Lying Stagnant
I am lying stagnant
She laid her eggs atop me
Her children grew to find their purpose
They left my murky waters
I am still without meaning
I am lying stagnant
She laid her eggs atop me
Her children grew to find their purpose
They left my murky waters
I am still without meaning
I got a white noise machine and a turning blade.
A white noise machine and I’m okay.
white noise machine and a turning blade.
I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you!
I go around in circles all evening.
I drive around but I ain’t leaving.
Hear it hum I can’t tell I’m breathing.
And I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you!
I get me a sip from my koozie.
It sounds like the rattle of an Uzi!
I got something to say to you Suzie,
Cause I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you!
I found out the hard way brother!
She’s on the phone with her mother!
I found out the hard way, brother,
that I can’t hear her, but she can hear me!
Good things come to those who wait, but
good things spoil for those who wait too long.
When goodness comes your way,
accept it immediately, like a chocolate kiss.
Holding the sweets of fortune for too long
leaves you with only a stain: not on your tongue,
but your hands, your upper lip – everywhere
that cannot appreciate flavor.
Replicant design
emotional circuits bend
crossed wires flux
Core corruption cut
corrosive effect contained
abstraction achieved
Sculpted grid waveform
erosion diagram found
disorder affect
Magnetic moments
a digital dream remains
carried by currents
I don’t want to waste my breathe as I slip out of bed.
To stand before the mirror.
Just one ugly photo and they remember it for life.
Just ask Edgar Poe.
I can see the sky from the corner of my eye.
It’s the blue that you forget.
You just want to see clouds.
Washed out in your doubt.
I don’t want to be a super star.
I don’t want to feel anything at all.
I want to hear the sounds of the world in a frenzy.
So I can feel insignificant.
From my bedroom to my grave all the trees have rotted away.
I feel so special.
I think I want to die.
But I just want to sit and feel the sun on my face.
Times not on my side.
It’s always running short.
Irony from birth.
A masterpiece recorded at the worst.
A memory brought to life by my pain.
For a price you can have some too.
It’s just for you.
I can sell my soul to the record company, and go down a legend.
Or I can waste my time, sitting with the birds by a pond.
Thinking of a rhyme no one will hear.
It’s the blue you forget.
You get lost in wanting the clouds.
I want to steal your regrets, in my turmoil war.
In my turmoil war against you and everybody.
Big Star and Elliot Smith passed by and said they’d had enough of it.
I can’t get over it.
You need to find the blue sky.
You wanted everything, but didn’t look to see what you already had.
sticky things go unseen
wet and warm somewhere
it’s sweat and it’s sap and it’s dark brown Earth blood
we unfurl limb after limb
let them speak language that isn’t the teeth clacking tongue of this
but some back-of-the-throat sister to it
i’ll pull my lungs up through my mouth after
to unfold and stretch
to wrap myself in
and stitch new seams from the inside
let us see the sheerness of this sticky thing
the light looks different when it’s coming through all that
You called for less caffeine
and I bought a maker,
a fancy one,
complete with a tendency to
wake up before me.
amanita or agaric, agar to jam and amaranth—
I wish in a past life I were an alchemist,
happy
sipping or sucking dew off John Donne’s or someone’s thumb.
I find myself shoegazing foliage, foraging poison and preservation,
eternity in a flower’s wilt-quick petals.
I’ll not look up to confess
the world is much wider
than what my feet could compress.
and so what, anyways?
really,
I don’t care about a single mushroom cap
no matter how god-wrenching perfect its color.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I can’t care, mercurial whore,
enchanted by another color tomorrow on
just another flower.
saturnine bitch, I don’t care
how deep in thought I can scowl at the fouling flower flesh
fallen to the ground.
and I, plutonian prude, loveless, gloomy and florid,
fix my gaze hell-straight
on dead creators of Jovian Canons,
hellaciously straight, straight-laced legacies.
but I eat agaric uncooked, grow amaranth for its look,
don’t die, don’t live forever,
never name a plant my Elixir or drink such romance down my throat,
o, Solitude, I know this rote—
so call me witch. I’d rather forget chemistry.
Up early
in the dark
I drink coffee
write words
knowing I’m on the right path.
Slumber in peace, my Love.
I have enough for the both of us.
i.
Countless bloodlanguages lost,
I linger in my veins and countless kingdoms
Since slipped into silence.
I have been a king of three rosaries,
Grinning like a knife in a gunfight,
An afternoon lunacy on top of bruise violet.
ii.
I’m prying beartrap jaws from wooden tongue;
Preparing to speak or gnash in turn,
Where willowords and ironwounds hold certain magics each.
Nested amongst thistlethrone,
Like a godmouthed and darling devil, wretched.
