weirdo writes things

Personal Business ,Oh, ,how, ,I, ,Writhe, ,in, ,your, ,road, ,of, ,Anger, ,your, ,road, ,of, ,..., ,shrinking, ,pupils, ,shaking, ,liquid, ,salt, ,falling, ,from, ,Eyes, ,reflected, ,in, ,yours, ,it, ,tastes, ,good; ,gold,-,laced, ,silk, ,ties, ,my, ,thumbs, ,to, ,my, ,back, ,and, ,my, ,feet, ,to, ,the, ,road, ,too, ,precious-to-break, ,well, ,if, ,you, ,don’t,                               ,stop, ,this, ,car, ,it, ,will, ,hit, ,m .

Sometimes, My Hands Are Paralyzed My brain sees no use for useless things. Sometimes, my hands are paralyzed While I write.     Too afraid to type that sententiam     Lost in agreement with capite adhaerente For, my condition originates there.     Someone pulled the plug.     You-.. We pulled it out. Sometimes, my hands are paralyzed (adverb)          ...                (passive verb)     So who's the real subject?

The Night I Died / The Night I Came Back I never witnessed the blade pierce my skin Until I pulled it out that night. Shakespeare only wrote of the stab, But never the release. I'll ask him, someday.     I'll ask if he ever pulled the blade     And released it of heart. It's the blood that hurts best.     The scar it left in my chest may never even fade. I checked the night I came back. Still there. The day I came back it looked different;     Titanium white is being poorly distributed on the blank canvas. In the world of this poem, I undid that coat. It didn't work, anyway. The new hands that pulled on the rope of resurrection Should see my wound, too. Let the new eyes blend into mine And see our mirror with all its cracks. Good evening.

A buried friend's chuckle My hair was cut today. The clumps had fallen like your fur. I feel your whimpers now.

Shield The Skies Exponential Wind Blows leaves and twigs down the mountain  iF iT haD thoughtS  woulD thE winD bE A swarM  oF beeS, nO differencE tweeN  needleS oF pinE anD brancheS oF honeY-sloweD saP ; thE naturaL worlD, kniveS ouT  oF carapacE, resortinG tO thE daggeR iN thE bacK : thE onE motheR knowS wilL destroY herselF The Trees Are Gone, Now A Princess of Needles Makes her first mistake Defending her secret self From the mountaineers in search of Every Beautiful Foot Of Elevation.  exponentiaL windS  cuT aT theiR fingerS,  holloW theiR eyeS , theiR deeP, endlesS eyeS  fulL oF lovE sO curiouS And The Mountain, The Ever-Royal Mountain falls asleep alone once more

Mariana’s Reflection Far below the ocean, Where the waves don't reach, A ghoul listens in the dark; Its strange tendrils gloom across the rock bed. They glean with hearing hands a small speck in the cracks To be devoured by calm, cold lips: The ghoul's monthly meal. The ghostly participle of the depths drifts Ever onward. It will feed again when it should need. A solitary nature in an untold land, living in the blanket of silence, Where is it the fiend would find the sun's screams? Alien creature, monster of prehistory, Oh how you'd cry Of humanity's blood and glory.

deified ll be a poem with no start and no end: you could put it on a roll of receipt paper, hook it up on a paint roller, shoot it off of a leaf blower to watch it truly unravel to revel in the seat of multiplicative infinity that arrives in a reread of the words that wi

Sociosunshine People without faces, They walk under the white light, The white sun melting out the contours. Spill it away, viscous liquid of dark, To shine on every Person with a melted face And shine their light away. Countless carcass Filled with black hole soul Walks along the streets Under the white sun, Ignorant to their dripping wax. They don't need to know. The white light of observation From the eyes of the metrically holy Needs no faces in its never-ending races To scramble on top of the bodies, its bodies of dozen As if they themselves are not among the flesh. They are the white sun and have to light it first Lest their voices fall from Babel And lie with the bodies strewn upon the gravel.

Stuck in your tree I was trying to sneak you a gift Through your window. But I quickly realized my mistake, Looking back at the old limbs that carried me. How do squirrels make so graceful a show, Using lichen to wipe their barely sweat-covered paws? Yet I slipped and nearly lost my grip On the roughest bark around! I can hear their chits and chats as they laugh At me, the big squirrel, tangled like half-cooked spaghetti. I wish they would teach me. But I don’t think our hardware’s compatible. There are two in particular I am looking at; Sitting on the same spur, Their blanket tails entwined And I think I do learn something! But not about climbing trees. No, The next little scoot I took Sent me falling, falling, further falling. It wasn’t really that far. Heck, you must’ve been watching Since you came out running, Your soothing presence now looming above me. And I remember the lesson of the squirrels. I look up at your eyes as your light darkens the skies, Extend my hand to skim your f...

Burnt after the Bullet House and Mauled (Postmortem) Staring blankly at the plate, I and my trident cannot wait. We’re eating a genocide on every date. Therein my dentin crushers lies your fate, But to you I do not feel malice nor hate. I'm only staring blankly at the plate. But what if I lose my will to stay? There has to be another way. I mean We’re eating genocide every day! Oh God, this is delicious.. What was his weight? The pig probably couldn’t stand, and it’s nothing innate. In horror I stare blankly at the plate. We bred and tortured you in your cage, Yet have chemists and foodies to make this change. So really, Why are we still eating genocide, these days? Ignorance is bliss till you learn of its sins: Eating the world to pieces with blood-soaked grins. Gourmands of the universe. That’s us, isn’t it just human? I can’t just sit here, this meat on my plate! My own genocide just tastes of paint-tainted hate.

