Posts met de tag “english”

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nice out

it’s too nice out
to write that poem today;
clouds are doing sheep,

sheep are doing clouds
and everything conspires
in favor of all.

it’s too nice out
to write that poem today;
there’s damp grass to lie in,

I lie in damp grass
and that which is quiet
is still with me.

talking is tough
and I have little to say,
I breathe in the good stuff,

purge shadows away;
it’s too goddamn nice out
to write that poem today.

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big mother

when big mother is whole,
she radiates good thoughts;
veranda thoughts of summer

with the wind blowing in just
so it smells the pigs, the sheep
the cattle, far off, bleeding.

sweet, sweet smell, good smell
of hunger that is in the mouth
to fill it, to cut, crush, swallow

whole – when big mother is,
there’s heavy petting. here boy,
here doggy, good doggy knows

when big mother is broken,
sweet summer blood smells
get stronger still and closer.

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the astronaut’s room

the last astronaut fills his suit
case with memories, sits on it
to keep it from floating away
and waits.

outside,
darkness drips from branches
in ropes thick enough to hang
his childhood swing from.

inside, light buzzes like flies,
fills every crease and shadow
until there’s no room left
to hide.

his room
is neither empty nor full, it is
space to do with as he pleases.
it pleases him to wait.

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me, myself and I, part 3: I remember the anxiety-fueled dances

and a guy who spits instead of swallows
dashing low over the fields, pink draining
slowly from the sky, shyly holding hands
after sunset – a damp ring inside my right

sized bell-bottoms signaling the fireworks
of mosquitoes, smoke, bug juice and blisters.
what does it say about me that I remember
lyrics to summer camp songs (they came

off by three-sies three-sies, grizzly bears
and chimpanzee-sies zee-sies) but not why
he seemed so handsome when I let him
spank me with a tree branch in the ditch?

children of the lord floated around with
gods-eyes and popsicle-sticks, tying knots
with red licorice whips, whispering about
a girl that started her period making out;

my name written backwards on a steamy
bathroom mirror. and no one was allowed
breakfast until after the flag was raised.

Third installment of a flarfed ‘autobiography’. Part one and part two.

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me, myself and I, part 1: like a nosebleed

I was born like a nosebleed in the backseat of a greyhound,
rolling down a Kibbutz in Seine-sur-Mer, Ohio – four small
farms where pronouns were used very loosely and neither
animals nor plants spoke and sang. mom was 13, dad 45,

a paleontologist, a veterinarian, a naturalist and the arrival
of a God who vanquished hundreds of lesser ones – I ached
to hold him, but he was whisked away when my mother was
given an enema to break the waters. she still says that I am

one of her nicer moms, she says it’s why she flies at night,
dazzling amateur astronomers with her heavenly bodies,
appearing out of thin air, giving birth to dwarf galaxies
like dark matter, always leaning slightly toward the light.

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I love your stuff

I love to teach, love to write (I’m quite helpless), but most of all
I love your stuff – your stuff is AWESOME, your stuff is a 100%
flat from being at the bottom of your bed, and it smells so good,
so liberating. I embrace the kink: it’s like those mystery-flavored

dum-dum pops or receiving a love bite from your partner. I can
pee in her and you’d never notice. mothersoup? yes, I adore that
stuff too! your stuff is so funny man, your stuff is DOPE. you just
state your love for that character (the fluent self) with freckles

and so she finds someone with freckles too – love it, love it, love
that you can Feng Shui your way to love (you, white person, you)
with a dank silver twig necklace and fancy tags. anyhoo, I love
to write, I love hugs (lol), and I love your stuff is AWESOME.

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bad light, public places (comic version)

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bad light, public places

it just may have spread slowly through the limbic system,
on a lonely road, and traveling, traveling, traveling, traveling
either/or posthumanously ostracized by austere acronyms,
including the H2O, joined at the hip (a tribal style belly dance
beyond terror and martyrdom) to the surf culture, suddenly

plugged into this massive world of women who love crafting
a corporate social media strategy for breast cancer, a discharge
from either or both your nipples, streaked with blood, but should
dry up and disappear in Jesus Mighty. if you manage to stay still
in a clock-wise direction: afterimage optical illusion animation.

meanwhile, at the GodlikeProductions Conspiracy Forum, word
is out: ‘to awaken our search for’ is either calling out to your elfin
skin or a dirty nappy – a subject as worthy of devoted veneration
as awkward sober armature sex. beyond terror and martyrdom:
bad lighting in public places increases the risk of breast cancer.

driving home with dad

white knuckles, steering wheel,
cereal breath reflection – tree
after tree aftertreeaftertreeaft.

brother in the back does as told;
don’t look, make small, pretend
sway is what sea does to a boat,

float is what a boat does at sea,
each wave a gentle nudge home
where home is a coast that is clear.

white knuckles, steering wheel,
uncap (sway), swig (sway) – tree
after tree aftertreeaftertreeaft.

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some b’s are meant to bumble

for Patricia T.

it’s not like you have much say in the matter:
when the sun rises, it rises, when it sets,
it sets. the scene may include an ocean

bed aflame with longing or the stark white
linen of death – and you, longing, neither for
nor against an ending, but longing
just the same.

and if it takes this long, it takes a lot
to wait. but you can’t really say that,
can you. and either way: it never ends.

just like some b’s are meant to bumble,
some t’s have to be crossed. you bear those,
sleeping lightly, just to make sure
t won’t be lost.