How I really feel about 18th century British Poetry
I really don’t fucking give a fucking rat shit about fucking Windsor fucking Forest by Pope. Fuck.
enjamb that lin
eenjamb this linepaint a metaphorI just didrecognize the arbitrariness of wordsunderstand that utterance is not iconic of meaningplay a song in your headplay a song on this pagethis is upside downdn ǝpᴉsʇɥƃᴉɹ sᴉ sᴉɥʇI am omniscient in this notebookuntil you read itthen you take my omnipotencyand I am impotentuntil you take my hand
The Texture of Texture
texture of my braintexture of my mindtexture of a photograph of the beachtexture of a painting of the oceantexture of sandtexture of the seatexture of a grain of sandtexture of a drop of watertexture of painttexture of glosstexture of my fingertexture of yourstexture of youtexture of fabrictexture of the fabric of realitytexture of the fabric […]
Another Song for You
A patch of green grassamidst a field of sunflowersa bright sun shining overheadis the only way to count the hours our basket is openour blanket is spreada cool breeze dancesthrough the hairs on our head we feed each other grapesbananas pineapples and pearsnothing belongs to one of useverything is shared tortilla chips and pitawhich we […]
I feel your fingers in the breeze
as it danceson my fleshthe wind carriesyour voiceto my earsand down into medeep insideto that long forsaken placeclosed off to the worldfor a yearthe old wooden cigar boxsealed shut for so longbut the wind is beginningto flow through the crackswill I be able tolet you in?will I let youread everything?you say you share my painbut […]
When words come slowly practice your handwriting
ink on the pageis an actor on stagebut words aren’t always truelike a guitar slightly out of tunemetaphors and analogiespainting with imagerycan we createor only imitatereduplicate?is choice an illusionbecause everything is determinedor am I just lost in confusion man instills meaning and valuebut what does value mean?are we all aloneor are we a team?what have […]
built to spill
He was a sad manstrumming his guitarsweetlyangrilyslowlythen fast againmy best friend and iwatched him playand took solace in the shade,the shadow castas the sun setover the harborfound comfortin his voicesingingbeautifullypainfullyunderstanding wordsfilling the airwavesbooming out overthis gathering of peopleand words of gratitudefor everyonethank you
accepting premises
The sweetest contaminate:
a benevolent disruption of logicvoicing her passionsas her nimble fingers manipulate,no,create,projecting herself into this worldand into my arms. I heard birds squawking;She listened to their song.I prove myself with reason;She proves herself with colors. But this is illogical,and I’m all shades of grey. So why do our hands keep finding each other?And why are our […]
