[x]

The Music of Life, Death, and AfterThe music I hear is never playing, but always there.
A haunting wind, howling like a beast.
A terrible thump, heavy beats in the night.
A delicate sharp noise, that hangs in the air.
I hear this music over and over.
In birth, it was my cry, the slap on my back, and the cut of the cord.
In death, it was the broken window, the footsteps in the night, and the knife.
And after, it was the music I heard going six feet under, the first mound of falling dirt, and the shovel hitting the last.

qandisa's daughter (who couldn't do it right)when you leave, my sheets are wet
with sweat and come and cold
in the absence of
your body pressed up against
mine, and the breath
poured out of your grey-green
eyes.

i'll never quite get over that.

left-
handed left-
brained

baby, bring me a heart to eat

so i can pretend i've got
at least half
the wit and twice
the damage you deal.

triple your
bet, and i'll pretend
daddy never taught me how
to play a proper game of poker
for a reason,

and no,
when i said you have to mean something
to fuck
me, i didn't mean
you'd have to
love me
to get me undressed.

the counter-culture
greets me different-
ly and when you're lying
there pants undon

papier mache prodigy who broke
my back against the rocks
and what
moonphase broke those
rocks in turn

was it you my merry
misanthrope
multi-
functional like this week old
casing some call skin

or did autophagy tap
my metadata from perdition
paltry
lacunas to fill
with secular remissions

of owls and other ancient things
wise beyond malignant years
but still wet behind the ears
raked against the rocks
and broken

a strawman cavalier

by the time you get this message i'll probably bei wrote a poem for my self-loathing
and writing
quietly
on the inside,

realised
that i hated
that, too.

thixotropiait's getting a little too
non-Newtonian in here
gleaming
control from existential singularities
we had

the brilliant imaginations of children disturbed
and the uninterrupted powers of ancient gods

but reincarnation received
[and it was a culling]
re-birthed as ideo-
logical lackeys

and if we're going to keep looking
for needles we'll need
to build a bigger haystack

superfluitythe universe asks
then decides for itself
embracing ...
parabolic tendencies of vagueness

mesmerizing strangers when they're still
gelatinous and dumb

still we're not the only heretics to flood this place with broken tongues

and like the rest we'll be destroyed
a limping neoplastic
when our egos and their urges shrink

and responses grow more lucid

Penniless MerchantIn depth it was analyzed..

Mimicked and materialized.

Demeter turned an empty ear,

A heavy harvest was hers to leer.

Sacrificing God and Ghost..

Catered instead to empty host.

Reproving grace makes ill to most.

Burdened me then; have yet to boast.

But tedious crops from solace sown.

A solid yield will find it's own.

A gritty game with no refrain.

Of due course, the moon will wane.

to crazy-town!natural hair-color ID pic taken from your middlename relationship, status or mood. the color of underwear. one thing that makes you happy is the last person you cuddled with going back in time, and change something. an animal for one day had a near death experience, something you do a lot is the name of the song stuck in your head right now. copy+paste this from the same b-day as you, last time you cried/sang in front of a large audience. one superpower is to notice about the opposite sex biggest secret/favorite color/the last time you lied. kiddy movies or TV shows eating or drinking the favorite smell. life in one word gave/received a hug,

Bad Poetry and Soggy PaintingsDancing now to wicked tunes.

The product these of many moons.

Paved my way through cogent mass.

Then took on the guise of math.

Struck the moment, wicked lash.

Sowed them all with wicked hash.

Hundreds gone to no avail.

Mixed, measured, weighed to scale.

Those that had no sense of self?

Put them up on empty shelf.

Of the few that found their niche..

A conglomeration; new pastiche.

tautologically impairedrepetition builds
(s)kills far from the madding crowd
where in the presence of proprietary predators
our inquiring organs want to know
the only true cure for the bite of a spider

we are

those who dispute the definition of paradise
tactile fribulations
undercover in long division searching
the ignoble savages for a unified theory
backwoods prophets in a theater
of socialized wolves

seventeen ankles walked into a trap

Abortion of the human spirit aka mindless risenEach day we are broken down from the minute we are born
A seed sewn in pleasure can be a love or a scorn
Each road we take gives us a thousand answers
But we watch with glazed eyes and flickering dancers
Be it TV, Computer or video game
The human is being replaced by something tame

Seagulls, Rain, Silence and Street Lightsthe gods must have created
four o'clock in the morning

Counting SheepStumble softly onto the grass,
And I catch a glimpse of the tree line ahead.
Could we paddle a little faster?
I want to get to the end of this before I wake.
I don’t want to miss a single second of this place,
But I’m a realist,
And I know that I can’t spend forever locked away.
So, please,
Take me to the river,
Where the fish jump out and sing to your ships,
And the water laps at your feet like the playful child she is,
Where I know that my secrets are safe,
So long as they are not whispered to the blades,
The grasses have ears you know.
They like to spread your desires to the next person while the wind blows,
And soon the

heroes of fallible mythliving fossils
we're not even legally mammals
simply convenient collections

of practical props and effects

small analogue soldiers
against a time traveler's ocean
our trivial tumblers unbroken

but not a mind left well kept

and redundancy promises igno-
minious bliss
the aloofness of supermen sated

perfunctory

and using big data
while sententiously locked in position
Procrustean

sentinels scared of sedition

My Swarming, the hatred of mundaneTwisting of mundane windmills revive themselves. Slow tears quickly swim down the people grim faces. The world shrinks with windmills as they grow more elite.

The swarming. The plantations knowledge that I'm still alive the pain from Caligula disorder that the humans cling to. Satan that has kissed my lips bleeds and curves in its movements with pinwheel pursuits something not of the mundane.

My eyes lift from their past, tiny molecules of substance began to bring birth to my swarming. The heat makes windmills blow fuses of sorts. Just stop with your crackling you venue.

The taste of logic had died with his was erroneous actions.....his t

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disillusionment

by ~OrdoVeritas, Mar 24, 2011, 10:49:41 AM
Literature / Poetry / Transgressive / Free Verse

disillusionment

no more happiness
only sorrow remains
promises lie broken, on the floor
truth shattered
dreams; stolen, dead and dying
fragmented memories
hope bleeds from my broken body
and the hatred seeps in
pain defines me
caresses like a lover's embrace
the disease spreads
fear crawls inside me
through a hundred tiny holes
a dark tide of fleeting emotions
feeding from my soul
desire blossoming within
my world crumbles to ash
scattered like seeds to the wind.

Copyright 3/98
J. Sean Collins