Unnamed

Lipstick

Off of which

Sharpened sunlight glares reflect

To make me guilty

To make me sick

Family Business

Gritty sky and dirty hands
For a family business
Savages of profits
A new side to tribal affairs
And competition

life's a drawl

Marc Bolan, you’re wrong!

life’s a drawl and i can hear it in a raspy voice:

"There is a town with a plague that has dissociative identity disorder"

Children call it cotton mouth, adults call it diesel fuel exhaust

and elders call it chaff-age; it eats their inner thighs raw. 

Marc Bolan, look and see!  

there is a town that i loath. 

Stickiness is a ball and chain for a heat-struck daze. 

The sun burns the back of my ears and

prescient bone dry heat is a pesky thief. 

Marc Bolan, hide and seek! 

there is a town with a fog of fine ground dust. 

The residents breath desiccation and 

there is no antidote to cure a slow homa drawl.

so, whale come ho-em darling.

(i think this poem is really shitty because it is way too choppy. if anyone has any ideas on how to fix the rhythm of this poem or how to make it smoother, then please tell me)

force fed

I was born to walk outside. 

From this silent room and to the sterile street. 

Down the cement, up the pavement, and past the city limits.

Until I'm severed from something I forgot the name of and 

I'm swimming through unforgiving ocean swells. 

When a corporal stain is meandering a white padded maze.

Maybe I'll find a place where I stop and think

about thinking 

about thinking

about thinking

 about thinking

about thinking that there is no outside

because an outside is always an inside to somewhere.

But: I was born to walk outside,

so in the meantime I'll just keep walking.

Nature Girls

Redwoods don't care for love

Sexless, satisfied, ready to die

Thrust from the ground

Reach out, touch the sky

They don't handle books like

The girls with the goods

Spreading and groaning thin

Throughout all the woods

God bless their sympathetic minds, plaster eyes

Oh their wagging petite behinds

i hate this poem

Hi there, up for grabs. You're a popcorn for a thought. Like my parents, can't understand the difference between fun and feeling good, you can't either. Why I can't think right now? My mind is still in seattle. there's a premonition as melted aluminum tasting lozenge falls apart down my throat. I'm watching whims of apprehension fall off the tip of your tongue. You're still my sweetheart.