
Just a pawn inside your game
Hell is where I’ll burn and fry

Strip me till I have no name
In this shell to rot and die
Try to make me something plain
But will never say ‘goodbye’

Acting weak is how I feign
Have for you a big surprise
Nothing for you but disdain
Keep me down or so you tried

Not pathetic or so tame
Life I’m taking back is mine
Thunder roaring is the train
You’re a joke and one that's wry

No more constantly a strain
As I look out at the sky
Cork that’s popped from crisp champagne
Rising up and now I fly
Written: December 8, 2018

All rights reserved.
[Trochaic trimeter format with masculine ending]

This was written inspirationally and as a
tribute to a friend of mine who was dealing
with an unhealthy relationship and is now
finding her way out of it.
We were teammates
We suited up
We showed up

We weren't stars
But we rolled in the dirt
With the best of them

Our blood ran red
Like the rest of them

Our sweat tasted salty
As the most athletic of them

Wounds and bruises
Ached like the most
Stalwart of them

We were Bulldogs!
We anted up our
Gifts and talents to
Forge a winning season

A flair for humor
Wry observation,
Encouragement, fortitude
And intelligence were as
Valuable as speed,
Agility and strength

We all pined for the
Affection of cheerleaders,
Bandmembers and the
Adoration of fans

We equally joined
In the chorus of
locker room banter
And honored the
Confidence of camaraderie
Such intimacy bares

We endured thankless
Adversity, while wending
through anonymous toil

As brothers
We grudgingly drank
From the vile cup of defeat

And passed the chalice
Of victory among us
To share the savory
Taste of triumph
As champions

The Duke of Wellington
Said “the battle of Waterloo
Was won on the fields of Eton”

I trust my teammates and
Not forgotten friends
Tasted sweet victories of
Happiness and success
As they coursed through
Their prodigious fields of life

And at games end
I hope their heart swelled
With pride to know they were
A beloved and Valiant Bulldog

David Irving Korsh #75
BCSL Champion 1973
Rutherford Bulldogs

Well done Valiant Bulldog

God bless and Godspeed

Music Selection:
Bruce Springsteen
Thunder Road

the passing of a former teammate
TD May 15
Were I an inking virtuoso
a veritable genius with the quill
I’m sure the applause would be thunderous
and I—
would be dead.
My left pinky toe is a little long,
Right right bicep is too strong.
My nails grow a little short,
My hair grows too long.

My inside voice is a little high,
My outside voice very shy.
I have an uneven brow,
My smile is a little wry.

My arm won’t bend 90°
My legs give out before I sneeze.
Life doesn’t seem perfectly alright,
But that’s all normal, right?
Caitlin Mar 3
His laugh is contagious
His smile is wry
It can last for an instant
Or stay for a while
It falls from his face
With a realization in his eyes
Sorrow flowing from creases
Where happiness did lie
Worry hangs in the sleeves
Where his hands gently tug
His eyes pull at your heart strings
Though its not you that he’ll love
He’s looking for something else
While he’s searching in you
You’re letting him search
Cause you need it too
TD Aug 2018
It slipped into my fantasies
a forbidden kiss upon a brow,
tenderness that longed for passion
without the threat of tears.

I fancied myself a courtesan
and dared my dreams to yawn beyond.
Centered on an intriguing glint
no brooding skies would dare chance
a pearl of rain.

My cheekbones hollowed
flush with expectancy.
A heart gaunt for liquidity
I darted like a dawning gale
and flared my skirts petulantly.

Never so intriguing was a pout
that didn't tease for something more.
If I were a bird I'm sure
I'd have feathers for brains.
Another self cynicism bit..
Joel A Doetsch Jan 2012
He was definitely dead.  That much could be gathered.  He was standing over his own body, sixty feet away from the car.  fifty-nine feet away from  the telephone pole.  The pool of blood on the blacktop was rippling from the sheets of rain that were piercing it.  The rain bounced off of his lifeless eyes, staring on into the cloudy sky.   His shocked expression was forever frozen on his face.  He walked around the corpse, both fearful and excited.  He was dead....He was DEAD!  He was on the other side!  He looked around, searching for the 'white light',  but all he found  was a man dressed in a ratty  trench coat staring directly at him.  Rotting teeth smiled at him under a grungy  Fedora in a way that reminded him of a jack-o-lantern carved into the likeness of Indiana Jones that had been left out past Thanksgiving.  A withered hand beckoned him.

He was not hesitant.  He was not fearful.  

