Slim pickings, its an honor to finally greet you
lost among the fallen plumage pawned as new age gold
the gates fold but never open
the page was locked shut
the frame of mind was over-adorned with knots and spirals
all hail the idle!
half-asleep, ears closed!
where the fear flows
lapping at the waists of moon burned children.
(can't you)
hide your flesh from the night-callers’s lucid eyes
shoulder the burdens of the euthanized who scrutinize
the living for not giving enough?
insisting on plush
when the rough would’ve suited?
tailor-made for the favored spade’s favorite hijinks-
goodbye jinx, hello hex, run along curse
,
we’ll talk after a spell;
read, repeat just make sure you’re well versed.
Swell season for ideas to impregnate
fallen from trees to spring forward when the bell’s late.
wait, wait, wait
was that you ringing
?
back to the artifice of egg-shell swimming.
take care tinning, but let’s skip over hyperbole
since none want the sum of the shedding fleece and suture.
lips stitched shut
but the teeth still clatter
grinding though the cheeks blood seeps though the fabric
let it dry let it grow brittle till it snaps
just make sure nobody is listening when it happens.
Inspired by whim and shrug, two good friends who, once lost, have now gone all biblical allegory on me.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
gone part 2
Shrug me that bold shoulder again,
and I'll draw that fine line between mice and men.
Where poison sinks to fill your jowls
and sloshes still in sinking scowl.
Eyes rolled to a heaven set to burst
in search for thirst - i hope for parch.
Tell then of your shrinking scribes, your words fall flat
your verbs contact
where pierce once served, with fangs bared stained
of glum refrains shorn
blue blood beat veins torn
soaked heart shoulder slung-
still pounding there among the horns and calendars.
In the forest of where these things still dwell.
Alone among the sheltered shrubs
held hoping for untethered tug.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
dedicated to the sleeping poets.
may you dream of dead words that consume your flesh
tethered there
in where.
and I'll draw that fine line between mice and men.
Where poison sinks to fill your jowls
and sloshes still in sinking scowl.
Eyes rolled to a heaven set to burst
in search for thirst - i hope for parch.
Tell then of your shrinking scribes, your words fall flat
your verbs contact
where pierce once served, with fangs bared stained
of glum refrains shorn
blue blood beat veins torn
soaked heart shoulder slung-
still pounding there among the horns and calendars.
In the forest of where these things still dwell.
Alone among the sheltered shrubs
held hoping for untethered tug.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
dedicated to the sleeping poets.
may you dream of dead words that consume your flesh
tethered there
in where.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
gone (unfinished)
In the low hung rungs of summer's sun
the heat draped thin
still touches skin
and burns.
How red must read wax before peel?
How fed must fed tax before heel?
Questions floating unsung
where mere speech was shrugged for show
now rote words are sought for harvest
on the scored earth of preference and flash.
Will that light too one day burn?
Will it wilt the roses,
leaves luck plucked, thumbs unstung?
Will it brown soft patches of Whitman's words?
Will it slur sight scope in thirst's blurred search?
Or
does that same yellow that reds flesh
hold to stone our silhouettes
hung among the cracks and steps
stripped of fears, of words that left?
Would the bones of questions appear perplexed?
Bereft of context, tongue and touch?
Or would we all just be gone?
Gone of soul, of blood that speaks.
Gone of limber, snaps and creaks.
Gone of all that sun does greet.
Left is street
and aimless heat.
the heat draped thin
still touches skin
and burns.
How red must read wax before peel?
How fed must fed tax before heel?
Questions floating unsung
where mere speech was shrugged for show
now rote words are sought for harvest
on the scored earth of preference and flash.
Will that light too one day burn?
Will it wilt the roses,
leaves luck plucked, thumbs unstung?
Will it brown soft patches of Whitman's words?
Will it slur sight scope in thirst's blurred search?
Or
does that same yellow that reds flesh
hold to stone our silhouettes
hung among the cracks and steps
stripped of fears, of words that left?
Would the bones of questions appear perplexed?
Bereft of context, tongue and touch?
Or would we all just be gone?
Gone of soul, of blood that speaks.
Gone of limber, snaps and creaks.
Gone of all that sun does greet.
Left is street
and aimless heat.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Re: the last few blogs
Do not fret!
I was exploring a side of anger through words. I used to be quite capable of capturing anger in my writing, thus releasing it into the cosmos as neutrality and alleviating my own harsh feelings.
I was trying to do the same thing here. If the "angry" posts pop up again, you'll know what they're for.
-g
I was exploring a side of anger through words. I used to be quite capable of capturing anger in my writing, thus releasing it into the cosmos as neutrality and alleviating my own harsh feelings.
I was trying to do the same thing here. If the "angry" posts pop up again, you'll know what they're for.
