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Poetry It's James Dickey-inspired poetry. Not quite as miserable as Sylvia Plath. Not much else to say, really. It's kinda like the stuff on the 'surfing blindly' pages at the front of this website. If you like poetry... then you're in the minority, sadly.
Here at command central Here at command central we have the hottest models doing the purest drugs and Greco-roman architecture as far as the eye can see. Pouring over the page with a keen eye and a sharp mind, grabbing out points, hosing them down, then shaking them dry. Better than new and finally sanitized. Cowboys on the edge of the military industrial complex. Fending off wild copyright infringements and bands of bloodthirsty peacenik savages. Ill and sick at the same time. Redundancy is a classic symptom a popular indicator. Make the plays on the bases and dance around them to piss off the ump. It was too much to deal with and too fast to do anything about. The life went across his face like a blur, leaving a sharp sting on both cheeks. I was listening once. I was so sure that I could control what was happening or at least steer the world onto the proper course. But then the year passes and the joints strain and everything gets louder at the exact time you need to stop and think and suddenly you find yourself pinned under the wheel of a Cadillac. At least it’s a half-decent American car, you think, as pints of blood pour out of the gaping hole in your chest.
I’m sorry doctor I lied lied lied It seemed easy humming and hawing and no I’ve never done any of those things Don’t itch don’t ache not split sides or runny noses blood’s not too thick too think but just right Take it in the ear on the tongue on the chest and the back breathing deeply I yawn when you turn away This scheduled molestation Is little more than a small inconvenience No doesn’t hurt when I do this or that or the other thing Thirteen or fourteen times a week sir ma’am officer always keeping my eyes on the road or the ball or whatever bright and shining I don’t feel special when you touch me and it’s costing more with every visit You’re too aware of my failings precious physician person so please bare with me as I gather my tall tales and clothes and back slowly out of the room
Up the pity creek Up the pity creek and spelunking in caves of doubt Inside the dying acorns of possible
On a Lenin highway high point A rush of sky into the picture of the storm Giving back breaths to a chipped stone lung
With salutations and hats flying above our heads Good times have come again and all it cost was a pound of prime flesh Plenty more where that came from
Step into the dentist chair Another donation to the chairman and the brood Comes around earlier every year A shift in the winds of the real and the sands of time
I bet you had plans for your skin and bones A box in the ground Not a handful of ash to stoke the fires
Perimeter Blues A buzzing covers me Like a voice through a sandstorm It comes like the holy see Majestic on first glance but easily worn
A frayed and cindered hierarchy Put down on paper like drunken streaks Government sanctioned anarchy Bouncing off my naked cheeks
The best fence are made of words Guns from origami folds I sift through definitions condemned absurd Chiseled by elders long since sold
Five babblers standing upright Clutching bullet points with fear Eyes searching but still sealed tight Curtail profit projections for next year
Stifled by expectant rhymes I don’t do this very often Desperate measures come from desperate times So I only wait while our hearts all soften
Curtains for Kabul A dry wind blew across the cracked wall It’s not moths that have taken down the carpets It’s not the clicks of the exhausted triggers A handful of dirt in the mouth of the father Can’t read the face covered in cloth on the side of road Still a road and not a grave for the mother
Sometimes the birds make the difference To find fear in nuts and bolts
Whoever touches the buried metal Wins the final prize The eyes go big The skin grows small The soul bursts forth while angels find the courage to sing and cry in harmony
Everything you produced will turn to dust just as you were taught but they didn’t tell you it will be first destroyed spit upon vilified ostracized dragged through the streets held up in flames stretched across political altars cut apart with cameras and microphones wept upon by friends relatives and handfuls of sympathetic strangers before turning to dust
Summer bubbles on the surface but the seasons are a tired charade Cold death warm death rain death the clear picture sliding out of the frame
A warm sun is the only smile of the day But it dries the earth in seconds burns the life out of the ground Dripping blood into crimson stain breathing flesh into cracked skin
I tell you I never believed in a burning village deserved and a house become crater whether they be flat screen TV picture books or grandfather tales from the village over the eternal hill never happened no how no way
Until I crouched in dust brush hands over torn clothes and yes I see I smell I hear I taste I feel there were people here not long ago everything from children to seniors there were beating hearts once standing in my shoes
The town’s name can’t fit on my tongue It is filled with too many others When I confess it will come out at once Spilling across the floor like chess pieces All pawns
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if art is free, how are the rich going to appreciate it more than the rabble? | |||