Those were emotions controlled by a brain that was currently about as useful as a bag full of gelatin.  He strode forward and took the man's hand.  It was neither hot nor cold.  They were no longer in the rain.  They were in a room with a large monitor
sitting in front of a station of various knobs, buttons, and switches.  A large leather chair apathetically awaited use .  He was aware that none of these objects  actually existed, because they were in the place where things don't exist.  Still, he sat down
and turned on the monitor.  He looked at the labels.  Some were obvious, such as P L A Y,  P A U S E, and S T O P.  Others were strange, like the ones labeled F I R S T S and L A S T S.  He pressed the former.  A list appeared with items as simple as "Kiss" to ones as specific as "Sprained Left Ankle in November".

He chose the former.

The screen went blank, then a video appeared.  It was a boy and a girl lying on a hill on a blanket at the onset of dusk.  The boy he instantly recognized as himself. The boy brushed his hand against hers.  She let him.  Fingers now entwined as they stared at each other.  At the time it had felt like hours, but it was less than a
minute before lips pushed apart to make way for tongues.  His first kiss.  It didn't take him long to figure out how the machine worked from that point on.  

He spent years going through every second of his life and reliving it from a new perspective. It didn't matter, he had all the time that never was and never would be.  He saw his mistakes and his triumphs, his loves and his heartbreaks.  Finally, he decided he was
finished.  It was time to go.  The man in the Fedora smiled.  Smiled that Cheshire smile

They were in a hallway.  It seemed to stretch for miles.  Every twenty paces or so, there was a person, standing on a platform, obscured in darkness.  He walked to the first one.
A light flickered on.  It was his mother.  She looked like she did when he was a boy, vibrant and full of life.  She never lost that, even as her body aged and her health declined, she always had something to smile about.  He talked to this apparition of his mother.   They talked for hours about his life, of random topics.  Things they had never had time to talk about when they were both alive.  After some time, she gave him one of her wry
smiles.  He nodded and made his way to the next person.  His father.  

He continued this for quite some time.  He talked to everyone from his brother to a guy he used to get high with in college.  Years passed as he said his final goodbyes to all the people in his life
that he had ever known.  All of them were happy for him.  All of them had something to tell him that he had never known about them in life.  None of them were real.  When he was done, he turned to the man in the fedora.  A smile.  A smile that had a personality all its own, a smile that simultaneously showed compassion and seething hatred.

The last room.  No one said it was the last room, but it had that feeling of finality to it. It was spartan, nothing in it except a marble floor that seemed to stretch for eternity in every direction.  It probably did.  In front of him were two pedestals.  On each of those
pedestals was himself.  The one on the left was wearing a fine tailored suit, had radiating skin and a smile that cameras feasted on.  The one on the right was a stark contrast.  The teeth he had left were hanging lazily from the roots.  His hair that he had left was thin, oily, and ridden with lice.  His mouth turned upwards in an insane grin that was only
matched by his thirsty, bloodshot eyes that seemed to bulge from his pockmarked skin

                                          They both spoke at once.

You were born on                                           You were born on
July 3, 1985.  Your                                           July 3, 1985.  Your
parents fed your                                         mother died when you
curiosity at a young                                     were 4.  Your father
age.  Your passion                                   turned to alcohol.  He
was art.  You painted                                 took his pain out on you.
your first work when                                     You dropped out of    
you were nine.  By the                                high school and moved
time you were 16, you                             as far away from this
were renowned as a                             life as you could.  You
artistic prodigy.  You                      quickly discovered a bad crowd.
attended the Art                                     You met a girl, Cindy.
Institute of Chicago                                       You got her pregnant.
on a full scholarship.                                   You started selling drugs
It was there that you                                     to make ends meet
would meet Claire,                                       for your accidental family
your future wife. By                                       It wasn't long before
the time you completed                                     You made a mistake
your school, every                                             and ended up in jail.
museum wanted a                                        years later, when you
piece of your work                                       were released
hanging in their gallery                               you found that Cindy      
Your work would be                                       had killed herself
remembered for                                                   and your son.
hundreds of years after                                       You had no job          
your death.  You had                                                 no skills
a wonderful family,                                        You spent your days
fame, fortune, and                                          doing odd jobs for
everything that came                                   money.  Money that
with it.  You lived                                           You spent on drugs
until 89, where you                                        Until the age of 45
died peacefully in                                       Where you froze on a
your bed, surrounded                           street corner, surrounded
by loved ones.  This                        by human excrement.  This
is your life's best                                           is your life's worst
possible outcome                                         possible outcome

He nodded, then looked at the man in the fedora.  That smile crept up.  A smile like a hyena. He snapped his fingers.  Two doors appeared.  One was Oaken and battered.  The grains of wood barely visible over years of neglect.  The other door was new and had just been  painted with a fresh coat of sky blue paint.  

