königsberger klopse cotton sack / and cardigan, all kept in glass and paper/ // packaged can't have Columbine, and care-/ ful not to drop it down too low.
Xuebing Du
Stranger Things
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Janaina Medeiros

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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Show & Tell
d e v o n
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almost home

#extradirty
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Today's Document

roma★

Product Placement
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@shouting-underwater
königsberger klopse cotton sack / and cardigan, all kept in glass and paper/ // packaged can't have Columbine, and care-/ ful not to drop it down too low.
mic
eats, a locust-swarm of insult
casting audience appeasement
teams all re-arranged to suit
the jester's cockeyed spraying
even troupes of tourists know
just what he's saying
think fast
why oh why can you never think
of the right response until after
it's too late? Like, that guy who wanted
stories about getting sick from drinking
too much coffee was clearly begging
for several minutes of scat porn
material: would have worked for me-- or
when you should have told that other dude
to go fuck himself 17 years ago?
anxiety dream
Lain by me—insisting, napping, lioness—I remain beneath its powerful limbs. Frozen fear, I do not struggle.
Claws, rage: my impotent terror cannot shout aloud;
I was never heard.
invisible
sits alone, he
bit the bone/ we
know the flavors
change with each
new season/ staying's
braver when it comes
to graver sights, the so-
stalled urge to save her
for himself, abates/ alone
he waits, untouched, and
something like unseen
--at least his clothes are clean.
//
green blue red black
yelling about the exact change
I feel like it's all men, the toilet thing
maybe I should have joined in,
if your parents are gonna pay
for my housing. This puts a lot
of pressure on the public masturbation
at the end; you might need 14 or more
hours of sleep as a bipolar depressive.
Backlash Comedy Sunday gmail
stopped squatting behind a tree
to pee.
/
gesprich
You can protect the people
behind you with your shield.
Es ist normal, dass ein Wort
falsch ausgesprochen ist
* wird.
Mechanik [Mek-an-ik]
you can protect the people.
the end always comes with
"nothing good is going to happen here"
if it's a happy one.
Six Places Walked (a sestina)
SIX WALKS TRODDEN BENEATH THE FEET OF A YOUNGER MAN (a sestina)
Shoes, all worn and dirty from the earth-encrusted pavement Punctuated by the bronzed corrosion marking all the highest tides On record, left behind as landmarks By some hurricane, forgotten—but by statues Of the city’s founder, watching from above The blank and drunken plains, all lit with emptiness.
Fumes from fuels all spent on emptiness, Looking for long-lost futures, pressed into forgotten pavements Passed-by opportunities of times long over; Young men had their say, they tossed their tea in tides And posed for statues But this world’s already got its fill of landmarks.
Cubist glasswork landmarks Piled high by ancient Buddhist shrines to emptiness All shining new: the cars, phones, stadiums and statues Fast imbibed and spilled on holiday’s blank pavement Largest flags defended from the tides Of spent and hidden tubes of airplane glue, in greening wooded mountains up above.
Stone-walled customs tower over Dark Age history, preserved in icy water’s landmark Sheltered in a golden range from rage of machination’s tide The snow-capped peaking cowtrails, grazing emptiness And cobbled stones still left in never-patterned lieu of pavement Leading to some stonework lion, prison cells, medieval clockworks, frozen time as statues.
Return: the deco, statuesque Alone, and snorted up my nostrils, flared above The rooftops, overlooking police changing pavement All the turning wheels of centuries, a landmark To be crushed beneath the grinding emptiness Of rapid-melting ice flow’s rising tides.
Left behind by river’s moderated swell of tides And melted mountain snow, a duplicated mass of iron statues Standing in an empty square The false potential of the past still shadows over Left behind a burden, left a crumbled landmark To life’s ownership of failing curb appeal, by the cracking pavement.
Tides of life do tend to wash right over Glory of all statues stood as landmarks: Emptiness of place is hard as pavement.
- S. Winn [Sestina composed for the @poetryriot prompt “where your feet have walked.”]
set list
the one about your knee-high
compression socks really has legs
if you figure out when the twist
reveals its scabby swelling.
maybe hold off on all the public
masturbation (for a minute) and
remember: necrophylia's only funny
to the dead.
of 3 untitled + 2 with titles
yet to blast and slash,
Heavy, caustic: fluid--drawn down hard,
& over names engraved in bronzen cobbled stone
& stars are points
of artificial light.
that I am drowning down within some toxin--
warned of blasts and slashes
daughters, nieces once.
once, the second or third
many others still are yet to come.
writers, all
Most nights, I go and watch comedians
work out their act. Some of them
will sit on one tired premise, night
after night, because they got
a noncommittal laugh on it
once, the second or third time
they tried it. Most of them write
their sets on their hands, in ink.
I bet they all wish it were permanent.
our soul-crushed & harmless flirtation
sent more wrecks to the boneyard
than all the totalled, scrapped
relics wrapped around signposts'
lonely decades--never
hitting a single road.
kristall
I try my level best to limit
the amount I carry through the door
to this here place: the measure of my own
self-hatred. Mark these histories, while stepping
over names engraved in bronzen cobbled stone
were pulled off by some men a lot like just
who I would wish to be, if I could have my druthers.
many others make more of this place, and
many others still are yet to come.
https://www.instagram.com/p/B32TY8GIid3/?igshid=169oit2btp1zr
internet adventure
i) My Florida Man challenge was dark, with a large body count: in car trunks, daughters and nieces; once I pulled into a Pennsylvania gas
station, and a young man with angry tattoos got out of his car to tell an old woman "I'll slap you like I own you.
There were stories made by people --with shotguns and razor blades " that warned of blasts and slashes yet to blast and slash.
Heavy, caustic, fluid--drawn down hard
as with a drinking straw and breathed straight in
to fix some salvaged auto, barely working
now escaping, if the getaway
can't drive, it just don't matter all that much
that I am drowning down within some toxin:
have to suck it up again to trick
some one to buy my third-hand, stolen car
paranormal crystal witchcraft aliens would help me sort this out, I bet/ it's always just some helicopter's blinking shadow telepathic hanging net.