Tag Archives: freestyle
Eating Thorns.

All this time
in between
then and now
been simmering
been building up
rather patiently
brooding silently
been grinding teeth
been stomping feet
been digging holes
with an upward swing
eating poisonous thorns from trees
like it’s sugarcane
with Mexico’s best peyote
cigars and syringes
sparkling fringes
champagne, cocaine
and pornography
somewhere out there
fathomed too deep
where I hardly sleep
but my eyes stay closed
my mouth remains sewn
over words of my own
this place is forsaken
this space can’t be taken
the loose change shaken
from the secret pockets
sewn inside my cheeks.
So What Do You Do?

What do you do when the knowledge finally seeps through?
Can you enjoy your freedom with the enslaved watching you?
What do you do when you have too many mountains to move?
Will you dirty your own hands trying to dig up the truth?
Can you worry about only the things that you pick and choose?
The trivial nuisance of something like gum on your shoe,
the convivial looseness of someone who means nothing to you;
What do you do when the call has rung loudly through?
Can you hurry out and scream about things you must do?
Will you fizzle out and fade away like so many before you?
What do I do when it’s time to reach out and grab onto,
The material rips, my fingers stick with pin pricks of VooDoo,
the unusual fits that linger and stick in the thick of the shit you do.
Damaged Goods.

You say you’d never want to be
part of the darkness that envelopes me
You announce in your full capacity
How you’d hate to make me a memory
You mark up my skin with your teeth
You freeze time to sit with me silently
You say you’d never want to see
A future now, if it’s without our thing
And the closeness leaves a sting
My face burns and my ears scream
that future flashes in dashes and smoke rings
another party self-crashes to ashes, smoldering
Full of Guts and Seeking Glory.

We had spent all of ‘eternity’,
as we both knew the word to be,
swaying in time to a ticking,
the archaic music of a dying breed,
a mixture of feelings,
stacked up to the ceiling,
the shift in direction so subtly,
akin to the route of my thinking,
I define what is the lonely,
unyielding and unbending,
I despise my own tale’s ending,
tired of telling the story,
full of guts and seeking glory,
I will seek for all my days,
I will break for my own sake,
you can’t console me,
you won’t be able to hold me,
I seem to slip on through,
no stitching remains rip-free,
tears up and along the seam,
those same old railroad tracks to my dreams,
I shake awake too late to warn you,
we’ve already gone,
you and me.
Detachedly.

(Yes, I think I totally made up that word up there ^ …. whatever)
Wound up and down
in a knot strong and sound
tightly coiled
protectively oiled
this knot won’t come unwound;
swirls the noise of defeat
bound like rope to my feet
still survives
misery thrives
in the eyes of this injured beast;
Given sometimes to perplexing fits
driven through tried and true bullshit
strangely free
detachedly
just glad to be as far away as I can get.
Apocryphal.

What’s a young life that’s been checked and abused,
just naturally expected to someday evolve into?
Is it possible that most people don’t have a clue?
But then, how could they feel the fit of my shoes?
It seems probable that those who life’s been good to,
with the spring in their’ steps as they walk down the avenue,
will each live and die miles from any Life that is true,
without walking the line down hard times, blind to virtue.
Because, what’s an old girl supposed to do,
at the appearance of that elusive “moment of truth”?
When the truth doesn’t seem to at all recognize you,
and instead, fills your head and keeps lying to you.
Or Shall I Say?

Go on,
hah, giddy up
run along
don’t fuck it up
your will feels strong
to try your luck
make it rain
down the drain
more bang for the buck
Or shall I say
more buck
for the bang
more overtime play
of never fading
head games
Or shall I
try to summarize
the way I’ve changed
over time
there’s nothing gained
that’s right
drink it up
no fucking way
will I pass my cup
or shall I
try to remind
try to connect
the broken lines
I can’t relay
with any accuracy
with any subtlety
the way it feels
when you look at me
try some sympathy
try a different view
something new
might surprise
the stiffened likes of you
look into these eyes
beyond the lies
they feed to you
or shall I
compartmentalize
my sympathetic view?
Baited.

Never will you endeavor to mind,
I’ll just be here hanging on the line,
baited breath for the elusive reply,
skin that burns at the turn of your blind eye…
forever and ever spins this glitch in time,
laid out before those very shaded eyes,
a charted route you refuse to recognize,
tongues that sting as they swing and spill lies…
not a moment wasted of your precious time,
no second thought over this burden of mine,
watch me continue, pass right down the line,
no turning back to paint black what I leave behind…
you’ve surely exposed yourself fully this time,
displayed by the drunkenness such greed defines,
so many chances to ignore your beloved dollar sign,
any opportunity to do right by me has at last, passed you by.
Eating Thorns.

All this time
in between
then and now
been simmering
been building up
rather patiently
brooding silently
been grinding teeth
been stomping feet
been digging holes
with an upward swing
eating poisonous thorns from trees
like it’s sugarcane
with Mexico’s best peyote
cigars and syringes
sparkling fringes
champagne, cocaine
and pornography
somewhere out there
fathomed too deep
where I hardly sleep
but my eyes stay closed
my mouth remains sewn
over words of my own
this place is forsaken
this space can’t be taken
the loose change shaken
from the secret pockets
sewn inside my cheeks.
Ultimately.

