Wurd

Words and grammar, syntax with manners and care.

[betterlucknever]

obscure tumblrs

i’ve been sick if you couldn’t tell anything from tone illness not dangerous but painful is raw resentment a fever and pressure headaches. 

Bet you’d be worried if you saw the mucus and blood i spat on the sidewalk, in public which was the worst; worth every second. 

Brain drippings stacking concentrically lining linking some states to others, writing in public it’s strange i care so

much less. 

[betterlucknever]

Don’t even read it

i don’t even read or write honestly in any condition. 

No i don’t want to promote.

Eight days a week i am telling my friends that I’m busy.

i don’t expect things

like attention, fulfillment, or heaven, 

Eventually I’ll implode

That’s my motto now. 

[betterlucknever]

Congratulations

Between nodding off rhythmically and switching between  transcendent tracks i was struck by a fact. 

In some backwards corner of this beautiful planet someone was still playing classical music. 

Possibly even on an instrument I’ve never dreamed of ever actually hearing, maybe a cello. 

Not knowing what masterpieces where being missed i tried to contextualize ignorance in C. 

Humming a somber melody for all those nineteen-eighties national treasures, nodding off again

ash on my chin. 

[betterlucknever]

All I remember is the scent and shape

Stood hellish in the center of a paper weight was a shoulder, grammar was a pretense.

Sentences pass as the day gets lazier, sighs by couch cushion language is in languish.

When the city changes we’ll get to sleep sound and the scene inside your head will be more real,

holding our cold hands over the oven your hair is perfect, your face is a blur. 

[betterlucknever]

I’m an aquarius, apparently, that’s why I’m acting friendly.  All my friends are cancerous.  Thats why they see shit that isn’t important or even worth noticing.  I couldn’t see, woke up way too early.  But I wouldn’t brush off the sand on my way to responsibilities. Wouldn’t it be nice to live in some other time. 

I can’t be a cynic if I keep getting proven right.  I can’t be paranoid if my love and my brothers are present, but lingering spirits are dissipating years late  and my poor memory is loosing things I thought I’d always keep. 

[betterlucknever]

I know the motion or I've guessed correctly consistently fingertips pressing cyclical springs on those places which give more. Persistent dodgy deviant distant when insistent, the cringes, the singe, the smell, your face. The race outside time and space the song your body played, the breath that escaped.

[betterlucknever]

your friends live in the 3x6″

and text is messages not written in ink

when tapping on your phone or driving in your car

look up and realize you aren’t where you are. 

[betterlucknever]

Some bird parts.

I chew up my chitinous bits to make me seem more human. I bite nails, sometimes mine, sometimes just some hard and indecipherable insides. Fleshy leftovers are a delacasy I'll leave to those comfortable socialite cannibals you see on TV. Your life is imitating thirty second spots in between the shows that teach what to believe and what to not. My mind is a pigeon in a pot a roadkill like smell with more seasoning than three courses of mealworms.

[betterlucknever]

i’m bad at this whole empowerment thing it’s bad habits manifest; while I’m being honest i’ve been breaking shit since I was a kid relationships and promises and while i’m being honest there’s a reason i don’t capitalize my i’s  or my friends it always seemed rude to turn people in to commodities for you to use but i feel every now and again that that’s all that i’m becoming.

i felt it through the internet in the way your punctuation never came this was one of those moments i won’t forget it felt not bad, not good, but strange while i’m being honest i hated every second that i was gone and and i resented all of those new people that you suddenly surrounded yourself with i know these things could have gone unsaid and still you could have felt it through the internet; i’m just smoking and coughing it out of my chest. 

i hate ambiguous pronouns but i can’t find a way to write your names down without seeming callous it’s just a concept i’m not comfortable with yet the balance i’ve found is bullshit this restlessness is chronic the mania you gave me is all i miss it’s also all that i’m left with while i’m being honest i don’t feel like a cynic i don’t hate strangers that much and i’m still in love.

[betterlucknever]

A pronoun romance, pockets of pages of plagiarisms dances with no rhythm. Too many poets who think they do something respectable are just indulgent. Lined meter and verse, there's nothing more puerile than the pronoun hiding some essence. And when said aloud tend to ring hollow, as if "he" could be anybody's word.

[betterlucknever]

Ex Titular

Stop lying for your new ideology.  No one gives a shit about space or it’s relation to the pyramids. 

Stop crying about the nature of the soul; you’re a fucking child, your eyes closed but pried interestingly by sighs,

sexy lies, and self realized interbred pathologies. Tonight you’re the product of my notion.

Exploited crucially, critically used. Abused in a past life, but still honest to the point of discontentment. 

Yeah I said it. 

[betterlucknever]

what’s in it though?  someone is hiding in Heidegger

for a body like hot damn drop dead comparisons 

as often not exercising objects and hair

read or not to the books, the books full length album

more close than mother and child the other one

as often not exercising thought taut blotted

southerners ‘er hair hanged grand and something or some

be somewhere i struggled just think nothing is there

true isms don’t care somewhat sophist abated it

so questioning I read cells read how misled, how?

[betterlucknever]

huh

heavy handed, huh?

stop calling awfully, reminds me of something. reading your poetry reminds me of something.

stuck in  side split curling

laughing atrophy it’s 

hilarious. platitude police parked behind me watching. 

half these assholes watching,

laughing, i’m passing time.

deftly handled, right? 

[betterlucknever]

sounds of a body (excluding fumes)

your gut’s blushing from side to splitting side you’re leaking out loud and singing softly

honestly its not honest be calm be hot on phone calls steaming

sighing constantly dripping down your thighs and pooling on steaming offices

honestly its not honest these coffins in shopping malls breeding

teeth are tearing up and dropping soft soda sponges ting ringing

red and gaseous legs left under my bed, magic misled to a place of palatial pain. 

said it’s in my head, yes. 

comma in a conversation. suspense suspended, it’s in my head. 

creases cease moving and tears in pleasing patterns place ease where it was supposed to be

the ivory ending mended well but stretching is still difficult. 

swimming in acid living things cling to slick walls and barely get considered. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

considerable progress has been made of streets but i can’t find the will to keep moving. 

[betterlucknever]

that dead bitch

This is health. this is what it feels like, proud of sex and not much else.

she’s just my shower head a fountain found aforementioned, assumed.

[betterlucknever]

the vocation of the joke the goal of the posts the yellow letter’s lover your pet cat’s other family

i handle it one day at a time

an empty whisky bottle i know you don’t drink often i’m toasting food cold and left for you

it’s like a ten step thing

or a worldviewlessness painting living rooms blue it’s what I think you’re thinking when rummaging the ceiling.

still smoking out the window.

[betterlucknever]

You give me the impression of someone who can be pointed in a direction and raze in a straight line. 

I feel like a taiga, all salt stones and snow fields. 

Sometimes writing comes hard to me.