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some
times time is not enough
to explain
why
the wind bent me
granulated spices, soft-spoken birds
the wind bent me
lips to red square, to the trowel, to the sewer
regression and
shoving tape into my mouth, looping it around
an atrophied tongue;
iambics had long
become a chore,
rubic's framework of
bones prematurely old-age'd
so
boys and girls
from french fairytales
dragging a mauve plane across the desert,
tonight i vow
like any other night
beginning of gestures,
cessation of words
unlike any other night i ask myself
silly being,
why can't you be happy
why can't you sit still
-
livin la vida busy currently unavailable on dA etc.
trashcan firestarters of the internet periphery
can't be 15 forever, so i'm thinking of archiving things and moving elsewhere
most people i love here are dead by now, so this is a long shot, but are any of you all on medium?
(or any other places to migrate to?) (i am tech-y scum)
everything has its price
too soon in the suburbs the light slants,
calling us softly, meaning we'll have to lower
ourselves into our coffins again,
same way it has always been, day after day.
your daughter asks you what for. you tell her
she will write beautiful words. she will smell the laundry in the backyard,
hear sparrows landing on the zinc roof. she will anything
but goddamn don't leave me here alone against the plum of the sunset,
asking the same question.
-
we transplant you from the dirt
into a flowerbed, hoping under certain circumstances
under certain circumstances
you will bloom into a peach tree.
that is what we don't know.
what we do k
wireharded
something about roofs, moons, and eaves.
something about crows. an inanimate object
in a room of inanimate objects,
someone
else's territory.
the sodium-potassium batteries give out,
won't charge; the rest of time
means just hogging airport space by an outlet
like those damn teens.
dear diary, today it snowed
unceremoniously over my belongings,
beautiful suburbs in the snow. the protesters put a tent
in the middle of a frozen field, FUCK NAZI SCUM.
imagine sleeping on the wet tracks,
coughing into wet sleeves.
unscrewed the plates
to the electricity meter, found it waterlogged.
looked
it dawned on me
i still have a week to change my name to ghostisapug
© 2014 - 2024 ghostinafog
Comments3
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I think you are just inherently poetic. It's just intrinsic to your very being. Otherwise I don't know how to explain how seemingly effortless and elegant your phrasing is.