The man spoke for the first time.

This is the last decision you shall ever make.  The door on your left will lead you to the  afterlife, and the judgement that awaits you.  Whatever is decided, that is where you will spend eternity.  The door on the right will allow you to be reborn as a new soul.  This one will no longer exist.

He gave it a good long ponder.  Had he been good enough in life to pass the judgement?  What if he ended up in a hellish nightmare for the rest of eternity?  Could he do better
if he started fresh?  The thoughts swirled about him like a whirlwind until finally.

Years later

He chose.

The man in the fedora smiled.
I'm aware this isn't a poem.  It started off as one, but then I kept writing.
Michael John Dec 2018

(relax,i am 59
and i am still


just of late
i fancy myself
a teller of tales!

i should look
on the net but
if anything

i have learned
is one learns

one´s mistakes..
not much changes


when man sat
by the fire side
long ago..

relating his day
of near scrapes
with sundry

beast to the
****** sun
and ****

there were the
song and
howling rhythm

the quietly crackle
bones were cast
the tale told

the stars bled
man found his

and mighty
pause the

a sleight

a known
and unknown

reason or
a wry

and the


the skies
and falling

the fire
the eye
the nights..
Michael Marchese Nov 2018
Questions warrant answers
But so many seem to be
For me
Directed in my general direction
Just for my attention
To be given over
To a prying pair of eyes
So languid in its little mind
But then in kind
I find an offer
For my curtest of reply
Albeit with an edge
Of temperamental
Sharpening responses wry
I can't deny the food
They share
With me
Without a reason why-
Just some extra questions
I'm more willing to oblige
For with my hunger satiated
My impatience can resign
Be a man you'd never been...
-Subhojit Ghimire

When you believe that the sky above you is way too high
For you to even try
That's when all of your dreams go wry
And you sit there doin' nothin' but cry...
That's when you fail...

When you believe the ocean's too deep for even your tears to drown
That's when all your green faiths turn brown
and all you can do is frown...
That's when you are unworthy...

When you finally believe that the journey to the end of the world cannot be accomplished
And you let all your chances go amiss
That's when you let your future go lease
And let sorrowful nature give you a kiss...
That's when you are hopeless...

But amidst all your sorrows and sufferings and failures
If you still stand up each time
And let the life test you one more time
That's when you reach beyond the sky
That's when you touch the end of the bottomless ocean
And that's exactly when you get past the earth's grasp...

Then you start a new life
Full of hopes and full of dreams
All the faiths again turned green
That's when you rise to your full potential
To be a man you'd never been...
This poem comes from a hopeless guy who one day believes to rise to his full potential, and *hopes* to see his true self, without any extrinsic help...
Hannah Christina Dec 2018
I beg that her innocent eyes do not conceal the same pain that lurks within my own.
She is life and she is beauty
Please let me believe only that.
She shows from her heart kindness, pure.
Happy hope.

That is what they say about me.
That I know only hope and joy.
That innocence is my clothing
But they do not see the pain in my infected heart
And I did not see it in her.

Oh, do not let it be.

She truly is kindness and hope and...

So am I.
The light is real, only tired
And hurt.
It shines through the cracks in our hearts, all divided.
It shines through dullness and sin

But as I halfway expose my shame, I see her do the same.
In throwaway lines wry admissions.
A casual mention dulls the pain
I see her do the same.

I wish we could be pure
All the way honest, even in our blackness
And let our pain and goodness show alike in truth, rather than letting the infection spread.

