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and I thought Shatner was slumming.
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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tannertan36

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almost home
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
we're not kids anymore.
Cosimo Galluzzi
Stranger Things
Cosmic Funnies
Xuebing Du

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

Love Begins
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
noise dept.
hello vonnie

PR's Tumblrdome
One Nice Bug Per Day
Sweet Seals For You, Always
trying on a metaphor
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@poetzombie
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and I thought Shatner was slumming.
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He went to Jared!
Various montage
Based on the song we all know and love [x]
Congratulations, this is the first comic-sans post that’s ever been reblogged on nbchannibal.tumblr.com.
Aidan Koch
Stepping Stone Poems: 21-40
A Half-Satisfying Mess
whisper of half real words,
still a fully real sentiment,
this is all pain and a solid scar
formed on the side of my face
and sink into rings around my spine
the girls I used to bring back from poetry readings
always asked if those things really happened
and if I really feel that way,
I tell them that there
isn't enough attention paid to me
for inspired artifice,
and all these accumulate
to confession and vomiting
all the worst parts of who I was
and what I saw , only enough art
in this mess to have satisfaction
in the most weak of ways
my being a misanthrope
has not stopped me
from genuinely loving
a few people and I know
the world won't let me
get away with this and for now,
I cover my eyes with optimism
riding the warm waves of assumption
that I can stay this way
the bright light of not looking at the dark details
does not really illuminate anything
and I can feel the basket-weave frailty in my bones
screaming as I walk hand in hand with someone
I love like I have never loved before
I wonder how I can save her from the curse of my proximity
and wonder if perhaps I am just over dramatic , except
I have proved myself right so much
but my weakness is the fact that I still
feel the need to love someone
and I am cruel and greedy with this,
like I am in many other ways
this is the echo of a collapse
picking itself up, hidden under cheap suit-jackets
because I don't want to leave a mess
*
To Hold My Prison Together
planned on living
mind medicated on sadness
built to melancholy and
and numbness is my overlord
across the damaged sphere of my face
there is a half-felt expression
I am as restless as the possessed
dining on the ectoplasm of daily drudgery
nothing is taking shape but I can felt it
the statistical ache of self awareness
that I will escape this weak cage of sanity
no matter how hard I try holding together
this gentle prison of civil identity *
Winter Haiku
it's raining again dull routine of slow drowning Portland Suicide
* feeling statuesque joints swollen big as my damn head will stand here for now
*
angry apparel pulling of my jacket,rain flies into my eyes
*
Sums Up Everything
Because, it seems the only two kinds of poetry that I am able to write these days are either
are sappy love poems that people seem to like Or
bleak poetry about how I have hated most of my life, occasional bits of metaphor blended into the bleak details, people slower to like them
So , tonight, I will say this:
Dear wife, I love you more than Antony loved Cleopatra More than Portlanders love being poor and pretentious
To the rest of the world, I hope I Live long enough to watch the rest of you fall to shit
*
Due Process Is Not An Emotion
No love is put on trial,
but as we age,
we will let it stay under suspicion,
the things we did to ourselves just for it, some kind of crime to be sure
so we spend years, not wanting to feel anything
to let that silently accused thing sit in bars of bone turning to iron
*
Still-born Rebirth
It is easy, too easy, perhaps, to think of the darkness that nests in actions I tried to bury, but with a thin layer of years, you can still smell the rot. I have gotten older , and a slightly more decent person, and despite all the skin I have shed, all the self inflicted scars show up in all the new versions
*
The Help Of A Migraine
here we are
in life,
and despite my headache
I will pretend
that I don't hate life
and most of the time
I do not
but I am sick of being myself
life is beautiful when I am not part of it
so I stand away from my damage
eyes to other people
listening to music
watching a movie
here, headache,
make me want to be nothing more
than vision pointed to another
*
Civilized Sunday
it will be a sunday
and I will try to act civilized
and my wife will be sleeping
and my headache will not stop
and I almost yearn or the days
when my illness was obviously killing me
instead of the slow days of
it being nothing to worry about
the facing of the end of ones mortality
makes one feel stronger
like in the midst of a prison break
just have to get over this wall
but this is the full weight of chains
and four square walls , and the door
covered by new bricks
and the idea that someday the bricks will fall
and that it was never that big of a deal
as the head drum pounds on
and I am alone in distance,
the football game my wife wanted
to watch, I failed in waking her,
the cats stay at the other end of the room,
