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| HOW IT TURNS TO MIRROR-GLASS WHEN HEATED IN YOUR HAND / THE SOUNDS IT MAKES MAKE ANOTHER STORY
Posted: 7/27/2009 6:32:00 AM | Plutarch never wrote of love
I can't see how these colors disassemble
and blow their new birth
in front of you're awkward stare
from across Jessup's plain
from across wheat and rye
that old back lot where I kissed you're knee
and it began to rain
our mamma's are dead beat drunks
they laugh like crucified owls
fu*cking bar men every night
there is more to this Lucy,
here is where it all changes
the rites of passage
roads stretch it's face congeals a simple and elusive figurine
i want what you want
I want to taste your skin
I want us to stay like this
scarred up bandits from the fir tree and icicle moreover
this will be no ending
we endure blood beatings
gas stations and diner's
where our mom's dye their hair in the texico rest room
running away from bad men
we giggle because we know the secret
you hold you're locket to your breast.
I fall asleep in the back seat. | |
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| HOW IT TURNS TO MIRROR-GLASS WHEN HEATED IN YOUR HAND / THE SOUNDS IT MAKES MAKE ANOTHER STORY
Posted: 7/27/2009 6:49:49 AM | cancel it
a shot / crystal meth / no / I hate what I've tried to say
as if a bad dream was / something more
hated like welfare / I know the landlord / is a hustler
perverted / but has he killed /
I like to think so /
water under the bridge,
dead man's badge
now I play the harp
faggot, I think you have no pair of eyes
lets freeway this ghetto gutted town
not / a pair of panties /
how tell the tale /
canadians are star clusters /
they radiate in their lawn chairs across the channel /
humping portable tissue / this yellow blood
all over the floor and if there is a back woods shack it festers with salt peter and limp rotten pine now we're doomed padre / don't you feel it / I'll never marry, how do you feel, this old story of the drudgery the star batch
gilded skin but / story forms the blue hint of out of town / debt / I hit a fallen maggot, would you dream with me, we're never wide awake. Takes more than that, a shovel hit the road.
let's dance and drink and hang from a rope, there's dust on my boots, I hate you, give me a baby, don't tell me the truth
the storm it rises past the trucks on cinder blocks
hell,... I think I will lay here a while
with my road map and whiskey. | |
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| <3
Posted: 7/29/2009 5:55:06 AM | Hey, just found this thread, and BlackMary, HUZZAH {Loud clapping sounds from the imagination}
Love the first poem on this thread.
Very clever.
You made me smile and think,
I thankyou for the gift | |
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| HOW IT TURNS TO MIRROR-GLASS WHEN HEATED IN YOUR HAND / THE SOUNDS IT MAKES MAKE ANOTHER STORY
Posted: 7/30/2009 12:18:18 AM | And when you think an inch
further, that this god made us from clay and then we do what we do by
following the prompts which the machinery of this clay stirs us to do and
if the wrong prompts are given which, au contrare, with the Molder's sensibility
then instead of returning us to clay as miscasts it rather fires us without
ever hardening for eternity, like gimmee a break | |
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| HOW IT TURNS TO MIRROR-GLASS WHEN HEATED IN YOUR HAND / THE SOUNDS IT MAKES MAKE ANOTHER STORY
Posted: 7/30/2009 9:47:10 PM | And when you think an inch
further, that this god made us from clay and then we do what we do by
following the prompts which the machinery of this clay stirs us to do and
if the wrong prompts are given which, au contrare, with the Molder's sensibility
then instead of returning us to clay as miscasts it rather fires us without
ever hardening for eternity, like gimmee a break | |
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| HOW IT TURNS TO MIRROR-GLASS WHEN HEATED IN YOUR HAND / THE SOUNDS IT MAKES MAKE ANOTHER STORY
Posted: 7/30/2009 10:05:31 PM | Sketches.
On your head flowing, streaming locks, I think they were blonde
In your life the suffocation attendant to existence
but...who the hell knows that this is really living?
Look...I imagine this little, fine , eager boy
scampering with tender young life, did you smash the enemy?
I heard that you heard voices...you weren't alone.
I heard you conquered prejudice, you just showed them
you were a force that could not be dismissed.
How extraordinary that you know the distance and length
breadth and factual of each and every country
Yet, near you the breath of your kin
do not inform you.
I once reminded you...relax....love. Hey babe. I respect you. | |
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| Dreams
Posted: 8/5/2009 12:00:23 AM | In fog...
but this is dreaming.
fog is claustrophobic.
out, am I sailing
into his harbour?
