This Is It

Freed from illusion
I can see its face because
this is it, and I know it
can't hide any longer.

Rushing communication before the vision fades,
Ten willow trees still saplings but will grow,
This explosion of melodrama in acidulous eyes,
That convulsion begging a simple motion.

Decay in bodies, the living are going
to burn out like a light bulb.

A thousand years has built up to right now
'cause everything you've worked for paid off.
There's nothing to wait on, any longer and
directionless futures will propound.

I wait for her body. The thing they said would come.
The one thing promised to be from virtue, lack profit;
a test of the soul, monetary means fail.
Idiot. You thought women loved fool's gold?

Pull the drapes over the dead at that point
'cause we don't want 'em to get fat like last time.

Exhibitionist Tactics

A flawed somersault, splayed legs arms grasping the air. Didn't any teacher have the diction to express "tuck and roll"? For, a somersault is nothing like a cartwheel, which requires balance to say the least. I'm sure the physics of one of these moments have crept their way into at least one of our horrifying and memorable life experiences. Just explain it better, Bitch! could most likely have been the thought going through my mind as, for the fourth and consecutive time, my somersault drove me onto the cold, hard gym floorboards. It wasn't as if I had to create the shape of a pretzel by contorting myself viciously; rather, it was more like taking a hit out of a crisp bong then crushing your foes in a match of Super Smash Bros TM.



Supple sun, I feel you from beneath this atmosphere,
the hill I lay is raised and dozen daisies,
dazed drunk in the splendor spewed, the rays.
Open field following in time, time creates lazies
like you and I and those who can preciously doze,
divulge our secrets discovered in life's jet stream.
Along the cuirass'd grass soft whispers caress
our ears soothed secreted sentences, eyes beam.

c'est pas prudent

I've been reading up on Christopher Marlowe. Interesting guy... practically invented blank verse. Utilized the technique and live the span of his life before Shakespeare published his first play. Hell, there are so many rumours about Marlowe that he's practically been thought of as Shakespeare by some.

Decided to try some blank verse, stream of conscious. Which means there probably won't be a name for this... unless I titled it at the end. Then again, that would probably have to be stream of consciousness just the same. We'll see from here.


Staining walls with lyric and
sometimes copying the text
blank disposition nature's caress
tender guise unequal stipend of truth.

Fear becomes the style of which places
do jolt memory disregard existence
each later vision surmise volcanic expression
azure cries in crimson eyes of scant recollection.

Entertain thoughts preened by precision not for it
accustomed to tellers of blank notes, tote dysfunction
and recall the sitter's presidence asunder
a mental synapse an elapse of time the tick of a second.

Juxtaposed naturally free in spirit enchained outwards
in states unorthodox and akin alike
the pole does strike the sky grazing
alluded oil blaze beckoning great mercy.



For a title I've decided on "The Tollbooth is Intricate".