strange dyslexia, suffering
mucus mouth
that will bring us back to doe
in the headlights scatter horizon
throat culture of capitalism
sinking through my eyes, my
scratched-cd, dead light dance
telling me, "hey. come back"
but i can't.
something in me shouts
every car alarm awakens
these clouds, they are me and i
i pay you back in guilt
undeserving tulips, undeserving
just write me already
do it once and get it right this time
i am no
baby loan, babbling on
not anymore, not this time, not now
i'd rather not be wrong ten
years in a row
like planted corn, corn king, baby
sinusoidal happy ending
i wonder if he'll be happy at eighty
i've got bugs on my hand
cover all and cover nothing
i'd feel more at home with a bloody rag
dramatizing delirious dilemmas
knowing what's what, what's when
international affairs
but of course, you know
there is no then
it's true. sometimes you are my favorite.
(and other times it's you, or you
or you or you again. multiple sclerosis
brainchild, brainseed grow grow grow
things would be easier if you would just glow)
and then sometimes this all feels
obligatory, purgatory
you are all my judge.
3 comments:
this poem feels like you just wrote stuff and didn't delete anything. it sounds good tho!
p.s. ur last line = O:
p.s. hey boggles, check your facebook, it's important
!!!!!!
this feels like one of those things which is secretly super clever, but even if you decide to explain it to somebody someday, and even if they seem to care, you are the only one who will really appreciate each line.
(i speak from experience here.)
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