Do you people-watch, or do you watch people? When I observe the human race, And I think about where my eyes are passing, Passing people being more than just their matter, Their motives too, ones which I will never learn As I sit here, maybe on a bench old and rickety With a programmed colony of ants marching over My fingers which drum softly to the music The bustling busker-boys play down the way, Becoming an intricate spider-web in that They show no signs of consistency, Yet all having some little effect on each other Which you could see just by how they cross each other's paths By seeing who steps to the left and which foot steps right Or if they stumble, their heels scraping the ground To make that scratching sound you know has a pitch but is too atonal for you to tell      (maybe the busker-boys would be able to tell you,      but their saxophones are being packed      and they're on the phone anyway) As they nearly crash into each other ...

Goodbye to Forever Blood pouring down its face, The angel was outmatched Like a broken worm Whose regenerative heart had been Ripped in two. And worms won't eat the ones they made      As Sin the Heretic ripped it limb from limb,      Her lips curled into a smile of emancipation.      The shackles of doctrine’s conniptions      Have been gored. In the angel’s final breath its eyes pierce the heavens And it wonders if its god was ever really there.

90 Feet Above the Valley A ropebridge will kill you. A mere four points Holding miles together. The hemp and wood Breathe with every step. You're supposed to breathe. You must breathe When you lift a heavyweight. Tightness causes tears. Torn apart, A bridge cannot help you Walk slowly, lest it fall. Do not worry, though; In fact, relax! The wind will walk you the way. Let your feet go with your thoughts And make yourself a view. A ropebridge will not kill you. Holding four firm points, A fleeting few miles are made For you.

The Science of Miracles Chromatic fibers of silk sail From her hands dancing away from her lips As the girl of the garden wishes a warm winter To the brave plants beneath her. She cannot see her blessing, Only hope that it works. Her eyes are closed, after-all. And she prefers it this way. If she could see her magic She may find it harder to imagine. In her cabin she rests By an electric fire. And her mother returns with two barrels for rain One contains this winter’s water, The other, a blob of washed clothes. Mum smiles a warm face heated By a roof capped in dirt and grass. In a morning of the new year, When cicle turns to leaf, We’ll run outside in warm wanton wilds once more. It’s the garden girl’s yearly wish.

Innocent Lives There are little winged friends Napping on leaves and branches That barely hold their weight. They're safe here in the sun, Only needing to worry about each other. Occasionally one will flutter or stretch, Creating a breeze that calms their grounded roommates. These little critters that play in the dirt Are each one of a kind, Yet we all just treat them as one When they scutter out of our sight. But here, they don't mind. The only enemies here are ones they're used to. When their brothers and sisters fall, They fall with mutual respect, Predator and prey recognizing They're not guilty for trying to live. One of them decides to cool off at the pond At which they find a friendly local Who is peacefully drifting atop the water. They each wave with one of six fibery arms, and talk through gesticulating antennae. They are all just bugs, Inside a little jar!

Here(to hear) Your Voice Maiooerds Hovel ohst zerf ourm. Mipen niskon, andum eye fois’s too. Fomskur eemig, Orkaryig, Orumeyp eeyeim chos laihing Tumusolf Soae Tondaf Talurn. Jueshud teykumay lotspreth Soheimalud tafine lieres. Nnthures tie inch rustooyu. Lehtimihiry or voise Inabusens ofmai in Antelmie yulchesfi Nishet formy. Aymtierud.  

Sitting Inside a Shipping Container Sitting inside a shipping container I put a traffic cone on my head Because no one else is here It smells like rubber which reminds me of pigs Their lovely hide feeling or smelling nothing like The rubber of the cone but I think about them nonetheless Though I suppose the factories They are burned at Probably smell like rubber I oink like a pig Because no one else is here And all the pigs are gone I saved them from this shipping container

We Only See From the Inside A red sky is the color of terror: Clouds of evaporated blood, The horizon of an exploded sun; Nothing's more scary than the sky. But the child's eyes see different: A blue velvet; a curtain for the stars. It's the slowest color. Unending, outstretching. The child's blanket hugs the whole globe, Eclipsing fire and rays. The old eyes cry: “Son you’ll see someday, That you’re lucky to be a child. You’re ignorantly undeveloped And you’ll find it’s a gift when it’s gone.” And so the child would find, Later in life, the globe the eyes spoke of. Just as they said, the blueness was gone. But one day, a child from the woods Crested a hill to see a city, A city of old eyes, a dome of red sky And took pity. Her life away from the world Never darkened with the onset of years. She proved the old eyes wrong. That it’s fear that we fear.  

The Door leads to the Floor. Knock-knock; it’s your lungs speaking! They gunpowder-shoot carbon dioxide Through a wide throat and trumpet tongue. They’re disappointed again. It almost feels if you kept one Oxygen for yourself. Throwing the rest into my eyes. Choking, Choking, The Door leads to the Floor. And the dust doesn’t care You’re not here anymore. You’re Air. Your Air, your heir Didn’t want to be you again. But that’s not okay. I’m Your Air, YOUR. I dropped the ball and lost your feet. You’re not here anymore. You left when I lost your feet. They’re calloused, I’m young. And I don’t want your feet anymore. The Door leads to the Floor. That’s. not okay. Trumpet Tongue Louder. TTL. TTL. TTL. TTL. TTL. YOUR. I’m not Mine. The Door leads me to the Floor. But I’m not Me, I’m Yours.

The Corpse of Time Leaves a hole in the world. ;However; You cannot break the skin Of the Corpse of Time. A corpse though it may be, It will never disappear. Mortals cannot slay a god No matter the volume we fear. A bucket can hold only so much drear. 900 years of silence. Drip, Drip, Drip. Silver-gallium fear tips and pours Onto the Corpse; It is ready for solidification, The thin metal turning stiff. We Humans are moving again. Let us no longer drift. O Time Reborn, Give us the Prosperity To feed our Posterity. And lay still no longer.