L'ultimo Saluto

28 - Atlanta, GA . I'm Silverstein and Seuss with jumper-cables to the balls. . Unless otherwise noted, all poetry and creative writing it the original work of Owen B. Anderson. All work is © copyright, but please share and give due credit.

[obanderson]

DMT Experience #1

Exhale the dream: jazz beats of kaleidoscope shrapnel. Familiar smiles framed and hung on honeycomb hallways, dripping endlessly into this black hole honey pot. Fall into constellations. Glow bugs powered by suns take shape as Giant cats knead the edges and need melts away down stairs and slides, Taking root in reality There is no reality There is no holy Order is the blemish on chaos Beauty is the unbridled Fading into time As I fade back to life.

[themaidenofthetree]

I want you to imagine a ten year old version of yourself sitting right there on this couch. Now this is the little girl who first believed that she was fat, and ugly, and an embarrassment.

[k-lionheart-deactivated20171126]

This is groundbreaking

[gogetthatbody]

this is my third time rebloging this today. this is so important.

[notactiveonhereanymore]

I have goosebumps

[edgarallanpoundthatass]

this physically hurts

[obanderson]

I could start fires with what I feel for you.

[obanderson]

If the rain should stop and the world runs dry, I will cry so that she may drink the tears from my eyes.

[obanderson]

Treasure Island

In youth,

I threw a bottle to the tide,

and pretended to be

shipwrecked.

.

But it washed back to shore,

as if to say,

“No one even knows

you’re gone.”

[obanderson]

glacier

Hold on tight my dear; your touch is the only thing that keeps me from falling into the darkness of my own existence.

[obanderson]

The Lesser Gods of Earth

A light refracted through a broken quartz

beacons change, while simultaneously

crying out for something more orthodox.

Damn you tortured slave, cursed fellow.

Esoteric artwork brushed on a shiv,

fabricated in a swampy bayou,

goes much to far to harbour a secret.

Half-way home from the failures of hubris,

imaginations, rampant, stray to far -

jealous of the house next door’s BBQ.

Kill yourself now, ou bastard, or shut up.

Lavish dinners served, bathed in tupelo,

might ne'er grace your lips, should it be poison,

not meant to kill, but save you from mayhem.

Open your eyes and let your grace befall

Papal lies.  Now, save yourself from shipwreck.

Quivering in the wake of bloody raj,

return to the oracle at Delphi.

Sexuality invades mankind’s faith,

tarnishing the figure heads of the King.

Used and tainted drowning is disbelief,

veritable dogmas, frozen in time,

walk a fine line ‘tween the quick and the dead.

Xanax may never fully cure the tragic

yesterdays, when you felt safe in the womb.

Ziggurats and cannon law fear karma.

[obanderson]

Expel

She told me,

     “genocide and jihad don’t look to good on you.”

Then close your eyes

     and imagine the cave where I hide

          my battered ego.

See the paintings on the walls,

     of blood mixed with dirt,

         of Galileo’s model of the Universe.

Streaking across crashing membranes,

Big Bangs multiplied by easy money.

Gas Giants divided from terrestrial space

     where the luxury boxes all come with catered meals,

          blind eyes turned to the rise of Apollo.

‘cause “one small step”

-is a scabby stigmata.

-is a congregation of every me that I have never been,

          walking the Red Carpet at a midnight premier,

waiting for the flash

that never comes

to stop dead in it’s tracks

the devolution Eden.

[obanderson]

Glass War

[obanderson]

A single shard of you

drags over this sacred mount

that pulsates with the fervent nature

of a rebel yell.

.

A single shard of you

echos in the cavernous bowels

of a long forgotten field of battle,

where the warrior and romantic

rot side by side,

fertalizing the roots of the tree

from which I’ll soon be hanged.

.

A single shard of you

cuts deeps into the veins

that run with ice

to cool each of my burning desires.

.

A single shard of hope,

lost in wasted words

as I ascend to my place among the gods,

a Promethean example

of man versus self.

Self-assured self-destruction

and not a soul was saved.

[obanderson]

Saline Flush

I swallowed up the ocean, once,

            and all that it contained.

The four winds filled my chest;

            now, saline courses through my veins.

.

I nearly drowned inside myself

            ‘till Ahab’s bane bore me a breath,

and a seahorse offered up it’s gills,

            for, surely I be blest.

.

Shipwrecks surfaced on the sea

            to sail my bluest eyes.

And each time I open up to speak

            that cursed pale whale’s cries.

.

Seaweed sprouted from my head;

             my teeth and nails turned coral.

The days and nights spent lost at sea

             turned northern skies auroral.

.

I spurn the mellisonate lure,

             of gracious gypsy hosts,

where rabid waves and foaming sands

             grind on the golden coast.

.

At night my eyes flash green and red

             to light the wayward passage.

But vagabond nor sailors son

             can tame these waters, savage.

.

Now, albatross find roost and food

            in sunken cities drained.

But lost, my ghost drifts in this flux

            of maritime domain.

[obanderson]

Transplant

The red-eye landed, horizon yet young.

From far past west, she sought more fertile soil,

unknown to her the song which now she sung.

.

Across the cobblestones she’d often stroll;

the river’s breath exhaled ‘cross weary panes,

where local’s gossiped ‘bout her fleshy bole.