everything on netflix is unwatchable
and time ticks on promising only more of this
*
It Feels Logical
the headache builds, and you try to write
All the sensations fall to abstraction
Aching brain is a quivering vessel
no linear logic is welcome in the bleeding drum beat
it will never stop, non-pain life is beautiful cadaver
the tortured artist in me is perhaps punishing my mind
for writing happy love poetry, this, the pure repentance
write these,and WITH these :
Sin-tears of diamond , Horror memory trembles, brain prisoner dream-flowers all wilting, Lavish fire kiss, rampage of steel monsters through skin attic
It does not need to make sense, it just needs to stop
*
Arch of Ache
head hurts
body hurts
world is burning
through my skull
and I have to write this
damn poem out of discipline
if I die, I can get out of it,
if this poem looks finished,
I have not died
*
Because I Just Hate People
this is an almost poem, little more than moving fingers, the echo hating everything but speaking in abstractions letting words become worlds where you don't recognize even yourself the broken distorted mirror the silent storm that gives you drowning lessons soft reactions of when someone posts stupid things on facebook, I become ashamed of my mellowness almost missing the days of when people thought I may eat them if they angered me and seemingly they thought anything would anger me but I've aged and grown weak civility becomes cracks within my bones and I am too quiet now, fire fanned ashes scattered emptiness is too dramatic a term for exhaustion that replaces each cell for a husk from forgotten days just wait just turn into this and watch the stones become family and air become sharp and life a taunt and all the new hit songs more proof that you understood things better before
*
Feliz-Navidon't
The damp roots of winter dig deeper
allegedly, this is the time for holiday cheer,
the gardens of melancholy never show signs of wilt
and I can do little to amass the Christmas spirit
other than buy gifts for my true love, and I have not
done so yet, I bring the horoscope , I bring predictions:
Will never be happy with what I get her,
I will never be happy with the husband that I am to her,
and I simply sit here , a chair as a throne to a kingdom
of my own brokenness, complaining only in poetry,
where you can excuse anything as art
although nothing is art, art is subjective ,
and things that scar you are never subjective
I can think up a countless river of excuses for my scars
*
because discipline
This is a sort of poem
to fill a space
because I said
I would write a poem every night
and there is a concert.
Defaulting on discipline
*
Abstract Silhouette
blue days with rain scars
I am not depressed, I just echo melancholy
pop my finger joints before I head out to buy dinner
my age written in bones,not caring for what years says
I will keep my stories hidden in my joints
I will keep the nasty motivations of my survival in my stories
I can explain , it falls broken to abstract terms,
but this is the falling sunset that turns an ugly man to an artful silhouette
it is better to not see the fine details, everything about me
is acceptable only as an outline
*
Winter's Misanthropic Splinters
winter day,
here and there, I bring myself
out into the cold the rain
it reminds me too well
that I am not a fan of humanity
lives are lies and faces are poorly told stories
do not blame me for
how clumsy the story of your skin
was told to your bones,
no lovely epic was I crafted from either
enjoying more than anything my weekend
the ability to pretend I don't exist
the sweet and rich sensations of sleep
the weaker little brother of death
needing nothing to make me feel alive
or an urge to stay that way,
feeling everything else that could
come is well worth the wait
the sad words that fill my marrow
were not pulled from the cigarette paper bible
the prophecies of the inevitable and provable
are miracle enough
*
Spirit of the season
When you think back to youth and remember when parents thought you were naughty there were no lumps of coal in your stocking, There was only being beaten then tied in a corner looking at the Christmas tree with your feet almost touching the wood stove and now , very grown Christmas gifts are cold sheets on the bed in which I tangle my feet
*
Too Late
I was going to say something a piece of myself broken off Showcasing how fragmented I already am but it's too late because words can't outrun what you must have seen immediately
*
This Is A Shitty Poem , Please Don't Read It
I am sick through the edge of night before my least favorite holiday though I doubt I have a favorite
and I only want to spew out my words since I must make something some sign of life
and I do not want to leave a trace of myself but word portraits of the disease that is the inside of my head seem least profane
so I shall end this exercise of trying to exercise having been only mildly profane and showing only sneak peaks of my disease
*
Unwrapped
Christmas nearly over and we resume watching movies No fancy dinner and the sound my own joints popping feels festive enough
*
Es Ist Nie Uber
In meiner Wohnung, ignoriere ich Weihnachten Wrack Winter technisch sanft, mein Geist viel kälter Computer malt meine Haut, im Gegensatz zu Windows Ich slouch nach unten zu meiner eigenen Demenz auf das Wochenende, nichts zu tun, mehr als ich ch fürchte, dass ich eine sehr lange Zeit, wie diese Person zu leben, immer noch
*
Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal.
