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    poetry


    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bmUR6FCjO5I

    ...Created 2017-06-11 16:25:55

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    John the Baptist makes a beeline right for my car window
    and I remember all those times when I stalked my friends
    until they turned into cigarettes,
    never honest enough to beg.

    The rough edges of the world no longer
    call me on the landline I don’t have, cracking plastic
    pressed against my sweaty face.
    Or maybe they do, but I don’t answer strange numbers.

    I view color schemes designed to make me
    not feel and think of how another self,
    a past self,
    would have been floored by this.

    Pastel gray-blue-otherblue-red-green-purple,
    a rustic artisanal rainbow pop
    and I wonder if there is any language
    in which these colors mean war, or death,

    Not just the slow death
    of domesticity, of fashionable ice cream shops,
    of keeping busy while the ground crumbles underneath,
    one drunken night crying in an alley somewhere,
    Truth and revelation.

    Because what I see in this color palette is the hole it’s trying to hide,
    and the rough edges of the world come flooding back,
    only I don’t have time for them now
    except to think of how I still believe
    in truth, in this truth:

    If the world doesn’t break you until you beg,
    you’ll never see god.

    ...Created 2017-05-26 13:08:46

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    John the Baptist makes a beeline right for my car window
    And I remember all those times when I stalked my friends
    Until they turned into cigarettes,
    Never gracious enough to beg.

    The rough edges of the world no longer
    Call me on the landline I don’t have, cracking plastic
    Pressed against my sweaty face.
    Or maybe they do, but I don’t answer strange numbers.

    I view color schemes that make me
    Not feel and think of how another self,
    A past self,
    Would have been floored by this.

    Pastel gray-blue-otherblue-red-green-purple,
    A rustic artisanal rainbow pop
    and I wonder if there is any language
    in which these colors mean war, or death,

    not just the slow death
    of domesticity, of fashionable ice cream shops,
    of keeping busy while the ground crumbles underneath
    then one drunken night crying in an alley somewhere
    truth and revelation.

    Because what I see in this color palette is the hole it’s trying to hide,
    And the rough edges of the world come flooding back,
    Only I don’t have time for them now
    Except to think of how
    I still believe
    In this truth: everything has an underside
    Of dirt and worms.

    ...Created 2017-05-26 12:57:09

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    Come, sit with me at the bar. The jokes here taste less
    like lead the more you hear them.
    Brush off this jaundiced weather
    Like lint on your grandfather’s army uniform, his frown
    Etched into your smile like a landmine.

    ...Created 2017-03-19 12:25:42

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=fzQ6gRAEoy0

    ...Created 2017-03-01 22:42:18

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    I think you're crazy, maybe

    ...Created 2016-12-13 22:45:45

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    Her father was born in China, or Singapore,
    Brother lost at eight --
    The story wears down
    mountains.
    Sip coffee, think about the next sip
    of coffee.
    She is watching the garbage men
    Like she will have to replicate their motions later
    Like someone who has read the same book over and over
    because everything new
    is just too much.

    She is not beautiful,
    Not in the traditional sense. Not lush and pulsing
    with life. She is pale stallions writhing in pain at the finish line,
    The chance of a falling match striking a vein of coal.
    Her face is smeared
    with oil and sweat, her hair tangled
    and her white dress
    barely holding on to the pretense
    that it is still a white dress. She is
    a used paperback novel that is always in your bookbag
    whose pages you finger,
    both familiar and terrifying,
    like sleeping next to a childhood friend
    seeing all the ways in which the world
    has eaten you both.

    This is her finger inside the hem of my sleeve, saying
    Feel how rough I am. Feel how the years have worked through me
    like a worm through an apple. Tell me I’m ugly and fuck me
    like long division.

    I’m blind and bleeding in traffic,
    I’m naked in the middle of the street,
    I’m walking out on coals,
    To meet you.

    Now we’re downtown. Now
    we’re in the top of your apartment building
    with the lights on.
    Now we’re getting ready to go out.
    Now we’re in our underwear.
    Now the curtain blows.

    ...Created 2016-11-01 11:55:59

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied...

    ...Created 2016-10-03 19:45:14

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    https://theprose.com/Zammatran

    ...Created 2016-09-15 20:49:48

    dotsJournal: Blowing Bubblesdots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    blow me a lilly
    from the stem
    of your neck
    and brush off
    those nickel-plated clouds
    like my grandfather's army suit
    on a Tuesday afternoon.

    fall with me
    towards the club
    like swing or jazz
    forgetting itself for a moment.

    we're all doing well.
    everything is on the upswing.

    sing that sick breeze
    into my throat like
    a porch swing
    hung from willow branches
    and lay your hands
    on this neatly pressed flannel
    like a radio dial
    playing nothing but tuna fish and aluminum.

    ...Created 2016-07-01 14:12:47

    Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.

    Virtual Reality Star written by endlessgame23
    kaleidoscopic eyes written by rev.jpfadeproof
    Sex Addict. written by Poetic_tragedy6
    As A Bee Sees written by homeless
    just in time written by mekisha4ever
    obstacles. barriers. some such written by Daniel Barlow
    Luck written by MistidLovelac
    Endless Game written by endlessgame23
    Relapse written by ForgottenGraves
    365 Days written by jackz
    Shadows written by Daniel Barlow
    Ritual Hunger written by endlessgame23
    Plutonian Nepenthe written by HisNameIsNoMore
    Lana written by keestu
    The Creation written by eggshells
    The Eternal Moment written by endlessgame23
    Devil's Presents (Gift wrapped number One) written by endlessgame23
    Euphemism of an Interstellar written by SavedDragon
    Do You Think You Know Me? written by rev.jpfadeproof
    Holding on to Intent (working title) written by rev.jpfadeproof
    The Raven Lies written by poetotoe
    Prone written by Daniel Barlow
    lost in translation written by robbie
    static high written by teika5
    Last Correspondence written by Angeles
    Scorpio written by endlessgame23
    hurrying About written by teika5
    The Human Stain written by HisNameIsNoMore
    Untitled written by jackz
    psychedelics written by Daniel Barlow

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    January 10 07
    131,497 Poems
    Posted

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