-g
Monday, October 19, 2009
bottle
Perhaps my flaw is that I was too selfless
And I'll probably gift away my last breaths
Half-dressed under flickering street lights
Half-confessed, half-possessed
they'll say as say they stare into the abscess
"Relax", "Don't stress" I guess I get your good intents
But intense to one, just seems to pale in others lenses
back to the sixth sense myth
emotive over-sensitive it's
"good that you should vent" or it's
"just like everyone else's"
Well this seems a barren plain of platitudes
as it's rude to neglect the help that's readily dispensed
well it's just that- dispensed
25 cents and turn
and your plastic packaged bandage
should cure from itch to burns
remove stitches and spurn glitches
spit genies from urn
in fact, if it floats, it'll cause witches to burn
which is exactly my predicament
I am just a witch in this
Malleus Maleficarum straddled best seller list
which just displaced the exodus
stakes enter rib cage, exit dust
what's next, it's trust
followed by a bottled form of regiment
sediment
sinking to the bottom, ever reticent
And I'll probably gift away my last breaths
Half-dressed under flickering street lights
Half-confessed, half-possessed
they'll say as say they stare into the abscess
"Relax", "Don't stress" I guess I get your good intents
But intense to one, just seems to pale in others lenses
back to the sixth sense myth
emotive over-sensitive it's
"good that you should vent" or it's
"just like everyone else's"
Well this seems a barren plain of platitudes
as it's rude to neglect the help that's readily dispensed
well it's just that- dispensed
25 cents and turn
and your plastic packaged bandage
should cure from itch to burns
remove stitches and spurn glitches
spit genies from urn
in fact, if it floats, it'll cause witches to burn
which is exactly my predicament
I am just a witch in this
Malleus Maleficarum straddled best seller list
which just displaced the exodus
stakes enter rib cage, exit dust
what's next, it's trust
followed by a bottled form of regiment
sediment
sinking to the bottom, ever reticent
and then...
again. It's always the same. IS this what I'm meant to do? Is it even so deep? What else do I have to offer if not this. No other sights in my view seem to appease these thoughts of my inherent futility.
Just push, push, push...
That's all I see. Fractured dreams and a broken scope. No lens to clarify, straighten or demystify; just the same dull answers and a shovel for digging.
The aches on my shoulders and bags under my eyes are now nearly impossible to mask. And I can almost hear the gray hairs poking through, old age at such a young juncture. So much weighing right now that escape is neither an option nor a solution. In fact I'm obligated, my past mired with a litany of unfinished chores, hopes and dreams, abandoned with as little forethought as a crashing waves gives to wayward kelp, to persevere. I owe this to myself; I, who have reflected on these "quittings" from my past and realized that nothing can make up for them, and who have taken on the hero's helm and mantle of responsibility, of the flawed hero who's current modus opperandi serves a self-interested purpose of redemption.
And so where will it leave me if I shrug off this helm, this cape and mask? What then? What hero will I be then? To whom will I owe allegiance if I can't hold it to myself? To what depths do the borders of my country sink if my vision is mired, my stature so frail, my word so thin?
Off again into some unknown obscurity. And yet as hard as I pull on the mask, it will never come off( but that's anothertopicforanothertime).
Just push, push, push...
That's all I see. Fractured dreams and a broken scope. No lens to clarify, straighten or demystify; just the same dull answers and a shovel for digging.
The aches on my shoulders and bags under my eyes are now nearly impossible to mask. And I can almost hear the gray hairs poking through, old age at such a young juncture. So much weighing right now that escape is neither an option nor a solution. In fact I'm obligated, my past mired with a litany of unfinished chores, hopes and dreams, abandoned with as little forethought as a crashing waves gives to wayward kelp, to persevere. I owe this to myself; I, who have reflected on these "quittings" from my past and realized that nothing can make up for them, and who have taken on the hero's helm and mantle of responsibility, of the flawed hero who's current modus opperandi serves a self-interested purpose of redemption.
And so where will it leave me if I shrug off this helm, this cape and mask? What then? What hero will I be then? To whom will I owe allegiance if I can't hold it to myself? To what depths do the borders of my country sink if my vision is mired, my stature so frail, my word so thin?
Off again into some unknown obscurity. And yet as hard as I pull on the mask, it will never come off( but that's anothertopicforanothertime).
Sunday, September 27, 2009
because nobody reads this
because nobody reads this I can say whatever the fuck I want and no one will care. I can say the most devilish things, things that most push out of their brain I can indulge. I can say everything I feel, everything I've done, and everything I desire.
Fuck it. No one reads this anyway.
I can't do this much longer. Not this way. Too much stress. Even the ones I love feel it. I feel it. And I never learn. It's always the same story. And one day she'll leave me and I'll be sorry. I'm self-destructive to such a fault, sometimes even plotting out the worst case scenarios and living them out. When it's over and my tower crashes and I have nothing, and I have nothing to offer, and I have no one to turn to (and rightfully so), what then? Fade into the obscurity of the American landscape... and probably in more ways than one.
Fuck it. No one reads this anyway.
I can't do this much longer. Not this way. Too much stress. Even the ones I love feel it. I feel it. And I never learn. It's always the same story. And one day she'll leave me and I'll be sorry. I'm self-destructive to such a fault, sometimes even plotting out the worst case scenarios and living them out. When it's over and my tower crashes and I have nothing, and I have nothing to offer, and I have no one to turn to (and rightfully so), what then? Fade into the obscurity of the American landscape... and probably in more ways than one.
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