Please don't conform to the mass of us hurting and hiding it.
Bleed in your open way
And let the stain be washed away
And stand wide awake and clean
With innocent eyes
Whit Howland Sep 6
end of summer

mom dad
the background

I do all the talking
what I'm saying
is brief

an off-hand question
so to speak
on its face

the whole scene seems pedestrian
though it carries a bit
of restless magic

me fidgety  hard
nervous eyes
especially golden

when I turn sideways
and crack
a wry
smile for the camera

the videographer
summer camp buddy
a kid named Terry
from Pensacola

he's still around
though he might
not look the same

it's taken a while
and many carousel rides
to get around to saying

I thought I'd never say
to myself

I miss him

that kid
the one who had
yet to put a pet
to sleep

or got the news
about his brother
the merchant marine

© Whit Howland 2019
An artistic fusion of reality and fiction to create a word painting.
moke Jul 8
i don’t need it
I’m guessing at wanting
the fingers tracing theirs
eye contact
that will unmake mine
I have finally seen
eyes that look at me
and see me for me

I don’t need it
saying “no” to new
declining politely
invitations to come inside
sly words through wry smiles

I don’t need it
you give me the up and down
a look I’ve seen more lately

I don’t need it
he wanted more

I don’t need it
they ask for my body
but it is mine
and I will choose

I don’t need it.
Ackerrman Sep 20
Happy, drooping, yellow blossom over-
Hangs and peers drearily toward the dirt.
Leering with might, towering poor clover
Who trembles and asks, “How was one so hurt?”

Daffodil smiles a wry smile and chuckles,
“Young one, the tides of time meander, break,
Thrash the fearful boat until it buckles,
Naivety led me to this glum state”.

Clover sat in quiet contemplation
Until, “Daffodil, you are a victim
Of turning time’s sad manipulation,
Revere the present- make it your kingdom.

Startled, the proud, tall flower spoke no words,
Craned neck to the sun, drank plentifully.
At length, listened to the sound of the birds,
Saw beauty in the garden, presently.

“Colour, the wealth enriching this garden
Feels to me, a small boat in the ocean
Beating on against the tide- a burden,
An ill-fated, cumbersome devotion”.

A blue Jay sensed the trouble from the trees,
Made a detour from its usual way,
Beseeched the flower, hopped down to her knees,
“Not everything in this world fades to grey.

This life can be free and beautiful, Daf!
Grow so tall but you rarely see the sky,
Take a look in the endless blue and laugh,
The bright yellow orb will never need die”.

Languid flower feels the sun on his neck,
The rays passing through his delicate hands,
He cranes his head toward the ground to check
The answer does not lie in the brown lands.

Eyes as feelers pointed toward the ground,
A wriggling worm wraps around the words,
“Dear flower, you make a terrible sound,
Being so down, I have come to be heard.

The dirt that nourishes you so freely
Has God’s plan in every grain of soil,
The world is connected in every
Facet, in every beautiful smile”.

We are your friends, the life that cares for you,
So if you can’t be alive for yourself,
If you can’t find a reason to live too,
Keep spreading magic for your friends, get through.
One of three poems I have written concerning the life of garden flowers
You can write your life in elegies, the culture still remains the same
Some say we can make the truth or zero-knowledge from song and dance
Old and aged, insatiable and satiate our addictions lancing us on horses hedonistic
If I were a psychiatrist I'd read you, talk of zero summers, in Hebrew biopsy and medicines, a free think of hope, dangerous thing
But, soon wildflowers will be writing about you makes it worth selling, trouble bed's made and occupied by ***** and mead
If I were a state of mind, I'd be a person of my lines of stares
I write these as an essay on the highs of cultural expression, Tanks can also be a form of cultural expression
Maybe it's oppression on the fire of the year of ten soldiers on the freedom of the nightlight and lively likeness if we were searching for lost gold
It's a way we write about the memories and have free will and fears too, truant about freedom often losing courage and killing kings, queens often make out of it really sad
Rarely, raffle, rabble fiefdom, caviling censuring frenetic energy, virile yelling, on the catatonic hall in the cat in the LA Alhambra hall, or maybe souls pass in that dark hall
It is in the falling stars, into the years as they go by on the fault line of insatiate desires, burning fires in the circles of hell
Arriving in this Le suiva drama or friends in our pallbearers of different friends married to different soulS
Hangovers and everything, black and blue, white and black I cannot tell that the kitten is following in its the prologue of lithe likewise following the battered suitcases on the ways, and long ago
Something like this friendship and relations, festering autumn, seasons change and the summers brings the music of the piano man, Billy Joel
Plays in the freedom that reeks of freedom in the hallway, reflecting in the drunk cigarettes, starched shirts often come in the forum of swarth men, in the frescoed building painted with freewill to achieve
Heights for freewill and tumescence in tempestuous objectivity, of how we look at life, grades of herons, Freud's animals degraded in this foxtail, a plant across the house
In yonder tempered mental gaze, it's struggling to solve these worlds in fewer drinks and more works
Works offered their dreams, we offer the night terrors and midnight mistreatment
Treatize odyssey, riches to rags, muses can call me in my sleep and leave me out wry
Mark Aug 11
Tactility is nearly lost, exploring this wall
this plain white wall, where hangers once pierced.
Like a mime, almost, but hands have little feeling,
each white indent a symbol of a time - hopeful smiles.
Contact, is hesitant adherence to regularity
below the threshold of social living.

