We’re born out of candyland and cookies,
after our mothers become determined that
this batch will be better. Be careful eyes and ears,
what you allow in. We siphon the darkness
from the beginning, often hiding from the light.
We grow up on lunch sack poetry, never wandering
more than ten miles from home.
In the wake of oblivion, we turn into
an unknown constellation, we start to feel
the unsaid unknowns within our pores.
We watch the skies turn red, the sun
becomes the bomb as colors explode
into dusk. We keep count. We fall in love
with the American Icarcus. You and me
are changing. We sit outside
our windows, listening to cascading raindrops
and reversed rainstorms, rambling memoirs,
and remember “onward, upward, ever forward”
is the way we lead life encoded. We find
the creaks and cracks, redefining reality–
our days being encountered with ambiguous transparency–
a little bit louder now, we discover
we’re no longer muselessness, we’re
a quiet joy, the loneliest apparition,
a space where we can be simply,
exhaling catalysts. Smoke from pallid fire spread
by the wind, we pack our suitcase and begin
to wander. We’ve become boy wanderings
and she’s an Argonauts. We meet meandering lions,
figures in the mist, and women with tempest filled eyes,
after the whispers of universe speaking, we tattoo our skin
“vivere mori” defining our existence, and we only
know just an inkling, our flaws stitched with good
intentions, stealing neverland for our own home.
This is the era of the American Masters, of writers,
placing our fingers on triggers and submarine dreams.
We carry bottles of velixir and mumble under our tongues
violet words, carrying seasoning: parsley, sage, rosemary,
and thyme. These fragments are ascension dreams and
slurred sounds, sounding like jayarrarr,
confused by everything, molded into stories
of our scars. We write about memories of performers,
and who we hold in our heart’s chambers, the you soothe my soul
love, we beg fall through me, be my smoke in a tin, my ordinary wonder,
accept me, my tarnished soul. We’re searching for the movement,
living off of cigarettes and leather, manuscripts and bourbon.
We’re bitten by an eternally coiling serpent, dripping blood
onto yellow pad papers, turning into our core thoughts about
who we are. We begin with titles “Of Mice and Misanthropes”
We’ve pocketed a thousand clever words, our admissions of guilt,
words without echoes, thoughts at a glance, weary orgasms, and a final sin.
Until we’re seeing the horizon again, sitting at the café of the damned,
with a sign outside “Heroes Welcomed”
Our titles not found, stripping savage writing and finding promises
in the binding of used books at the corner bookstore.
The dust will sing, and the dust dances too.
We find table tops covered in beauty and the duplicity of youth,
we compare them to lions and birds, learning a little about you
and them. We’re always the poet inside, stuttering words with original
energy, dancing with words, like it’s ordinary life until the siren of the east,
and realize we’re only part gravity, a hole in the whole.
We have bags of dead books, authors, poets, soaking in literature
to expand our knowledge. Transforming art and literature
into artreture. Generally raw. You’re not just a writer who writes,
the ocean is in your eyes, you’re wounded soul battles, you’re greatness
that lies within. It was when you’re hair was so long, we’re awaiting the break
of the sun, for a blank slate, descending ascension, laying under grass skies
in the middle of bedlam. Watching whispering dreams decay
in the clouds carried by the wind. We jump off roof tops,
we’re girls broken down, running with mustangs,
and the moon shows the mist from tobacco that sends sensations through
our spines, settling when mars comes into view.
Our pen is our pistola, and we capture poems from cursed lips,
out of her head, in a pile of fox bones. And we’re tired.
We write our shout of the day on chalkboard paint,
hoping someone will read it. We pass the return point
on nothing and everything. Some chose to be anonymous
for your safety but we ask not to become forgetlings. We make
our way to the Vagabond King’s castle, wishing to find
an abstract escape, where it rains all day and search
from the heart of our mind for amethyst hearts
and secreted sins. We’re searching for wisdom
and ways to become an apocalypse poet.
