Embarrassment often lingers longer than we’d like it to.
You know how unhealthy it is
Yet you can’t seem to shake yourself of it.
Replaying these moments passed is how we live.
Operating on the fact that our habits
are ingrained in our memories, muscle and mind,
You have to understand that
We are machines too. And just like machines
We can break.
And we make them how we like it:
Over easy, scrambled, toasted, and shaken
You’re too easy
To get caught
Up in this hype.
And trick yourself to let it go.
shits been done
shits been long done so many times over
over call foul spread them stick up them
holy mother fucker. holy. slowly wholly.
the flowers of evil ain’t got nothing on this shit.
everyones trying to do the same fucking thing, but no one can find the right way to put it
hard put to it. jingle. pickle juice. plum cakes for breakfast
i do not believe that you actually know more than i do.
back-to-back. head-to-head. side-to-side.
living to linger. fucking linger a little longer wont you
just trying to get
laid, inlaid by gloomy
poor old bloom.
catch a tiger by its tail
pin it on the rump. hump
catching air, in passing
hickory artificial smoke
tempting but get just a whiff
rub the little bump. not only
always a bit too soon to tell
heel toe heel toe heel toe heel
fake. fake fake fake fake fake fake fake
slip slip no slip slip slip no slip drip drip
piano piano forte forte pppppffffffffff
try going outside
without knowing that to look is to tell.
there was a raging outside
from a distance too far away from sight
Listen harder but still can’t pin it down
how did these words become so ugly?
and how did our desires grow so small?
table manners, forks and spoons
is it not enough? all of it together tea for two
was recommended the split pea soup.
while still holding a grudge as the waiter walked away
but wasn’t he waiting so calmly still?
wasn’t he just thrilled to know
that what is there to know is
all that is in front of you, napkins, plates
the padded silverware, safeguard, child’s lock
doodles upon doodles of tics and toes
bananas and lamborghinis
oh matzo ball soup, aren’t yah too big to fit
in my cup?
last (s)now day ever
Was in it for the sport
in it for the game of tag
of war. Kings beat the Queen beats the Jack.
but your spade’s
just a spade, no less than a clover is
just a scalloped blade of grass.
With the plug in for your ears, arrears
muddling the plunge. french-cut-manicured nails
capsizing into that slick sheet
the thick body of the water.
She was only seventeen. the CI’s done ruined her hair.
her sickly toes, a contortionist’s fetish, seizes tightly
to its losing grip
the moving body that ceases
not to escape her.
But going back
back to the sport. They conform,
Beauty! Height! Breath!
They sink and emerge as one
a single body. Link by link,
not like sausages but like chains
they release with grace, and care
and ease gently back to their upright states.
hindered by that compulsion to look outside of myself in order to justify the things i do
i used to have the compulsory need to make things, yet intention and the end product were still always subject to self-scrutiny, and rightfully so. what difference would it have made if these inclinations and inhibitions had never persisted anyway?
steam of conscienceless that one’s for the books