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Poetry 5 Another five word collages birthed by slow minds in rapid succession. It seems like this summer could use some calming moments. NOTE: None of these are repeated in the new digital poetry book, Brief Tales of Compromised Solutions Ghost Platitudes
My heart is so heavy Or is it my chest Going from mind to body Is what I do best
I dreamed I cried It seemed a possibility To finally come to terms With such a stirring inside of me
But to have to find it there In a subconscious recess Seemed to me to be An embarrassing regress
This slow fusing of success and failure is getting my goat like I never imagined And my imagination is the destroyer of societies and the spoiler of fruits I assure you I got the long grumbling goods So there’s a body on the ground And the blues that run through it alternate between the left and right eardrums Peeling off the moans and wielding that old mask into a true and pointed grin Are you asking me to wake up right now At the moment when I’ve got that nearly mangled dream in my sights Just like that the method is revealed through lines of poorly deciphered code And the animal spirit I try to escape in is stopped and disemboweled at the border
We are all lost But some are less lost than others
Low Epiphany in ABA
Outside there is hiss and snow When it comes to the calendar The weather doesn’t seem to know
A foul stench of a burrowed end As if the chilly terrified sidewalks Knew there was no chance for them to bend
Against the grain and for the grin How slow down slush can you get The reason to rise becomes painfully thin
We all look to the sky with suspicion A silent protest against a wide left turn Now every little string asks for permission
You remind your other to suck in the cold Like a fight against a dark plotting air We call it a play that just getting old
A tendency that is held over until this night And then as she lets the air go gentle To find a moment where everything’s just quite right
Seven steps and the hour’s still firing We look at each other like we’ll never move back But in the report it’s just faulty wiring
Out Off the Weekend
there is a chain a hierarchy a play written a madman with a pen and twisting grin it’s only over when the fat lady wakes up from her coma and is taught to sing again and not only taught but told and she has to do it willingly which means bribes with silks and sweets but the line between the lines and lies is just the letter n
there is a wail a cacophony a story smitten an expert with a deal and clicking tongue it’s the start of a long and winding ditch whose end will be spotted and gazed upon and analyzed in infrared but it will escape the certainty that scalpels and search engines seek but the gap between sight and sigh is just the letter t
there is an exit a mistake an idea bitten a poor man with rich and fancy excuses it’s getting likely that the explanation for the probing issues of our time will be handed back to our future selves as a punchline that you won’t get without watching last week but the spot between the word and world is just the letter l
Buck Up That Trend
Buck up that trend and against the ways of the gods you fight with something stuck between your teeth classy honey just like the bees and birds are doing it behind the shed that housed the cow that killed Chicago all those years ago Like that moth that bites the light to fund a screw that still hurts because that job in montreal is something no one quiet forgets in snow that succumbs to bleak white howls of protest because so few of us are truly in the very know This is the way to everything to the nuggets of gold in the pockets of soul that fall in the early morning sun when the wind doesn’t even bother and the fresh rolls off the skin with an ambition that is powered by stations caught in the flow Inside the walls are the clicks and clacks of empty tracks rattling with the memories of transport long since left for better and bloodier ways so the wheels are tossed for sport and the husks are placed on blocked that rust in the snow Unsure about the coming changes in the smooth steel sheen that runs over the people fingertips that pause pregnant with fewer organic thoughts as the lights that change decide that the reaping is option when selling what you sow A close shave with warped power is just the thing that makes your diary sing send the drool out of the conspirator’s corners the humour that holds the bowl and lets the soup made of hope and tears and ancient possibility swish to and fro
With All the Warmth of a Bus Crash
With all the warmth of a bus crash The story gets told through pitch black column space And hideous little microphones That blunt the words and make a right mockery of sacrifice
Right on the fog lines Backing up the history on the tight curves of Dali’s clock Slipping off the rubbers in a soft cavalcade of mud The raise of the morning sun warms your blossoming leather bank account
Picking out the quiet brays and horizon sounds Along an edging moonlit lake Water afraid to breathe all too deep Light dancing through the scenes in its wake
The brush isn’t serious about the sirens call Against another season it waits Like shattered glass in an empty room It cannot begin to see its fates
Factual aggression played us all for whirlwind fools Snapping necks each way for the promise of sullied information Let me tell you now this is what I burned The official at the place of the semi-skull makes calls in heaps of ash
Because it is working again In the chilled early morning silence When even your visible breath is mostly still Like a far off blue dream lake
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what can a poor boy do, 'cept sing for a rock n roll band? No seriously. In this economy that's a legit question. | |||