Heaviness diversifies through the vein maze,
like a bulkier fluid with no vitality, purposeless;
Except to disseminate the morose sense to the brain
filling like in a tub - bathing in burning tar,
burning - only temporarily relieved by peeled skin
burying all self worth and nostalgia.

Existence becomes consumed by waves of neurotic death
the plague wins the inner feud against movement;
cry or yell - what will it serve when light is dimming.

Mother did suggest therapy, thought she would,
how can a mind degree diminish the weight of these boulders
placed on each nerve, rolling back and forth;
on my heart.

Options for relief? Pressures release
may come in a silvery sharp form,
Just one, surely just one would last long enough
to drift this being from the sorrow and shame.
Dribbles at first, then the flowing burgundy waterfall
trickling hands, onto the hardwood floor.

It takes me away
I drift with the ripples, streaming
a wry smile arises and finally: sleep.
Hospitals are all to familiar
that disinfectant odor
and that beep - that constant beep monitoring pulse and life.
Now all to aware of: burgundy falls.
Don't know what I said
What I did
To deserve
Your disdain
Can't explain
Such ineffable
Upon seeing you clearly
No longer the same
Seem to feel
How you felt
Underneath the moon's wane
Beneath stars in the city light
Night sky
With the feigning
Romancing, entrancing
Of portentous affections
Just lust I suppose
Just a fickle slight ripple
Effect on our clothes
And our hands, and our skin,
And our lips, and our tongues,
And our ears to mellifluous
Pounding heart drums
Not the one of course
Just the first one
Whom I sung
Of in ages
My serenade marked
By the notes on these pages
And gave them all to you
In genuine tune
With the irony wry,
Hung to dry kind of mood
That you choose to undo
To eschew from embracing
I'm wasting away now
My steps, I'm retracing
To make sense of where
Apart paths got diverted
And blurted out, drunken confessions
You into this empathy-lacking
Bending my form maladies
To amorphousness
Black abyss, back to the bottle
Forgetting this
Ever occurred
In rejection emmured
Where I still do not know
What I did to deserve
Your disdain
Can't explain it
In words except pain
The Dove

Knelt beneath a wintry sky, while I whimpered, cold and wry,
Past sand swept desert, one reflective tear upon the floor—
While recalling Sinai’s war, all at once, I heard a rustling,
One burning tree’s own leaves were hissing, hissing with my sullen roar.
“'Tis wind’s soaring,” I whispered, “hissing with my sullen roar—
I will pray for something more.”

Oh, Illuminated under face of freckled night, I cite
Eden’s flaming sword—knighting promised progeny’s somber score.
The fallen leaves of solitary tree, hid away by sandy estuary,
Beginnings of man’s failing glow—glow upon the branch’s ****.
The crooked limbs silhouetted black, like sins which spanned a crore,
All that was, now nevermore.

And the darkened, dunes, displace balefully cross our ****** birthplace,
My breath’s ivory vapors, broke by sudden death’s acquired gore.
Above, amidst acacia’s rattled wings, I spy a lone aeria
“What crime is carried upon your bough; that calm wind’s soar
Has scarred the wild yard, unoccupied, as residers abhor.
Empty now, and nothing more.”

Shivering, I shift my spine, below the sallow arc afloat; mine
Own stirring forming waves of silt displaying one dreadful downpour
On the earth—suddenly, silhouetted by the crescent’s flooding,
A creature’s restless hovering, halting on its hoisted eyesore,
Ink across the darkened canopy, blacker still, and bizarre
Now, to be alone no more.

Perhaps, it is a raven’s gloomy image, graven on, brazen
In the heavens, answering my imploring of our dire lore.
Perched quiet, gawking on the gnarled, wooden bark—now is thawing,
Speckled stars blurring beryl-gold, like the convening of an early shore—
“Though you mock my morose cry, and knock upon my vacant door,
I will have faith, forevermore.”

