Ooo oui ooo 🖤
Ooo oui ooo 🖤
A large inch sliver of my wedding ring finger,
Lodged between razor blades.
A tinge of excruciation every time I bump it.
The blood that doesn’t stop until I seal it with the sting of black powder potassium ferrate.
And I get home to the internet connection again for the first time in 12 hours to claws again.
I’m stuck with nothing to say.
Stuck not explaining or caring.
Wedged between the commonality and the opposites
Trapped wondering if I should even bother because there’s a million other places and people calling me.
Tied living in doubt of my accuracy.
My bed seems closer,
Yet, less comforting and less confusing.
I just want to show someone all the places Eden hides.
Introduce someone to all the one of a kinds.
My words hang like gallows being near another slice of flesh today and how much more that imaginary one will out do the real one.
An eraser or a pen, a conversation or an idea, a rough beginning or premature end,
And a wheel of fortune spins.
Maybe I’ll buy a better body like every other American,
A new front door,
Then let just pretty fleeting things grace my floor.
Perhaps I’ll just lie on the soaked ground until this expired body finally lets my electricity go or I turn into a mountain.
Visions of a comfortable hut with smoke billowed like clouds.
Of a boy in red trying to facet a new kind of door that takes a certain type of dedication,
A intimate intricacy to open.
Favorite gleams of memories,
Puzzle games of stone,
Quietude laced with dying fireflies,
Dreams interlocking with scenes imbibed among sweet treat treasures.
Then the gaze I cannot turn around while I watch with lullaby heart beats that he sings along with but doesn’t feel like he once could.
A Nightsky, all about Formica swirls paying the dues while all I do is remain loyal and lost in the evening dew strewing around the world like this is the place I’d rather have lived with before a botched suicide or two.
Timberlands Tim and his star stride: David Schermann
Creed of the forest fires and the people that set them:
The day away even if some think I don’t belong there.
Or if it even exists.
It still entertains me beyond most everything.
Aren’t you just the cutest little fear filled spook dressed in my favorite reds and porcelain milk for a softer, silky shell, a breath or two out of winter’s den. You feel free to keep haunting, nonetheless.
Let the comet dust fall again,
In hallowed glory,
Brazen upon entry and
Upon this wounded spirit of mine.
Let the waves of wonder
Never cease to amaze my tired eyes.
I’m not going gently.
With a bang,
And blazing rara avis,
Until there’s no warm blood left
In this fragile body of mine.
The universe and this years medicine
Of the dragon kind for an old soul
Misplaced in this time.
Join me for the next few weeks if you like? 😉
(P.s.I’ll just be thinking of my friends and family in Florida for a couple days though)
120 acres of fertile, keep your technology reality away from my heart is 20 minutes east of here just under the bright awe-inspiring sunrise and I’m on my way because I’m due a dance date in the empty fields of freedom ❤
How about a little soul movement /arm worship to make it through until Fall ❤
Wrapping my favorite,
Gray and black rose cloak
Around my low hanging shoulders,
I hit he door way to another world again.
Too heavy to understand.
Hiding only tired eyes.
I just let my hair be wild now.
I no longer care what the world has to say.
I let my eyes carry their sorrow and growing disdain.
One thousand, one hundred and twenty-five days.
A taste of salt that never strays.
Dreams twisted and frayed-
Constantly choking me when I wake.
It’s four lanes whether
I’m barely breathing or burning alive.
Shedding that tread like each new skin.
Makes me wonder,
Which darkly named
Street corner shadow
Is following me now?”
Because I don’t even turn round to see.
I just know,
It’s never going to have me.
There are too many miles,
Full of beauty, life, destiny-
Just ahead of these gnarled, erratic, and decayed trees.
Backstreet Healing: Corporal phantom
Maybe it is the chills,
The fever burning my body on and off.
Maybe it’s the sleeplessness,
And the tightness in my chest,
The inability to take more than a quarter breath.
Maybe it’s the agonizing pain in my chest,
My over working oxygen starved heart.
The tinges that make me wonder if I’m going to survive.
All from running way more than anyone should while fighting to live through infection griping me tight as I fight the illness.
Now giving way to things I don’t want to think,
The looping memory of me in the end days
So long ago – as I left your cruel, heartless, untidy mind behind.
Remembering myself in a den for more days than I care to grasp at now.
The dank darkness almost obliterating my ability to see,
Heightening even the smallest of sensations and turning them to deafening pin pings.
Yet, you still believe we should be friends because we are required by man’s law to speak with civility.
So, I’m cordial and enlightening in order to ignore the next treble phone ring ,
Somehow there you are right on time,
To continually torture me.
Vibrating me into hysterical day time nightmarish epiphanies.
I cringe because it’s you,
And roll back over because I just want to sleep.
Despite the memories that still haunt my dreams
Despite the mind’s supposed ability to solve it’s worst
Destinies, encountering-s, fallen fantasies
By systematically sorting them while I suspend this conscious waking reality.
You’re always like a side swipe accident with a car crushing car and twisted irreparable steel in my mind.
And maybe the scars on flesh still ache
Every time it rains now matter how I attempt to
Place them as far away as possibility allows.
I just want the fever to break.
Or maybe every last stored recalling
Side dream gone to aging already.
Even a memory wiping machine I saw on a
Tv show once that dictated the daily thoughts
And lives of men based in only good memories
Until they accessed it’s deep web hard drive for truths
That left them unraveled and undone.
And like the man at the end,
I’d just cut mine out.
Captured Phantasm: Alicechan
The soundtrack of the forwarded telephone ring-
barflypoet & author of dark fiction
I want to be rich. Rich in love, rich in health, rich in laughter, rich in adventure and rich in knowledge. You?
Learn to Live
Alternate realities, psychopathic control grid, infinity, euthanasia, pragmatism, business and the esoteric - all in one.
Life Is Beautiful
It's all about you and me
We are talking about something we know nothing about.
embrace the impossible
"For your born writer, nothing is so healing as the realization that he has come upon the right word.” —Catherine Drinker Bowen
(...and some I have)