Brewloose

  A roll of the eyes
to Pattern's demise.
  While in the back
they take what they lack:
the sight to see flight
of chaos within an order-byte.

  See the splash refreshes
the sponge's fleshen meshes,
to gleam the resemblances
from molecules and droplets.

  The child of meshen, flighty eyes,
with a face of elven skies,
(That hang low in the day)
Spoils himself to the innate
Not a spare for the Pension or the contemplate.

Spin

You threw me a spin.
A screwed up sublimity chapel
In the middle of a storm
Crashing my senses

You drew it about
With a million tiny men
They heaved under the mass
Spilling. Wasting. Whatever.

Crept on me, to a typhoon
Splashing spirals outside sight
It pulls me in
It spins me back out again

Twisting cities getting lost
Tempermental images only faust
lose me on the rail
But there wasn't a rail to sail.

All people | All Seen

The room of angles
The sights bounce to everything
like a dinging pinball
then back to me

The facets face, direct in place
A forest of mirrors and shapes

It flashes to shambles
With a flash accompanying
The time between, a fall
To soft slushy waters beneath

The perspectives intended to stay unseen
Shine and blind and otherwise beam.

Mourning loss

To loss:
I read you
I wrote you
I breathed in your presence
Choked on affluence
The world at night lit up
The world in the morning seemed flat
The beauty was permanent
But only for a second
Only for a moment did you take me
But only for a moment was enough
I read you 
I wrote you
Now, I'm afraid
I lost you.

Shore

The shore calls to me.

A line of pebbles and rock.

lapping tides, sea spray.

My hands tell me to touch the surface

I wish nothing more than to be the sea.

rolling and splashing, lively and blue.

I want to journey out.

I want to be with no shore in sight.

I want to live in her arms.

Then things will grow cold.

I will again desire shore.

This time to be the earth.

Shadow bed

Smooth shadowlight spread tight to the table
A disilluminated girl sits at the seat
A Black cat stuck to black-backed night
She looks out to feel her way
all comes to her a smoke and ripple
All comes so slight and fuzzed
With a small supper of supposition
Her head tilts to rest

On the comfort of the blackcloud bed

 she takes presence.

I honestly don't remember writing this piece. 

Severity

I see them every day.

Their smiles radiate

but stone skin insulates

I didn't deserve it

It's for them, not me

From day one they told me:

This world is not for you.

Don't let this first tear fall,

without cutting out my cares

and leaving a heart wound

bleeding out my severity.

From my repertoire. Like? Dislike? Comment? Anything?

Sensless

Happy crippled smiles flipped with a switch
Lifeless treats stuffed senseless
Sweetness from a trickle to blinding white.

Heart thumps too loud
(He's trying to keep you from forgetting him)
Numb fires char open the forgotten hole.

Witless heartless senseless
Fleshy exoskeleton weighs heavy.
A squirming animal dies to get out.

And It does dies.
Crushed careless.

I can't decide whether or not to remove the second paragraph. It seems placeless with too many frayed ends.
ALSO: I can call them paragraphs because I wrote it. 

Dizzying

A slow moving whirlwind
Placing in and out of place
pacing changing pace
spacing respacing
Facing each face
of this insanity case
to rethink the race
And debase
The slow moving whirlwind

Brainscape

Tearaway Cloudcloak
Sear to hear with new
Upward inhale
Take first break of soil
Speedbound joyride
A vast land in store
Electri-city Brainscape
Out there for me to explore

Bottom out

The sun is still
It reminds you of peace:
"Take care.
you'll be there"

The wind holds stance
of an ever-winding face
Even it knows
It flows and goes

Plodding pine pries
"where do you see demise?"
But you do not answer

Nervous. Writhing.
Eyes burn faint and quick.
Without pretense or interplay
you tell me you can't stay










   It's been some time since I've written anything. I wonder what causes play primary. I don't know. Could it be the heat, the laziness of summer, my family's sudden changes? I think, whatever the cause, that I can take a down. I know how to use this time to add to my repertoire. Hopefully, the plans i have for cinema exposures go well. Those sort of experiences tend to help define someone. They at least open unused brainscapes.

