direction

Ornithonical Caruthers draped his dreary skull
across the mantle piece, on the empty shell
of the coffee table.
where he lays it next relies on the imagination
of the weary, the brainstorm of the psychotic,
the passing glance of the insomniatic

all i see is blue

the walls build up with
soot and moss.
draping their greenery
about with the slight
impression of charm.
it's chaos in the valley
footprints on the moon
and so many blocked off
barricades, holding back
forces that our normal
faculties aren't capable
of remedying. the wall
that holds back tomorrow
slowly disintegrates
and the anticipation
fades into background
noise cutting off any
enigma that may have
raised its head, unheard.
so many times there may
have been some enlightenment
but it always was swallowed
by the truth the world holds;
that there may be no truth
at all, that all of this
is facade, a radiating
pastime of the elder years
taunting us,
tormenting us,
giving displays of
pedestaled daisies yearning
for that last bit
of solitude, gripping at
the abyss. do we go forward
anymore or do we sit
and wallow in our merriment?

ggrrr

i've mulled over these thoughts now
so long that leaves have turned red
where the sun shines on them now
how many devils on my shoulder
pulling me by the ears
this way and that
decisions come
like rain in the desert
or snow in the ocean
all plans are left
barren, destitute
so this bottle remains
in an optimistic state
of half-empty

zxcv

i've hit this
and hit this board
there's very little
nothing's coming through
it's lost in a fog
protecting itself from
my fingers

parts and scattered pieces

noise sticking to floors
cocktails, chatter, all inane

if i called what it was sensitive
i wouldn't fool a dead man

if i called it hopeful
i wouldn't even fool myself

here i sit,
other peoples clothes

other peoples money,
time on my side
one less glass
one less worry

late

what i kept
swept under the rug

gnarled branches
tearing at the screen
on my window

i tried to grow
a flower on the sill

the dust covers it now,
as the moist soil
slowly digests it

white balance

through these walls are the
inner bowels of tech computing

night

somehow the sleepless 3a.m.s always came
at better times. my head remembers sitting
but it can't quite place the sweating pillow
or the restless feeling in ones stomach
i can't see anything outside
for the utter lack of strength i can't
find the strength to close my eyes
downstairs is fitful coughing which
perhaps i'll join for lack of a better plan
prosecco decks the halls
clothes mingle with the perpetual lint, dirt,
assorted horrible things living on the floor
vague mentions of christmas and festivities
long ago which someone, somewhere doesn't
give a fuck about

flavours

perhaps this commando
hits the irreverence
at brute force

perhaps this shade
of grey stalks night
with its own weapon

and maybe,
just maybe there
is one silhouette
perched on a sill

watching dusk unfold
reading back issues
of penzeys spice catalog

wouldn't it be nice
with this chardonnay
to once again
feel the glimmer of
spring, the innate
seconds of composure,
the dark settling
on your shoulders

apples

muskeg kettle cup said wheeeeeeeee as we poured
the next kettle cup down the hatch. down our
water-holes which preston says are unintelligently
designed, which is to imply(if i'm understanding
preston((whichusuallyonlyido(((ifevenido))))) correctly is a
signifier) the idea that we, indeed, are
designed. by who? perhaps by preston. perhaps
by some other land shark without wheels
or even some type of fucking fin. maybe steve
jobs designed us, but that doesn't work as
we're just not fucking shiny enough

minutes

an abstract gaze over hills of leather
peat, and goose down that fights the
way through modern dictation, through
warfare of quantity, through abstraction
and ab-machines, tied behind your
purple girls bike leading the mob of
less-than-savory, of stargazers, of
neer-do-wells billowing through for
a slice of whiskey, a drop, a wee nip
a dram entering the exit wounds with
peace offerings in spanish or some
other language everyone already
forgot with minutes turning to seconds
or that, backwards, if it pleases jesus
on his knees, on a cross, on the town
or just regular old jesus drinking tea

hahahaha

.

it's all smoke
in my view now
not much to see, but light. far off.
i'm differentiating between machinists
and watchmakers(stop me if i'm being vague)
a candle left on the shelf
lost its glow after two weeks, fourteen days.
the scent still lingers, heavily, in dessicated air
still though. continued on this line
the balance strikes matches with the bullets
of retribution, in-cognition, frailness, damp weather
soft crescendo as your main character takes its
last breath
last remaining bow. lights dim.