Look. look ...hesitate.
grotesque female shrunken creature
masquerading as my history.
malevolently moving towards
the wall.. that separates my prisoned self...
from freedom. | |
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| what awkward morning, we stay and dream awhile
Posted: 8/6/2009 5:30:28 AM | here is my collection of teeth
the milk sort
winter is a song
not the difficult neighbor that I dreamed her to be
as she softly comforts some sad distasteful wound
Is it that you have never heard me
lecture about the way spiders sound as they grow
on their weary weakend
there's no getting away from the land you've worked
as it settles this old score, the church steeple
this prestigious sight
medical miracles your'e tiny toes
that wispy moon kissing in a lazy trail the nudist lake
incredible how these people immerse me in a world
where I find a million sleeping gods
us kids afraid to wake the landlord
our lasting impressions, these imprints on sanded wood
I do believe
we aren't false testimonials
we are all glorious new dawns cracking open the aging sky
like a treasure chest of hate
forgive the ones you've forgotten how to love
please, while there is still time. | |
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aka,om
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Joined: 12/6/2008
Msg: 2491 | |
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| what awkward morning, we stay and dream awhile
Posted: 8/6/2009 6:52:19 PM | wow ...../
something that cannot express my fascination with this thread and its associated works enough.
The best I can manage is,
wow...... I think I love you ..... | |
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| what awkward morning, we stay and dream awhile
Posted: 8/6/2009 10:55:11 PM | Rivers.
Address the rivers.
Take note many flowed by
in every and every century
Exultation that flowing waters
emptied into each of every ocean..
filtering the swift scenes living on the banks.
Rivers do not weep for children or poverty of imagination.
Rivers emphasize freedom to time oneself with the tides. | |
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| CANCER TOWERS ON HOLY ROAD HI-WAY
Posted: 8/7/2009 7:30:07 PM | CANCER TOWERS ON HOLY ROAD HI-WAY*
There's something medieval about these circumstances.
With a speculum she's opening her pink cookie cutter
freeing a gelatinous being. It flies forth entering
day white against black milk clouds.
I'm dreaming bad dreams
of West End Louisville of a dilapidated easy chair
sprouting springs. That was such a perverted nod.
The three story brownstone, sheet rock blown out
and tumbling to the street. For hours I watched
twisted metal flutter in the trees, thought of
aluminum birds. There was a three hundred pound whore,
her ass in the air and a guy sucking crack. Once he lifted
his head and asked me
“You sure you don't want some of this pussy?
It fine you know, don't even stink.”
I told him I'd let him know,
sank back into the springs,
warm gardens blooming blood
and the air outside curving up.
And beyond that
the city falling away; my eyes
floating over towers and power lines.
Thin roads in the sky.
*Title By GSYBE | |
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| CANCER TOWERS ON HOLY ROAD HI-WAY
Posted: 8/8/2009 8:19:53 PM | At six pink was over.
At sixteen hit the high notes with candy pink lipstick
At sixteen Detroit. Eye opener. Cut the air with a knife.
At twenty the Congo, hunger and desperate endings.
Out of the corner of my eye
what happened ..included men
and their relationship to p****
which is better profound, realized.
Capitalism never fooled me
Flashes cannot be confused.
With this one picking out their eye
around the corner. | |
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| what awkward morning, we stay and dream awhile
Posted: 8/10/2009 8:05:08 PM | overdose.
from their testaments we drink
a tainted salvation
deep thoughts when the bell
tolls, striking
long held promises of a servitude, spiraling
as a bare foot salvation,
rhetoric expunged on
the third row, where god sits regurgitating
any useful applause.
lie down for a moment
face down, yes, now
you understand religion.
words wear the familiar distinction
piss stains over the pinpricks of
a divinity's curse, a universal
indifference, twisted
like off handed train-wrecks on
a sunny sunday afternoon.
this fatalistic approach,
a suffocation in loose fitting form
blood is not the entire memory, it's
the spread legs of an
otherwise subservient whore.
stand for a moment
on the cutting edge of a holocaust
you'll understand impermanence
if nothing else.
let us sing
in stoned verses muting stars, here
hold the long pipe, wear
the feathers of the dead wind blowing
of the timid man, the corner prophet
together we can
be the strangled voice
of mother, of mary
your crying father, your screaming son
be delivered, be sanctimonious, be brutal, be alive or just...
be a poet.
r. | |
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| what awkward morning, we stay and dream awhile
Posted: 8/11/2009 9:06:40 PM | no..right side up and facing the inevitable.
celebrate every shade of possibility
hold still. Do not strike so easily, so energetically.
that is far too clever.
Voices raised are voices heard.
Victims of different, deadly, quasi-holocausts. | |
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| what awkward morning, we stay and dream awhile
Posted: 8/12/2009 9:59:02 AM | agave and lime, or the quest for america...
antebellum nostalgia
ripening in hillocks of
cannons and muskets
rusting in someone's
sacred ground
is it yours
I'll make it mine in
definite rainbows of destruction and a
limited following
birth me in your
sacred rain
bleed me like Antietam
while I watch TV
is it me or does
Homer Simpson
sail on wine-dark seas?
do you have an America?
give it to me.
TJJ | |
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| what awkward morning, we stay and dream awhile
Posted: 8/12/2009 11:52:04 PM | He went out in the night, and had to rely on finding his way with his hands, it was tu can
He went out in the night and had to find his way, and since he knew
He went out in time and found his way about,
With the help and finding time as succession and recurrence
To discuss a rash of forms of intricacy and congealment
He went out and returned, neither empty nor full. | |
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