collection of old WEIRD poems of mine. |
extract from my poem kyphotic sorrow you mark this feeling to a place in your trunk. The drum inside pounds and reverberates each thump. beating your self up inside with a cardiovascular pump A lyric poem seems to be a symptom of a personality disorder. To anyone who asks, this is a eulogy-or perhaps a prayer. you would pick yourself up if there wasnt this immense inertia and secretly-bottled up there is a sense of vertigo. a hammer and an anvil to which you press an ear of iron. hour of lead the metal meets and shouts the stress a ring of friction, a gauntlet. writhen echo. illegal frequency and velocity mantric death rattle to end an axiomatic lie a black and white cry. and an implicit kyphotic sorrow Untitled staring down and everything feels like its circulating, staring. down- you get this feeling alot, but the ball of hate has never been so spherical. you begin to think how much like black everyone's voice is and how much you hate her. how much you envy her. and how much the rest mean to you. but in a good way. wait. in the moments of darkness desire is soo much exciting. you want to be torn apart by polished black claws. you want to be bitten and stained by black lip marks. you want to make another bleed and the idea of a peircing. a nail, riping your insides out in the most beautiful way. its seems raptuous. it seems like purple smoke sure to deliver a head ache... the walls werent always this colour but god you wish they were and god you wish you werent here to see it laugh as everyone else goes crazy. The loathings in the writings of a future professional- tiredness and bitter angst in intercourse. butcher- arms around me hug me to death put your arms around me mug my last breath I am a prosthetic body parts for sale I am a prostitute artificial and plastic I am so over this so so so over this i see an end around the corner if only i take that turn- happiness- I see the beautiful filth of Giger a dead end with a beautiful painting I just want to go splat ...in beautiful filth... im standing on the parapet But im all tied up in materialism i have no life like a marionette my eyes are so empty my hair is so straight today. Image is so important for a career- that i dont have. If I was happy with where I am why would i be writting this Perhaps i write this so i can be happy where i am ((going?, going?! gone?) !!) instead of turning that corner to go splat. !? (are you happy with where your going? do your eyes shrink into your head in an introspective moment of: 'I'VE GOT NO FUTURE!!', even if there is a future of middle class mediocrity.) !? If i changed my life to what i want and wish to be that dirty mess on the wall with the beautful painting that dead end- will no longer be me. |