Weathered light From a million hoardings Like old lovers Awakens- Streams of desire And rivers of discontent
Green faces- Under the hazy surfaces Of trampled city streets Stare at the spotless billboards Advertising hopeless hopes And dreamless dreams
A tortured silence In the sterilized boardrooms Speaks volumes- About a globalized youth Waiting in the wings To rule the future And save the (corporate) world
A total- Subversion of the soul To- The coolest fad Promoted- By the latest ad
Associated facts About benevolent companies Doing good By making profits Bring to mind A host of dictators Fighting over branded® humanity&trade
her wit self her wheat self her steep self her reap self her stilt self her sling self her twill self her speak self her peak self her reach self her real self her meek self her knit self her spilt self her veiled self her small self her tall self her elf self her sprained self her lone self her raw self her king self her spring self
kiss the death from my eyes before i grope the void i suffice in the shadow of your dream hear my call in soundless wonder a phantom bubble burst in exile sprinkles the ocean i am the grain of sand time discounts you be the door i open into rapture whence you kiss my breath sweeten my dream before i sleep and finally awakened gasping! the color of life that so torments
Though I've not any response yet, you may have seen I do some zines and I'd love to publish a piece of yours...if you are intersted contact me at Nobius at gmail.com
strong monochromatic minds perceive unidirectional trails contrasted by unfocused dreamers that spin caleidoscopic dice and reveal realities looking like full color cross-roads called tomorrow
Now I have hoked in deeper to the fundamentals I realise that Art=God=Love, and all the fire and brimstone bollocks is human doing, not the unconscious order of unknowable tune's.
manufactured out of mountain maple thereby drying is unique passes four times the size of oboe a perceived filled woodwind with a cone and total length forbidding critically important picturesqueness drowning in a prior stodgy instrument optimised for a temperature of 20 degrees celsius that laments being stirred by obscure bestowal on first draft before being called the "whisper" key hooded away with the math lunks yet dabbles in agility shuffled far from studied lowest pitch
Sweeney spat flakes of monologue to an invisible foe in room 108 before he took the plunge.
A flyer of thought who'd lick round corners like a knife wind
sweep up shined steps and cyclone through the swinging doors of a red brick kip called home
trailing his underbelly aura of tramp glamour through a smell of pine fresh floor polish lining the corridors like yellow smoke in Eliot's Prufrock.
He'd wake to reality's nightmare cursing in a feral wheeze or grunt and shout about
"cunts....bastards....lazy wankers dying of cancer"
then bang the wall with his fists to start the day dissolved in tears.
He never socialised or idled with others
just the one time of a long chat he had with himself in the communal area before Oisin complained to the warden who shut him up and stuffed him back in the dressing room where he worked on the final scene.
A plasterboard box he left whistling as he stepped onstage at the shelter deep acting at 8 12 and 4 dressed in a drab bundle of black rags clutching a mug
with a look to no one and none to him.
What demonic cause sucked his life away behind the eyes and forced his lips to pucker gumward; curdle twisted words in his mouth and draw sweat onto the one shirt he ever wore and never took off?
Years of liquid cosh and ECT beat and drained Sweeney's blood bound scrap with life nuked his mind and buckled his passion on an anvil of despair
razed thought to desert where a phantom's whisp frazzled his nut to a brain baking recipe the gards scraped from a pavement and time scrubbed from the memory of other residents the day of his exit.
I wonder did you ever see "Rise Up, Lovely Sweeney" by Tom McIntyre at the Peacock in the mid eighties? I was in it. This poem has the same disturbing energy, the same lunacy, the same compulsions. The play itself sadly didn't get published but the main speech (aria, more like) Appalachia was spoken by Tom Hickey every night, over my dead body, and it's etched into my soul. It's published in The Word for Yes.
You are getting better all the time. It's that Murphy woman; she's brainwashing us with ESP. I predict that in a few years time this site will be remembered as a movement starter, with She heading the pack.
"Don't fall in love again. That's a line they will feed you." -- Buckcherry
The Collector
Every man has the same size soul. Every word here -- a piece of mine. Something to keep. Something to inspire. Something to reassemble into the greater.
Oh Holy Journal-- (You hear my prayers)-- I am *Word*. Keep it close to the heart.
In Heaven, we will read every book ever written. With God, our potentials will be realized. The great writer inside will have all he needs, An author on the otherside. That is what I believe.
I live by the pen. Ink vein paper trails. I collect it all-- To be it all-- Never die (not really)-- I am *Word*. Collector.
Words Precious toys Strings of characters Shaping ambiguous phrases Ready for assimilation By the collector Who wants to keep them all ======== Thank you Nobius for your challenging text
1/ one hears the silo being still again this afternoon the whiniest machinery infects the yard the man behind it steers propulsion
2/ in the matter of a second hand the clock struts two one syllable softer than water fallen across crops that foil the hunger field
3/ the seance of distinction marks dovetail the seashore while pale lore of a near neighbor pronounces first person singular repeatedly with too much vowel
4/ parsed seeming language convicted of a pattern reverts to old ways when a voice comes to its aid surfing winter with intention
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