I will be the last one to...I will be the last one to write this bookI will be the last one to...
first and bravest willing or the only one with pinkish liver intact, lungs whole and breathing on beat, heart and intestines aligned, stomach prepped and iron -- house of a dozen or so yards and pounds of sleeping, messy wishes. A pile of emotive meat.
Words collect sounds to create meaning, yet “dog” is not a dog, so what is a word? Echoes shatter common sounds like
rain on glass and buckling tin rooftop of a matchbox butcher block of car, echoes like static laughter, wailing and slamming its way around
Twenty One Little Notes on...Twenty One Little Notes On Stones: I Was Here But You Weren't - The Statue Over There Did Not Move And Said, Do You Have A Physical Defect?Twenty One Little Notes on...
How do you get someone to blow themselves up ? cargo trains of thought go rotten in
New York five days later in New Jersey fleshy milk trucks are overturned these things
no longer matter: reality is memory-making and those memories are all looking
towards you there is nothing but a mechanical device within yet !it does! feel wrung out
and rather rotten but on the other hand (time) it does not matter when nothing exists
We Must BelieveWhen we learned what became of your great life And what were the fruits of your selfless labor We spat out our souls as vomit, stars in grief For the lost heavens; how could He have slain so Casually you? He tore your too-young wings And you became as an insect in his court, Made to crawl, breath to end, created to sink -- Notes on the sky call it His Plan. No!; He can't Have intent to allow ingrate Lazarus Rise from stone and have rest on Jesus' shoulder While you remain gone... Yet we heard clock-laughs Echo in your oak. Years pass, we recall but could Your insides nowWe Must Believe
AccidentallyMy uncle kept writing a poem, Entitled "Why," dedicated To the Almighty. In it, he wrote Of statues that could move, Hidden and dark; damp, With a bit of wishes Undisturbed. (This flux, While turbulent, Is meaningless.) I told him Not to worry; this happens To more people Than you could imagine. This is bigger than us. Somehow, I don't believe He can equate the concept Of the ocean being the sea. This could possibly explain How his statues always held Stained blue-red roses, Or how, by the end, He would always ask whyAccidentally
I Laugh In The Face Of DeathIn the late (or early) hours of a Monday night, There was a faint taping upon my doorframe Whoever is interrupting my Sci-fi marathon shall pay, and dearly, with his head. Grousing and grumbling, I pull myself from the couch And push through the faded newspaper clippings of life And when I open the door, knob still in hand Who should be there to greet me, but the Grim Reaper himself?I Laugh In The Face Of Death
The stereotypical beckon given, the cloaked figure waits. I debate to slam the door in his almost-gone face “Excuse, I think you have the wrong house.” He utters the name of the One Before M
As There Is No Real Respect for Writers Here...
Defeated
--
To twist one purest cause
Into an honest verse,
Itself, a call to angels.
The saddened lips of song that
Kiss away our innocence
From the vile mundane.
~justb
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