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 Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:16 pm
The Table of contents  Page 1 Contains~
For my birthday I want dead silence
These shaky hands only smear the pretty pictures.
My dream is to float down the hall
Cable Walker
mT-$
Drum machine
Data Dude’s Revenge
Cry the paper shreds
A Human made of hands
Riding through hell in a thunderbird
Winter race
River god
Happiness. Business.
End of page one.Page 2Page 3Page 4Page 5
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:17 pm
Reserved for reader board
(the reader board is a sort of dedication board I give to anyone who critiques or takes notice of my work here.))
Poetry mules who have I written with and edited with.
Scabwick
ThePresidentofAntarctica
Jay Friks
Dead mules:
Trippy Mcgee
Cosmonaut Lost
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:19 pm
For my birthday I want dead silence
The beaten trail is a table,
Going down the cake crust rug
Leading to a pearl skinned, marble eyed
Pony rag
Doll.
Speak easy, lullaby of tuning forks
Speak softly, straw whiskers hanging from grandpa’s maw,
Entertaining the mirror masked dolls who leapt up
From colored in holes, in the glass that cut my hand
I couldn’t take in the breath my guest was taking in
Standing there in his tatters and simmering shadows
I couldn’t handle the air soaked with adoration’s mists.
Standing there in my dampened spirits stolen from a meat locker.
A green cactus grows where my frontal lobe used to be.
The seed is already grown; the crack has already etched a trail
Leading to a new foal, whose high horse casts disapproving
Gloom on my huddled rust ridden corner seat.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:20 pm
These shaky hands only smear the pretty pictures.
Consider, derision, a paramount tower.
Central to a thunderclap heartbeat, full of romance,
but stumbling over the shell shock of lightning bolts in a random tandem.
That is my Kool-Aid coated dream eraser pills purpose.
Like you, my love.
I thought I cornered the mad puppet master known as the artist.
The purveyor perpetrator of my solemn orange (un-rhyming) pretty pictures,
It should have been all my devil days caught up in breakable glass.
Which I would duly shatter
For you, my love.
But game show host smiles seemed a bit faker,
Fall trees seemed a bit more like whalebones about to collapse,
And even the prospect of her smile lighting up my day, was now breaking under all the weight that was falling down my spinal shaft.
Is this me? My love.
It was an ark of scorpions, that was all I found of an creator who
Was not there.
The power to scream as loud as I can into my own face,
to feel the cold reassurance of my own hand holding my other
with a faded gold pen in the middle.
It all was,
Shaking.
You away, my love.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:22 pm
My dream is to float down the hall
Lets-ahhh-scissor off the circulation between my heels and the air
Below.
So sick-ahhh- of the chunks of electrons knocking each other off of my calluses,
I blame it on the bombardment of the earth against my eroding layers-ahhh- of
Footsies.
So I dreamt up a plan, to go down a hall, and impress-ahhh- all my friends. My modern age,
Ideals and ideas will be segments of centipede ribbons uncurling/unfurling to reveal,
A new wave of easy tripping highs, and non-stumbling lows.
The sky/before is an inaccessible swamp with a white picket fence,
No one could be more envious.
But this-ahhh-‘ll prove my dreams of delusion are more than wind-up toys coming to life on the floor.
Impossible? I think caught
By this prison-ahhh-like window frame, and all those men and women walking down
Hollywood bully-vard dressed up the same. By the kill-mercials pumping Technicolor poison into my cranium.
So maybe it is Undone and Nonpossible.
But I won’t say the dirtiest word in all of mankind’s wind tunnel shadows.
Lets-uhhh -think of a different plan to escape.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:24 pm
Cable Walker
‘Used to listen to music,
Used to listen to lullabies,
The Patriot calculator, anthills on a screen folding and revolving,
All where my eyes used to be.
It is adorned in bright spangled colors.
Which glow equally along with the drab,
Mires of swampy webbed flesh and gory after flood.
There’s this machete named Eddie, who flutters behind the cutlets,
Of car salesmen sleaze uniforms, drifting behind lazily while
The blade cuts at meth head souls gliding towards other carnal interests
This big knife is trembling on the dining room table, to be used like silverware.
With each idiot broadcast-to cast each idiot into broad nowhere.
