Level 6 - Very Deep Thinker
Join Date: Dec 2002
Location: in my head.
|
new pieces...
summary of my dream last night.
i speak in smoke
and coffee trails,
under shivering skin
and a ceiling of debt.
three cigarettes
and i finish my mug,
my eyes are
(O)wide(O)
to the phrase
written
in block inscription
at the bottom of
my cup:
SO...THE AMERIKAN DREAM
IS A FUCKIN LIE?
WATCH YOUR MOUTH AND COMPLY.
-swift headjerk to the left
then the right,
heart alert
and hair erected in fright.
lock the door,
sit down in feat and fear
knowing that
they would find me here.
i listen
to the shadows
under the door,
curse myself
for not
buying that gun,
for not believing in war.
i was just guessing,
ripping the mystery apart,
sitting on science and reason
and the rhythm of a jarvik heart.
i’ll die in vain.
my campaign
will entertain the mundane
when they brand me insane.
they’ll read my story
over cocktails, champagne
and noses cocained.
i don’t care, i don’t care,
i’ll sustain my claim.
a rat-tat-tat at the window
i hear,
you stand bold
with a smile
and a cold gun.
i open the window with a whisper,
“i thought you didn’t believe in war.”
you take my hand
and we run away
with the safety on
in passionate panic,
in absolute manic
to where the others are,
to where the others run,
to where the others hide
in the truth
and bona fide.
hypothermic manners.
in the shadow of aether,
in the interior of shifting weather,
within a rain soaked dress
in a run
of experience,
she knows how it feels
and
what it is
to be free.
she is ...
making love
to the rhythm of rain,
wading in
the puzzle of pain,
not believing
a word they say,
grasping on
to breath-
in this manifold of craze.
she is ... and she is ...
sinking in...
living within the mindskin
of walkie-talkie antennas
and wireless waves-
a magnetic field
of a teleconnecting maze.
parted entities,
under a layer of ivory,
~right~left~~~left~right~
through congested tubes.
she says it’s all there
but not being used.
she is ... and she is ...
in the blunder of disease,
watching the clouds burst,
waiting for the sun to come,
watching herself
through old home movie view-
while the clock taps,
be submersed
in a snowy lagoon,
texted
with red ink
and a benumbing breeze,
writing revolution
while her hands freeze.
-plas-ma-thick-ening-
-op-tic-whit-ening-
-mus-cles-contrac-ting-
she is ... and she is ...
dying.
she is ...
and
she is ...
me.
7-1+2.
sloth lurks
in backalley streets,
sly beneath leaves,
grimily slugging forth
at 2am
under the refraction
of a streetlight.
sloth peaks
from under the tongue,
climbing up your lip,
swaying on the breeze,
on the breath
of our
meaningless language.
sloth hides
in a black corner,
in an empty room,
catching the sunlight
in bits,
under the echo
of the neighboring apartment.
sloth marches
in the pink skin
of an organ,
in an army of one,
they take over
under layers
of hidden translucence.
sloth works
for the man,
a slow dead trek
of wasted time,
of emotion undefined,
slaughtering his eyes
under the florescent of light.
sloth runs
in muscle archives,
fighting the seconds,
turning blue,
on a winter morning
of slapping pavement,
under the break of day.
sloth grows
in the heat,
on warm airducts
in a college apartments,
in the glimmer of candles
while two become one
on love.
sloth clocks
his time mastering
this but never that,
slowly aging,
holding on to one fact,
pinned beneath theory
but never giving up.
sloth is
the lipstick of time
on the figure 8
wading in the silence of black holes,
waiting for the inevitable
below showbiz light-
in an aimless search for
truth.
__________________
The Sun is Getting Dim, Will We Pay for Who We've Been?
|