OPTSotD- Bauhaus

All we ever wanted was everything All we ever got was cold Get up, eat jelly, sandwich bars and barbed wire And squash every week into a day Oh oh oh oh Oh oh oh oh The sound of the drum is calling The sound of the drum has called Flash of youth shoot out of darkness Factory town Oh oh oh oh Oh oh oh oh Oh to be the cream Oh to be the cream Oh to be the cream Continue reading OPTSotD- Bauhaus

none of us

it never was how you know Lord sees your side ways backslapping, fools errand running in whiteout conditioning grace to meet maker’s storybook end. all of it was for naught nothing but pyrite misfire echoes a face unforgivable, forgotten by time falling sand in a glass blown into being by lips of godless song hovering above a happening it felt like something we do not have words for. it never was what you see always what you feel at the center. start a heart, extinguish a breath you have kept secrets. Lord’s mercy don’t mean payment won’t be due. now … Continue reading none of us

after all fail us

existing in a word kinetic reaction of a soulsearch; follow-up interview leeched through stone fetch me water, boy learn of your elders wipe spittle from my lips that’s disorder, sir Krav maga of difference bring your dead down, low now to the river head down, eyes closed you can feel swelter, festering around wound locale of bindings, bound to feel something other than Pouring circles of salt and charcoal Lost count of your Seleucid era walls of Jericho restored to glory Bitter, sweet are you counting, By the riverbank gather, Making pigments from blood Muddy importance with indigo Dance and … Continue reading after all fail us

food for crows

gasping, gaping. Metastasis. It glows in the corner as a fire fly’s mouth. Deep molasses of a moonless Southern night. It has a need of its own. There is a name on the door but no one knows who it belongs to anymore. That seed was scattered and crop failed. Erasure, in gilded gloaming. The craft of wetwork still decorates some of old pine floor. l’satan lo. Obstruction, judgement. The weather vane is rusted in a westerly position. Adverse to meaning, this pain is still subjective. There was never a time in this place where the low dogs didn’t whine. … Continue reading food for crows

Somewhere In an Opera

I bite my tongue and watch blood trace patterns of words I do not Know I wish I could die or become something more engrave your whys into their thoughts begin to understand you fools love has, is and always will be your favorite illusion so drive me home after the opera your scorn can follow me to my door but it is not allowed to come in there are demons tearing at my eyes folding visions into pills forcing me to enjoy the trip saving my feelings for the day when your eyes no longer lie alas, to wait … Continue reading Somewhere In an Opera

Patterns

the touch of the taste of patterns in my drying mouth forgone conclusions river rise in the summer south you will never quiet someone like me ever again the combustible secret stolen out under you my friend seeking signing soiree eyes dark raven black point movements in rhythm quaking tearing at the joint mobile massive missives masticate unnerve today fate many times over the process unable replicate another missing picture faded on the crumbling wall hand and head and feet and ears ringing drowned doll I don’t recognize featured masque becoming my mother hearts outside beating peaks hands not of … Continue reading Patterns