The two relics are tuning forks ends, competing for the highest vibration,
(The music, the lullabies, is drowned out by a bees’ buzzing, and a TV’s hustling)
To see who knocks me off first
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:25 pm
mT-$
Lincoln’s moon-gaze eyes,
peering through
Dried bloody,
Greasy,
Urine-pawed,
Snot-ink Ruffage.
Puppet-jawed prez, talking
through my change purse.
I see you being morphed into pretty little houses,
and the bombs that blow them up,
I hear you four scoring (5-scoring)
my teenage rock idols into
idle rocks in my head.
I know your stalking your copperhead cousins.
Nurturing them into Paradise bacteria.
And I,
With my marshmallow hands,
standing in front of an electric chopping block,
burning my ghostly white eyes away, to green overcast.
Change in my hand, wanting more,
I’m thinking Lincoln.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:27 pm
Drum machine
He
clapped a thunderclap of
frost around his own throat,
doubt was in heavy fog that morning,
and he did not want to breath it.
(Choking on the smell of gunpowder, Chalk dust, all collected in a soldiers scalp)
He recycled his steps,
afraid to lose a single coordinate to space-time mud slippage.
The uniform was tight and grating,
dried skin rubbed off like cheese to reveal bare bones.
Which was thoroughly fitting for being the mascot of a shooting gallery.
As much as the marines cap can hold heavy water,
It weighed down his smile.
(Grind down your wisdom teeth, Steamy chalk laced breath)
Playing to the sound of his own drum,
--Standing behind him is a ramshackle chained up latrine reeking of days spent hiding from a weighed and laid down tapestry face, and skeletal limbs, begging to scratch at the itchy stretch of wide visage—
He watches cue balls, racked up and stretched across the wounded green dream,
With oak handled kill switches in each hands, ready to launch the eight ball.
(Eraser bars, clanging together, spilling out dandruff chalk from the dead. Friend?
Enemy? Take a powder.)
Tapping his body on the face of his self,
--a single slit in the s**t-cabin lets a bridge of light in, too small to travel, to thin to escape, but when you peer through, you seen your peers all with the same beating machine pumping their dialysis, circulating a slapping cymbal for the paranoid ones, dripping bullets of blood, instead of—
Chain smokers smoke in a chain, releasing assorted arrows all through one ring. And the drum almost lost a beat as a callus met the drumstick,
Almost.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:28 pm
Data Dude’s Revenge
Cool katana edged smirk
On a tease of a ton greasy garbage gull
Feeding his granite grave teeth
With silicon babies who could have been wikipedia
Sitting stolid in a stolen silence, of car alarms and howling broken glass maws.
The throne he sits on is etched into the wall, with him floating on nothing, except a rat and a collection of white plastic skeleton keys.
He remembers faintly a war gone frozen in his skin, but flaked off of everyone else’s.
Scissoring across the chess board of government protection,
Kings and Queens on a colored TV
With black and white scabs where their post-2000 sensory processors
Should be.
He enacts solitude’s brigand, in a static boom of little green caterpillars stealing the screen,
Data dude closes his amber closets one last time, to recollect the metamorphosis of a lullaby that grew from an A-track shell to an I-pod rarity.
And shoots his love song through an eternal scream.
Click~
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:29 pm
Cry the paper shreds (the bleeding hearts and artists walk up and down the photocopy machine)
Captive tear (its whittle carved embryo cast) , in the hearts eye,
so blank, odalisk face, powdered donut next to the coffee maker,
With raspberry ink, oh
Wait.
With sliced almond beetle ink, spilled all over the gator
garb beach.
Oil spill,
graph (skin graft) lines to edit your
quartered, nickel’d and dime’d remains.
White walls of an office paper museum,
become littered by protagonist ribbons,
and villains black mustachio.
Forward march past your penny pinching broken nail hands
a light at the end of the tunnel does not spell
paradise.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:31 pm
A Human made of hands
She wants a rest, the rest.
Everest, climb up
the mall escalator without skinning your wallet,
I am a Moth Man.
Smelling the cold leather at the
bottom
briefings
of your pennies under-bellies.
Superhero of the under slide,
over coat,
sly design.
We are all gods economies creatures,
and if we lose the love of the game,
May we steal a playstation 3,
and restore it with the ones we love.
She knows nothing of piss
poor
salvation.
I’ll take care off my greased gloves,
here in the Walmart cooking supplies aisle
while I’m currently also standing around hardware,
and lurking in the shadows of the batman toys for
our kidding kid.
