Tuesday, December 8, 2009

something new and old

and blue and molded and

rotten through the core

of friendship bracelets,

they grow like trees in a fruit

laden forest outwards and

outside to the depths of

itself, lovely incidents, drunk

drugged overtly snug and smug

literal badgers digging wolves

and eyes of plentiful bounty

to tits and dick balls swinging

with age for to never is

to pay the price of

you’re ever nothingness and regret,

the smallest things

are the hardest things

are the worst in your mind,

they’ll creep up on you and rail your soul.

sucking you up into the nose

and bringing nothing to everything.

pain is in remorse to outcropping.

it’ll come to you.

bleeding through your silence,

and letting out convulsing,

heart attacks similar in smiles as they are in tears.

forget the rest and leave the best memories to chance.


Saturday, December 5, 2009

wallace stevens.

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,

.
.
.
.

And in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.