Sylvia Plath (via incorrectsylviaplathquotes)
Three Poems
Translator of Doom
cursed to
be a poet
which means
that you keep
a tiny apocalypse
in your finger joints
the curious ask
to see or hear
your work,
with no choice
you come pazzuzu
and they, the wheatfields
*
Dreams Of Fear sometimes I don't dream
I fall back in time
to when I was a child,
honestly, just a canvass for scar-art
I will hide away, in the bathroom
afraid to show my wife
that I can remember
what good artists my parents were
*
The Decaying Merry-Go-Round
In the morning , You will find yourself
eager to fall
into routine because
that will be the only way
to convince yourself
that you have any worth
Put on clothes, and make a breakfast wrap for the wife
who is showering away
the sleepiness that clings to her still Check all of the social media,
and drag yourself to work and to
interactions with your own species,
which you are no fan of
and all of it is to prove to yourself
that you are something like sane ,
even though routines fall apart
it is all like riding a carousel of rotting meat,
and only the flies that swarm you
notice that you continue to ride
The First 20 Stepping Stone Poems
Threadbare
and love is too small of a word, I fill my tongue with a billion versions of that word, to try wrapping kite string around Jupiter , no bits of sound will do justice to the tiny earthquakes that run through my body when I see your face or think your name
Into Winter
because the sun grows less tolerant of us, and the fingers of cold come I must drink more coffee before I venture out to do all these human things to keep a grip on a job that holds a tighter grip on me
we live in a gentle place, but in my 13 years here, even I have found it to be cold I have lost my mind of winter, forgive me , Wallace, it stays preserved like Viking rations in eastern Oregon snow
the entire city froze in its tracks last week, the threat of snow that came only as a sneeze of sleet, even the clouds are laughing at us
I qualified as an old man before people started telling me I was young, the sky is gray and heavy enough my joints swell to birthday balloons , the back under my skin a stain glass church window in the evening , I envelop my wife as I am a coat of frost and melancholy
let the outside world be nothing tonight , social concerns and scattered responsibilities sentenced to hang on the coat rack , tonight, let there be only the hiss of a space heater the solidarity of cats and two people who escaped into the warmth of together,for a few hours more
Re-Shelved
go to sleep hoping that all of today that hurts will be put away on the shelf in back of my mind
headache and sore back the feeling of aging a few more broken trophies above cob web covered bits of past anatomy , on a shelf in a darkened corner
A Small Fire
I will avoid the ocean waves of epic love poems and just say she is a small fire that burns, providing the carbon base that makes me a life-form
Back to Forward
something stays here, in the broken glass world of my memory my blinking eye looking back because all the sharp edges of the past keep my walking ignoring wounds I move forward only because looking back proves that I never should have been there
Something More
Poems sometimes are never enough , just a hunger falling from fingers hiding in paper pretending to be a statement the less you write, the more relevant it is
Lascivious Grace
1
The art of growing up is teaching your skin to become a mask factory All the orifices stuffed with paper , tainted with vulgar poetry
My transgression is to pretend a part of me is still innocent calling back to my own instinct , be as dead as a statue
2
Some nights, I am left in moods I thought I have left behind , guilty feelings over my wife mopping up the mess of my self-evisceration
I remember as a child I would feel bad for standing outside obstructing sunlight from a boy shaped patch of grass
now, in my mid-thirties, a part of me still has not grown secure,
wanting to stay quiet about wounds, who still sometimes feels the echoes
of being told how worthless I am , at nine after harvesting a whole onion field by hand,
or the times younger
left with the responsibilities of alleged adults, the pedophile who hated his life and fatherhood ,
or the mentally ill woman who would't get off the couch to do anything except kill my pets in front of me when I was behind on chores
they are the ones who called themselves farmers
and they have left seeds which I have tried pulling out of my bones, but you always look insane when trying to circumvent your own skin
sometimes at night, I can feel a bumper crop coming on
3
Because I love to be not loved
they will ask me what my damage is
and I will say impiety is a comfort
when one was raised with grace used as a weapon
my future is a success if others fail to make sense of me
4
I learned what innocence is,
birth throws us into a world gentle and illiterate ,
we age, hording weaponry our skin turns to armor by reading sharp edges,
this is a world of broken glass streets every human soul a bottle ready to fall off its shelf
Because I Watch The News
keeping yourself alive by believing in the gorgeous cause , the idea that justice is real and that you can see it
But then, you actually pay attention and these things you hoped for become stained glass portraits in church windows as seen by Atheist eyes:
dedications, so very pretty, likely to nothing at all.