I know nothing of my chunky stomach when leaving the klepto mart,
And certainly puffin of my cigar smoking self when I entered,
thin
as a third world scavenger in a clown suit.
Passing places all filled to brinks of locks with working corpses, looking on hungrily at my free youth.
Almost home, stopping by, my hands folding and cowling, till I'm going into an amorphous shape.
I'm grabbing fireflies out of sky,
and calling her at the same time, to wish my son a happy Christmas.
I'll be late from espionage. But,
This time, I've got lights for the tree.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:32 pm
Riding through hell in a thunderbird
I’ve got a bone to pick with you,
The skeleton said to his
11111Conocido
You’ve fueled me up
For two weeks now, and I’ve got dollar bills flying off the draft
Out of my ribs
Caught in my spine, fueling my
111111Alma
Will there ever be an end to ashes curling off the wing beaten dirt
Always, never ending to pitch into my mouth.
Being that I am in a desert sky with hot air holding me up
It’s my only foodstuffs, stuffing me like a vent shaft,
Not a
11111Ganso
Yes. No more. Am I Fresh and flesh, but a
11111Phoenix de
Arizona
Our voices are intermingling,
That is my cue to crash, but I’ve lost
11111Control
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:33 pm
Winter race
Cocoa drifting down.
Fleshing out the little coffee grounds the godly dishwasher
never picked up.
Snake shimmers reappearing than disappearing.
Reminding the swimsuit snowman lined up
like a shooting gallery…
That they’re just reflecting black holes waiting to be filled.
One cranes his head, snapping some frozen cables and says to the others,
“First one to the bottom wins.”
And slaps his time wise body on a plastic sheet of ice,
They’re all heavy with sand trails, wrinkled black, only to be filled with
Watery dyes.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:35 pm
River god
I live in a small town,
On the edge collapsing
down into a ravine,
The river used too trickle down sandy throats,
now
it chooses to be fickle
with what it brings in,
Preparing for its last meal.
Its shoves its bleeding cut up hands down
your throat.
Four people drowned last year,
one was my friend,
Of course living statistics lie on their back.
gasp for a slap of air,
and shake from revelation.
Many have swam in that water,
only to realize its glue,
Before those four.
I still don’t look down at god and say fair-thee-well.
Just like all the other adults,
who attach themselves as
barnacles to any
cold stones they can find.
Hoping that they can live
long enough to enjoy a
last supper,
with whatever family can
stand or
swim
to be around them when that
time comes.
But the stone will fall,
and the cold will go with them.
Down into the abyss,
spit in the face of the sluggish slime;
I’m afraid
in my glowing nightmares, in a raft I can't control
sinking headlong past long gone heads, all mouthing revulsion
at my dried cracking eyes.
in comparison to their's.
A tearful eye, full of reunion with god, and an algae gloom bringing it to close.
it will engulf us all one day.
And we will have had
plenty of warning.
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Posted: Fri Jul 13, 2007 5:35 pm
Happiness. Business.
Speaking: Sinning and sitting on melting docks,
a bartered shotgun, the stock markets in decline,
they raise our wages,
but god keeps the iron gates built ever higher.
I have a checklist with a green seaweed marker.
Slippery hands dealing in slippage dropped my pen.
Those once pearly entryways with tips
embalming the clouds drop pizza rust.
Eat as much as you can.
Sum won’t need me, economically speaking
“speakeasy”
I’m not evens or nods to my mother or father
For on their lists I
rank as a corpse in tow.
You can smell the over consumption and freezer fluid
Miles of smiles away.
Speakeasy: prohibit the consumption of the blue sky
Into our mouths,
so we go into black mine shafts and dig into skulls
Who remember it,
sucking out the puffy white and empty pale horse cerulean.
I’m adding up the addict in me,
and subtracting the subterfuge of my
Former lovers (Crows in clipped wing flocks over in the out pile)
Friends (Art school dropouts who heads bash into phones
instead of listening, in the lost pile)
What about anyone back at the office?
Any one in the manure parking lots?
Barn shed computer warehouses? Executive living room…
(One brown eyed dog,
sitting on a melting porch has a ever present dying thirst,
empathy for cloud accountants who remember boom times
“speaking”
and running and jumping
over iron gates)
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