Daddy came home and opened a beer and ate a bunch of leftovers because the first paper is out to press. #piefactory #newspaper #highlife

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@americanmatt
Daddy came home and opened a beer and ate a bunch of leftovers because the first paper is out to press. #piefactory #newspaper #highlife
Snoring like a motor
You have one year. Good luck
Awwwwyeeeeeeeaaaahhhh
Reblog if your tumblr picture is actually you.
and also my dog
#notreal #forashortfilm #fishersofmen
Greta, aka Gretty Exhaust, aka Bobo Head, etc
I.
The heart beats; the beats hold rhythm
And that rhythm holds the center
Like a lead actor in the frame—
And the action rises and falls and rises again all around.
The heart makes a sound, but she doesn’t hear it,
Because hers beats too—faster than this heart and the world around her moves too fast at times
And things prickle and disturb the sensitive
Outter shell and the soft insides that are prone
To the spiky world that never stops moving;
That never stops growing and dying and growing again.
The spiky world that catalyzes the bother
To her—the bother that pulls her away
From hearing my heart beat and pulls her away
From feeling hers—thumping away and trying
To slow her down just enough so she could enjoy
The blood red rhythms that thump and sear
Toward her and for her while she’s here.
II.
Odd separation within this small, warped, two-room cubby hole
Of walls cluttered with who I am
And shelves packed with who I admire and
Cluttered with bags of clothes and lotion bottles
And jewelry in a tackle box.
Odd silence as I listen to the Count and the Duke
And drink cheap champagne and write and
She flips aimlessly through books she bought to read
But will probably never find time to finish.
There is nothing except passive aggressive,
Dull, and slightly violent undertones of
Odd separation at three feet distance.
III.
We are animals sometimes
Squirrels and field mice and young, red blooded vegetable eaters
Or horses, steeds, colts, dogs, wolves, lions, cats
Fountains or towers being our daily centers—
Holding us like gravity to our responsibilities
But our duties are nothing
To our animals and what those animals want
We both bleed and sweat and cry and want
And visceral outweighs the ought
And blood outweighs all prizes
And honest sweat, born of cavernous depths of urgent desires—
It outweighs all fervent toil and duty.
fuzzy snow
A fuzzy snow drifts between me and the water logged leaves of oaks and poplars
And a pang rings dully inside my skull—pang, ring, skull, dull—America
The roof is a giant creek rock covered in slime
And the birdhouse is long abandoned because
No one likes to stare in their neighbor’s bedroom
Stupid birds. They couldn’t handle it. Stay outta here, birds.
The clouds were moving, but now they’ve stopped. Lazy fucking clouds.
Like the way that everything else is going in the world today—
Even the fucking clouds have decided to give up.
Fuck you clouds.
Like the way things were on D-Day—of which I have no real understanding—
But what I think, and am trying to relay to this point is that harm is around the corner—
Danger is always just a wave away—
Death might happen on a beach—
Fucking Nazis.
And there is a crumpled towel on my roof
It is coral and covered in twigs and shit
I used it to wipe up a spilled beer a few weeks ago and realized that it was old and worn out
So I threw it out onto the roof just outside my apartment
And now it looks like a dead squid on a beach—or a creek rock—
Trying to make it back to the ocean
But the ocean is a long way away, you stupid dead squid
And the ocean is a cruel place anyway
Reblog if you want a bunch of “have you evers” and “would you rathers” in your ask box right now.
bring em on
The contour of some American states form a Chef carrying a tray of fried chicken
cool
Even more appropriate that the “fried chicken” state is Kentucky.
The More Loving One Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast. How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me. Admirer as I think I am Of stars that do not give a damn, I cannot, now I see them, say I missed one terribly all day. Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky And feel its total dark sublime, Though this might take me a little time. —W. H. Auden, born today 1907
Dad Sonnet
First we must shoo away the dark and the stars.
Load up gifts and Mr. Simon's silver cassette.
It is crisp, clear and December inside the warm car.
The music was new and like nothing I'd heard yet.
There's a boy in a bubble and a baby with a baboon heart.
We drop off gifts at offices but there's the shining delta too.
I am loved and warm and we echo the lyrical art.
He makes me whole and teaches me the subtleties, the new.
Bridge Prose
They warned me not to leave and I said, "hell" and then some other things. She don't love me and I don't give a damn and that's all so trite and lame. Indeed. Then I was soggy and cored out and hollow and wandering down crunched sidewalk that lead past old burned out, crumbling places that matched how I felt. And I picked up steam and steam plumed up from my soaked head and I walked some more and cussed and spit and felt good in my recklessness. I'm a wise, wet man. I'm pennywise and pound foolish but I know I can do this and there's no turning back because I'll lose it.
And
Then my elbows narrowly missed side mirrors. My jeans were splashed with puddles that hated me and I hated them right back. The foghorns of semis belted out warnings and I returned volley with middle fingers and hate. It was late. It was wet. It was cold.
And
I could see the city reflected in the river cold and calm below so I just walked to it and held tight to the rail. "Hell," I said, and then some other things. She don't love me and I'm going home. Forlorn and alone and soaked to the bone. Car horns drone but I'm heading home.
Bullfighter Poems cont'd.
El Toro Triunfa #2
For a while we made quite a scene.
The bull by the horns I did ride.
The cape, the sword, the hat--denied.
The beast and I danced and flirted
with each others life amidst the dust
Inside the arena, the ground like rust
Bullfighter Poems cont'd.
El Toro Triunfa
Today he rides the bull by the horns
calling out to his mother and hearing her voice.
The cape, the sword, the banderillas--spill.
The beast needles at the angry bullfighter
until he whirs and stumbles and thus a cloud
of dust. He will lick his wounds when he falls and