EYE

Crease on the blackround

A wrinkle revealing light

One stained swivel-brained eye

Poised and balanced

Bursting golden out from his core,

This ocular marvel emanates clean:

Beams of sunlight, tarnished yellow,

Gently touch the scene

Mortical creeps dart down his long frame

This eye turns round to see them off

With creaks and squeaks he manages thus

Only, there are no more to see.

After all,

they live of pudding reminiscent of deep-sea.

His Spindly wisps of fingerling light

Man-o-war stingers to them.

First breath takes in and in and in.

All as much as possible.

Our friend, the swivel eye

knows of nothing much.

So he rips away essences of stuff

Just to feel and understand it.

Frantic pacings blur passage of time.

Soon all has been passed over with his touch.

He breathes up all he can of the world

"Picture this!" He knows. "A picture of things!"

For which he knows to himself, but can't explain

The colors confuse him so

Hours spent deciphering, familiarizing, self-discussing.

Still no closer than when he began.

The passing shapes of humans and place.

(though he knew of no names to fit)

After time well spent decoding every riddle

He came to a conclusion about it:

This is the world in which I am a part.

Then someone flipped off his switch.

Click! A droned-away humm droned slow to a stop.

The Light clicked off, the heart fell out.

Our friend returns to his previous state.

More shows to come at a later date.






I suggest reading this one twice, then telling me what you think. There is a comment's section, by the way. It exists.

Madness and... Mostly madness

    In a lapse in all good sense, my sense comes through. Like a gymnast who found all she needed to do to reach that further limit was break her back out of place.

I admit, and I assure all others living likewise agree, that ADHD life hurts. First imagine the cliche: The television that randomly switches channels. The nearsighted kid. The firework. Now imagine this: You were born into life loose. All the nuts and bolts in your body and mind sit a little unleashed by a few turns. It doesn't unhinge completely (at least not often), it just flexes and sways ways that send sense ahazed.

   This relates to me, because currently my nuts and bolts feel a tad maladjusted. Someone tightened them. Probably a side-effect of all the Tea I've inhaled to ward of this plague. But at the marrow, my brain feels correlating, active, and aware. In no other time would I have been able to show you this image that I write:

Mad

Mad machinist making mad machinery
Meddling more to manage menial motivators
An Ivory invalid of indigo eyes
Insightful intakes of incense and exercise
Loose rods left reeling lazily
Falling from fithole to floor
Holds he, hovering effigies
Heaved haphazardly, hanging heavily
Too truthful to take to the tart tartarus of reality
Too tantilizing to trim the taste for traction and vitality

Mad machinist makes meaningful mechanisms
Mad machinist missed concrete correction-isms







on another note: Madness is a Fantastic band!

Untouched Porridge: The first poet

There is much debate to this effect. An effect so old, predating art.

It is this which I dissect. This, in its possible parts:

Who wrote which words which weigh

alone, the heaviest in our minds?

Who wrote them first, I wonder,

he who heralded them as heavenly sighs?

That coin-tossed winner won the privilege

Of writing ANY words to suit his image.

Now us ravaged hunters endlessly forage

For forbidden fruits and perfect porridge.

--------------------------

I wrote this piece in response to another writer. The piece I was reading was trite, and bored me to tears, but I couldn't tell him that. I felt obligated to tell him that he wrote something anyone writes. I hope I didn't hurt him.

Star walk

I took a walk that night,
Torturous night
I reached back a neck to rest
See stars in place
I watched them perform
to those of those who mattered
Scattered, prancing,
silly beings

Ongone. Meditation.
Those stars shook the sky
What once looked solid with intimidation
Shuffles. Crumbles. Tumbles
through cracks up high
covering the pavement
Dusty misreadings
Now I see the star's names

With lightened steps
Fearing none
I threw all into perilous
I reached back my neck
Unraveling the sky-scroll
gravitation shifting
Sensations uplifting

I took a walk that night
An equally troubled night
Scattered, prancing,
Silly things
I Forget
I look down
I see him
He looks tired
Expectant
Inspired

Bound Time

Latches close around leather-worn flesh.
pulling taught and closed.
Cold steel grip encircling.
Chain of duty.


Flat face with markings so precise.
Sharp, functional, black.
Curvature drawing out the days.
Chopping and dicing.


Harmonious symphonies ring out with each tick.
Smart, and piercing through a silent second.