Beginning now, the bitter chill subsiding; feeling frozen frigid eyes,
Like charcoal pearls, cosmic blotches at darkest dusk, staring at my core.
How loathsome a rookery, seedless from the threatened nest, of tendrils
Washed away by surging winds, scouring out the faithful calm—even more,
The bird who seeks to land above the sand, mocking me all the more.
With the dawning, though, I see the silver, gold; the covenant of old.  

With my mourning gone, new morning kindles auric halcyon; now behold
The bird’s illuminated frosted fringe now glints with gilt, as a dove—
Washed away, by sunrise, bloom, each branch’s beaded tear with promised prism.
How loyal that final, lofty tree, whose beams now beam, and make me free;
Like an ageless summer breeze—the Son creating both dusk and dawn,
Fulfilling now, our failure, faithful with no end, forevermore.
Our assignment was to articulate a theological truth that we found while studying the Pentateuch.  I chose to convey how that the even though the events of the Pentateuch are often perceived as void of God’s mercy, man’s faith in God, and promised blessings and provision, the God of the Pentateuch is the same as the God of the New Testament.  The Abrahamic covenant is just as divinely orchestrated and full of the grace of God as the fulfillment of it in the new covenant through Jesus Christ.  They are many allusions and other literary techniques that all reference aspects of the Pentateuch.
We swirl like the dragons
Free from dungeons and darkness
In eternal salvation like salamanders
Although we aren't lizards hanging from trees
Hung up on life and disease
Breathing the air of autumn leaves
Dancing with the breeze, and ceasing to exist
Sending you our energies in the form of soft lullabies
If you can add to the good, you can keep away the evil
You can bring peace to yourself, and others in desperate need of quiet
You can be free from the peace of mind
Understand freedom in a nutshell, hanging like frescoed paintings
On top of a shelf of porridge and crimson red cherries, pears tresses
The parchment of each other, writing well within the textual framework of partridges in a pear tree
We can pray together, or remain silent forever
In vow of silence, and make lonesome Lumos shine bright like the kites running after in eros
Of the atmosphere, silenced forever, we sing lullabies for the ones to hear in their peace
A man with a peace of mind can understand silence and hold his tongue in the palm of murmurs
The sound swirls through the dungeon-like darkness, hunger for a touch of soil in the cold icy winters
We moon over these things, and it dawned on me that silence can last forever
And it isn't always good or bad
Sometimes it is evil to press and good to release yourself
Expand your mind, and be shapeless like water crashing against troughs flowing streams of fruit
Rivers could ripen, feel the song yonder deepen your soul
We wash these tears, from the eyes of agreeable people and disagreements come to me in a dream
These dreams are made of arguments and debates, I reason with myself unable to ever wake up in the morning
Howl from the depths of hell, and arrive on thin lands watching us with thin eyes like mirrors on cars, add what is specifically your own
Arrive in heaven, better to reign in hell
I'm lost in paradise on this ruin of thy moon and stars
Looking away from the fingers pointing at me like apples and bumps
Words are for the lugging carriage, to carry out their travels in their worlds from battered broken places
Wry comments from the crowd, and some cages of parakeets singing in kisses
Snakes in the grains of rice, stopping us from hissing from our caregivers and calling them unforgiving
Without food, I do not think I could live on
Without a mirror, I do not think I could live ignorantly with this hubris
Ran from the house at the age, I don't think I could live in such a cold climate
Raising my glass to my birthday invitees, they look at me blowing the birthday candles out, I'm in the seventh circle of Hell
Knells and bell tolls, ceramic steel galoshes, bitumen, and hydrophobic gum puts these dharma bums chewing grass together in apple streets full of cosmic debris
That look young and pretty, and pestering me with a limerick for some hypnosis and mirages in this solipsism
Aging like a dragon that used to burn out the flame of Hell, saving the morning again and again

If you're so cosmic, why don't you explain life to us from the Beezlebub spell, little dragon
Choice overload
but it feels like scarcity
see a swan
seen it swim
seen a scene with sea biscuit
bout to win
the matter at hand
is ascension
from the bottom
to the top of win
till we punch him
in the top of grin
but you ain’t stopping him
like moonshiner ain’t stopping gin
even mantle with the wry cocky grin
subs and sun bring the sin
time to measure
being out the block again
swagg as brag as Gucci’s friend
picture this
as the lock is pried
hard to stop
as the lock has tried
yard hit nonstop
thrown the lost chalk to hide

every minute every second a body dies
balance of life and death but it’s alright
a not neat knot is a knot not worth doing
actions like thrive guiding breath from the ruin.

— The End —