Romance #201
Blah
Blah
Blah
Sound of hearts pretending they're disinterested
The music of an anime getting started
I want to tell you I will hold you until you bleed
and that this will make you take your clothes off
The tongue is stupid
yellow
a lie in a bath of goo
I will tell you a joke and you will laugh it off
and no one will pretend that it isn't a kind of sex
We fall down a well do we get news papers noticing us
Maybe if we profess in front of the temple
Maybe if the notes rupture like bubbles
Showing posts with label lies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lies. Show all posts
09 January 2017
06 January 2017
Poem-A-Day #312 : Pyrite
Pyrite
Let the record show that we were at least genuine - in some things - that the field of ourselves was sewn with attempts towards beauty
at times it was fallow and covered in snow - and in those times the seeds could relax - they could - wheat rests in ice to grow for early summer - can this not also be true of ourselves
I know the arguments for and against - the sighting of the hawk fighting the raven over the rabbit - there is a wheel that we are tied to
it perpetually takes us under water - rocks us against the spokes - winnows us - separates bone from meat
Field metaphors are about growth and death and cycles - they crop up like weeds in the words of great and lesser poets - they are reserves of water sitting beneath the earth - waiting like oil to be drilled from their ancient tombs
what a beautiful nostalgia - the wide-brimmed farmer aloft his perpetually churning machine - no sign of drought or of hail or early frost here
The lie in that America is obvious to any reader of any book on any subject - even not farming - but the hope in the bread belt - the grains of it a sort of pebble across the water of culture - that is nice to look at to hold to the light and to see ourselves in
does that negate ourselves - make the want of truthiness to be invalid - it at least makes our claims pyrite though no less amazing in their reality
Let the record show that we were at least genuine - in some things - that the field of ourselves was sewn with attempts towards beauty
at times it was fallow and covered in snow - and in those times the seeds could relax - they could - wheat rests in ice to grow for early summer - can this not also be true of ourselves
I know the arguments for and against - the sighting of the hawk fighting the raven over the rabbit - there is a wheel that we are tied to
it perpetually takes us under water - rocks us against the spokes - winnows us - separates bone from meat
Field metaphors are about growth and death and cycles - they crop up like weeds in the words of great and lesser poets - they are reserves of water sitting beneath the earth - waiting like oil to be drilled from their ancient tombs
what a beautiful nostalgia - the wide-brimmed farmer aloft his perpetually churning machine - no sign of drought or of hail or early frost here
The lie in that America is obvious to any reader of any book on any subject - even not farming - but the hope in the bread belt - the grains of it a sort of pebble across the water of culture - that is nice to look at to hold to the light and to see ourselves in
does that negate ourselves - make the want of truthiness to be invalid - it at least makes our claims pyrite though no less amazing in their reality
23 December 2016
Poem-A-Day #298 : Tomorrow
Tomorrow
Over the horizon of time
there is a future
No one said it would be yours
Over the horizon of time
there is a future
No one said it would be yours
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