Writing Wasp-Eggs
poems come from the abyss one always hopes to fill, at least for me , no lines from heaven
behold the joy proposed of being an artist worrying that you really did fail in turning your soul to statements
the true nature of what we do , unknown to us letting the decay of sanity sink in, we hunt beauty by way of letting logic fall to abstraction
close your eyes, let the right line and word and image be a piranha hand goes in the water, hoping for a bite, for something to latch on so hard you can pull it away with you
the loving breast of an artist allows eggs to be planted inside it, only for them to devour till fat and mature, to burst away and take flight, as far from you as possible
No Matter,No Statement
No matter how many love poems I write,
Or times I try explaining all of it to you
None of it would be as effective as if I were to simply place my heart on a platter
and that would be an act whose gruesomeness would be profane,
no statement is proper no statement is effective
and you tell me that I don't need to try explaining it , but then sometimes lying next to you, I am afraid that I am draining too much and not opening my own floodgates
Gray Fragments
stars, forever shine,unburnt * fast melting eyes of ice cry * this heart bruises itself with every beat * I will survive my dying
I Am A Barrier
1 writing to devour time as time devours bits of me, wrinkles are gaps
2
I break through walls, barriers made by saying only human, if enough bones break I will heal to inhuman
3
after a while, you see yourself as territory others walked over,
by this age, you seek to reclaim yourself, now, obsessed with conquest
Swells From A Dream
it will start
as a dream
slowly rotting to
a memory that
you can't burn
from your mind
it sticks to you
like it did to your skin
and no matter how
nice life is right now,
still it will swell and show
that you are
a basket for shrapnel
of things you survived
but
don't worry,
there is more
than just surviving this,
there is also the joy
of just knowing you aren't dead
and that maybe life can be great
despite the fact that you're still in it
say you're at risk of becoming a partial optimist
just rest assured that this likely isn't a terminal case
Animus Headache
There is a football game playing and I'm sitting in a nice chair
Faking serenity
Behind my eyes my neurons are a forest lightning burning off all the branches
Tell them everything is fine because they can't smell smoke
Hooray For December
Fighting the flu leaves you embarrassingly brittle
and thinking of yourself as little more than a dump of old sensations stained and barely felt
night is coming , to make it easier to hide all the wreckage that makes you ,
grab your hot tea, and go under the blanket, hoping tomorrow makes you less fevered and less introspective
Yeah, That
the cold the headache the shadow of my age the melancholy that seeps in the soft winter that you still hate the unending backward flow of thoughts the swollen joints the cracking back the lungs like cement covered balloons the fact that whenever I talk about it, I am whining
The progress of poetry
Poetry and it's need to be born is a speeding car, unconcerned about how much roadkill it creates
Some nights it finds itself on a back road of porcupines
Cut-Up Reality (Homage To William S Burroughs)
institute despair here, just here.. there.. invention light seem long as flowers , in the world-wilt you , silently hollow Promise such strength , unkindness lays upon the world,a curse to leave it be This wooden ice ... melts to splinters Still seem at gently/ violently calm and you silently rock your mind back to farm days In the horses straw No circle can counsel , you cannot hide from anything making enemies just by being alive though enemies the high deserts , the sand that creeped into your bones and became a soul,your body is just snow that sets upon it, pretending we have actual seasons
The stars of winter's poem is riddled with parasites
is wistful of passenger such by their injuries
it all makes sense if you just stop thinking about it
Serenity
because most often there is very little left to write about other than my obsessions which usually just focus myself and the likelihood of my failing something and I try sleeping with this kind of internal shadow putting frost over my innards despite the calmness of my life now the obvious reasons to be happy, but really , you never do shake the things that birthed your trajectory, a trajectory you stayed on for so damn long feeling like you did not deserve any better and it is even hard to say what kept you there, what made feel comfortable, after all, you had already changed so much had already let the scars of your youth fade away, hidden under a new blanket of numb skin that was too old for its age, but at least it was far removed from what it had been, I swallow my scars and feed my ink-sickness , puke out the viruses onto a page and call it writing , and it is winter now, the time when sickness is at its yearly high and I am calm with this, I am contented with this, something like the happy that I am, except this goes deeper, into all the puncture wounds and cigarette burns and razor scrapes and times I screamed my hatred at everything holy, living dead, and Imagined , until my vocal chords snapped like kite string tied to two different cars, and I simply ran out of hate, and people to focus on, serenity is not a state of mind, it is simply a state of exhaustion, where you no longer are able to cause all the problems you felt comfortable doing
Old Again And Again
Can feel the rain in the window about in my mid thirties and everything is swollen and rusty and I don't complain I allow myself the stigma of seeming distant because that which fills me most is the urge to complain And there is no value in that it shows you to be the rust , the weakness the baldness that was once a man as firm as an Iron gate, If all you feel is ache, do not admit to feeling anything make your mantra a stolen line from a horror movie I am so exquisitely empty
Diego Riviera and Frida Kahlo with papier mache devil
Carl Van Vechten. Frida wearing a Tchuantepee gourd, 1932.
will always love you, Frida.
Liz McKay
truth
Senpai…
poor guy..
'Modern Love', couldn't help but to re work it
guilty as charged