.

To they, the girl arrived with much disdain.

Though never did she slight them for their scorn,

but took the stage, and strove to entertain.

.

It took not long for her to be adored,

her name synonymous with slender grace.

For, when she danced and sang her lovers roared.

.

As day and night then became interlaced,

time drew on, and so drew from her youth.

The not-so-new girl, now, was soon displaced.

.

While in her dreams she danced and sang, in truth

the present offered no reprise to she,

who’s only talent had been to seduce

.

with flashing lights and face on a marquee.

“See our own Oriental Queen!” it glowed,

with flickering bulbs, it shone a limp decree.

.

Still, never was her name too widely known

(she held that close; for, much is in a name),

until the day they found her note: “Willow”

.

T’was then the townsmen felt all of her shame.

Into each of their hearts the girl had crept

and laden them all with a bit of blame,

.

as one-bye-one they each came to accept,

it was for them that graceful Willow hung.

It was for them that lonesome Willow wept.

[obanderson]

Hometown

Why have I never had a hometown?                                  

       a place to roll down my windows and hurdle railroad crossings,

       to navigate  a Revolutionary War Cemetery and replay battles in my mind,

       to face my demons in a storied field of battle

       where warrior and romantic lie side-by-side and grow into the tree

            from which I will be hanged.

Why have I never felt safe?

       no place to sit cross-legged in the middle of an untamed dadelion lawn,

       or smite the shifting of the winds as a stench from the Tyson feed

            factory invades my used up nostrils,

       or lay on an abandoned dock, stretched to the middle of an

            equally exiled reservoir,

       and smoke a joint under the Georgia summer sun, or the stars, or the end

            of the rainbow that leads me to a wife at home.

Why is it that every place I land, the window’s eyes feel empty?

       the front doors void of any accent, wreath, or something to make

            them look used,

       where the underground utilities insulate the static hum of high-voltage

            high-wires that used to sing me to sleep

       and children never  laugh at fat kids whose families are to poor

            to afford them the new videogames,

       so he lobs a basketball through a hoop, nailed to a flimsy pine that sways

            in the Tyson feed breeze.

When I find it, I’ll know that it’s the right town.

       The sun will set into my full bay window, lighting my silhouette holding

            a pen, against the empty wall I’ve saved for the achievements of

                 my yet unborn child,

       and the factory’s scent is overdone by fresh yeast rolls

            and peach pie a-la-mode and lingering wofts of the sweet perfume

                 of my horny wife, who really missed me that day,

       and I’ll learn to sleep with the midnights runs of endless locomotives,

            the tracks I walk when I am angry or scared or scarred,

       where I will one day rest in the cemetery of another Revolution.

So you might say, I’ve never had a Hometown because:

I’ve never stayed long enough to care.

                       or

I’ve never really cared enough to stay.

[obanderson]

Live with conviction, or not at all.

[obanderson]

Kyphosis

He was a hunchback bastard child,

a son of faith and farce.

A gypsies tear and tamborine

made calm his restless heart.

.

The offspring of an angel

raped by a ramblin’ man,

he carried on his tristed trunk

a sling filld up with sand.

.

He traveled with his stoop and sandbag

twelve times ‘round the earth,

all the while, just searching for

the man who cursed him with his birth.

.

In every town the crookback came,

he’d spill a bit of dirt,

and promised when his sack laid slack

he’d leave behind his hurt.

.

With every bit of soil that spilt

his monstrous shoulders swelled

to points where Atlas envied not

the lode that he upheld.

.

When finally the cripple came

upon an empty church,

he emptied out his silt sachet

to end his listless search.

.

And as the last bit of the mulch

fell down before the altar,

a tear of flesh and crunch of bone,

he finally met his father.

.

For, from the currsed mound he carried

Angel's wings sprung forth

and lifted him into the grace

of Heaven’s Holy court.

.

And in the strangest turn of fortune,

he refused to be remade.

The scars and stretches 'tween his wings

reminded him of earthly pains.

[obanderson]

So i can find it

[obanderson]

Quadruped

There was once a young man

     who had feet for his hands,

complete with both ankles and toes.

.

He would wander down streets

     all consumed by defeat,

but that was the least of his woes.

.

Because on top of his head

     the foot-handed man fed

through a hole that dove straight to his core.

.

And inside, it would rain,

     polluting his brain,

that he needed two feet, but had four.

.

So he wandered alone

     to towns he’d never known.

Yes, he’d walk till his feet were both sore.

.

Then he flipped, in the street,

     to his other two feet,

and he pondered and wandered some more.

.

He walked and he ran

     and he slept in the sand

but that hole in his head, it would drown.

.

So he strayed from the shores

     and spent his nights with whores

who cared not for his feet nor his crown.

.

Till along came a girl,

     who had french-fried her curls

and she caught hold the foot-handed mans eye.

.

But she scoffed at her haul,

     he would not do, at all,

so she threw him back into the sky.

[obanderson]

Just because i want to be able to find it on here easier.

[wearyourweaknesseswithpride]

[gostraskhalana-deactivated20130]

That’s the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty, even if they’re not much to look at, or even if they’re sort of stupid, you fall in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are. Girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy. They really can.

J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye (via solipsism2)

Holden Caufield is my spirit animal.