There are no off switches and our faces
become untouchable. Can we set our lives
in italics in underground ink. The answers
lie inside star light and city streets, in
the fierest fables, come in three for Thursdays and
during midnight rants. There is hope in healing, hope handwritten
within moderate climates and inside birdcages
and even our own ribcages. We’re the very modern man
and fetal antichrists. We claim it’s that one over there,
underneath the shedding petals of the lilys of the field.
We lay our children into kats kradles, and use fluorescent ink
across the ceiling telling the tales we never want to forget.
It’s in this silent storm we wonder why do we think so much,
the words lingering inside a profound ocean, forever in outer space.
We fold our thoughts into origami minds, and make sure what’s worth writing
down finds empty pages. The doctors are surprised when they discover
our hearts are made of ink. We eagerly out run the apathy and
shattered eminents leaving a legacy, as we leave you a pen,
hoping you know what comes next. We find secrets in milkshakes
and splinters, love and raisins, we experiment with being
the devil’s muse inside the magical typewriter. We expand
after we buy a new notebook for daily doodles,
finding the wrong way out of writer’s block, only to find
it again in enlightened shadows and rhapsody in green.
We wear nametags that say mister self-destruct, because
it’s what we know best. The spirited saphira calms our nerves
and settles back into the earths atmosphere,
leaving the coolniverse and the super satellite orbiting the moon.
We find 10,000 sidewalks marked with letters in black and blue,
lined with trees full of peaches fresh for the picking,
and ponds full of ducklings, and where the crooked girl dances,
finding things that mean something. Now we’re looking
for wisdom in bathroom stall poetry, collecting six little milk teeth.
We swallow the sun and breath music,
we look beyond the sunrise and find patterns
in smoken mirrors. We like painting daffodils,
waving when jhay jhay the jet plane flies overhead.
We soak in dreams and ashes and imagine butterflies
dreaming in the afternoon sun by the sea, the sea
that lives in me, collecting buckets of glass and seashells
and chaiivee, becoming friends with sea turtles and narwhales
and naming them Rakuli, because it’s unrhymable.
We’re entrapped thoughts and become the loser
phenomenon, and tell strangers to think us strange.
We cry best with poetic tears with mellifluous flow.
The introvert monologues is playing down the street,
and we know this because we’re always in transition,
taking stock of what matters most. We write letters to you,
about how we’re living morbid, spilling ink in run down verses,
ways to paint me secure with pens and wind.
The truth is, we’re most alive in dreams and we’re never
the greyer as the rain begins to pour. We met the girl
with the yellow hair and show her the words we captured.
Our soul turns pensieve with strayed thoughts and work mens comp.
Cordelia writes with zannus and gracious words using her inner
expression. We found silent gray sitting alongside the wall paper
and as little birds sing. There’s a poetic persistence in every day life
and daily digressions how to face your demons. We read about blinding
chaos in Romeo’s affair, burning stories and midnight oil. We live
among misfit words and tragic verses, we daydream at night
with lazy solutions to reality, we wake poetically undead
and poetically profound. Ok, call us gods and goddesses
of written word, and we’ll be sailing through august,
swimming with whales as light as gravity,
until august is over. We find trains with graffiti spirits
along side rivers of stars, misused paperless words washed upon shores
under the lilac trees. We are deeply rooted in sleepless songs
whispering words between willow branches. We beg
our lovers to fuck me with words in divine cacophony,
because we’re heartless romantics beyond the back line.
We change our path and start heading down north
playing with heavy words and unfinished sentences.
This is our pain, our purpose, we’re imprisoned
philosophers in reading writing and arithmetic.
We’re sent skyward in pseudo perfection searching
for poet dreamers and the light of angelical darkness.
We count pennies in the well and search behind eyes,
and haunting the ghost who writes. We exit in grand
chariots, finally revealing our hidden desires, surrounded
by the wings of autumn’s dragonflies. We make our beds,
folding bedsheets on our own, counting the like stitches
and letting our dreams take flight out our open windows
with our ink stained hearts. These are our small corners
of life, let’s keep it fresh, always acknowledging, the pilgrim
soul inside.
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
snowghoul
kianamaiart
romaincrisis
baratheonpilled
gracieabrams