It was ultimately for naught,
my face tattooed by bird-shot,
an undeniable blanket of doom,
an indefinable pain in the womb,
It was the robbery of things,
my things; weaseled away from me,
stolen from me in my deepest sleep,
secretly spilling the oaths that I keep,
crumbling away the loosened layers,
that block the pathway to my nightmares,
it was the ending of good things,
the increase of physical pain,
our thing just began surely fade,
beyond the recognizable state,
things agreed to in former times,
come back around to materialize,
smacked with back of an outstretched palm,
that threw a desperately driven smoke bomb,
the palm that bears the dead to the tomb,
the palm of the hand you refused to hold onto.
Warning Shots.

Click. Spin. Click.
First warning shot:
Please…
don’t say,
anything to me…
your words,
cut and slash,
my skin invisibly…
Click. Spin. Click.
Number two for you:
See…
it’s about,
the powdery,
kegs full and ready,
to explode,
beneath my feet…
Click. Spin. Click.
Number three:
Believe…
when I swear,
on everything,
dear to me,
to make my way,
someday,
my own blaze,
of my own glory…
Click. Spin. Click.
Last kind gesture:
Leave…
if you’re smart,
if you can see,
the truth,
instrumentality,
the far reach,
of little ol’ me.
Unforgettable.

I, indeed,
vividly recall,
the magic
of it all
the tragic
end result
the headlong
and fatal fall
the sad songs
the postered walls
the easiness
that came with it all
I carry
memories
of many things
the days you
simply
let me “be”
the way you
behaved so
exemplary
how you tried
so hard to
show to me
the rule-card
the cue cards
of being free
the things we said
the times we had
the first time
the last time
the good
and the bad
the night you
decided to
move on alone
instead
I will never
forget to
remember
the dead.
Chaotic.

We never love them,
those flickers of,
Life’s candlelight,
when we get them,
nano-seconds in Love,
in the present tense,
in all its fickleness,
we fail to look deeply,
beyond the warmth,
of such selfishness,
we fail to recognize,
so we sit stupidly,
as nano-seconds,
swim right on by,
like robotic drones,
it is foolishness,
how soon we forget,
our very own,
flesh and bone,
where we came from,
childhood homes,
for we are not,
not a single one,
born to those,
with voices, drowned,
neither did we,
bore the woes,
Of Royalty,
donning the crown,
of the overthrown,
in the halls of the dead,
in the heads of the gone,
we will stand as one,
to the depths,
from the heights,
stars and sun,
days and nights,
like statues set in stone.
The Plank.

You, so manly
present to me
a charming mystery,
cyber-spatially,
but maybe,
tell me…
your well-versed hands,
can they find me,
and touch me?
Can that buccaneer,
pirate this booty?
Can your glasses shade,
this blazing heat?
Can your man stand up,
to your poetry?
our secret affair
of which you’re not aware,
surprise!
do you follow me?
My Pleasure to Bear Your Pain.

Amid the anger and tension,
something I forgot to mention…
just a simple truth or two,
words wasted before on you,
still, since I must walk away,
things between will remain,
always, a thing:
unclean – unchanged…
thunder rolling ahead of the rain,
this sense of solid certainty,
on my word, will die with me,
hard-wired deep within my brain,
you are woven into my destiny…
until the Gods tell me differently,
look for me, and here I am,
it’s my pleasure to bear your pain.
Scotch Whiskey Wet-suit.

I soaked my wet-suit,
in Scotch whiskey,
a dead man’s trick,
that my Mama taught me,
a plastic beach pail,
and two fifths of Bell’s,
to numb down the fear,
and drown out my tears,
that’ll send me right back,
out there to the swells;
A Scotch whiskey wet-suit,
weighs down heavy, it’s true,
heavy enough to snap the strings,
to my perceptions of reality,
and the trick behind the trickery,
is to find the shore eventually,
a return that’s most likely,
not destined to be seen through,
if the body in the wet-suit,
doesn’t make a toast to me.
Ten-Fold.

In the epic days,
and valiant ways,
of old;
were things like dignity,
and empathy,
I’m told;
there was humanity,
and human beings,
ten-fold;
was concern for,
so much more,
than gold;
was no need for,
any nuclear Holy War,
just growth;
then came humanity,
lacking all sincerity,
a joke;
tailed by the hungry beast,
swallowing good and evil things,
we know;
but we didn’t see,
what was happening,
behold;
in the world today,
perversely incensed ways,
unfold;
pedals fall away eventually,
a desperate act of dying beauty,
let go.
Decomp.

Each day’s sunrise shines;
against history’s version;
of what is my truth.
And what is my truth…?
according to Father Time,
it is a sad one.
From one, come many;
more sad truths to give names to;
bloated by decomp.
Skin – whitened with time;
a centuries-old rag doll;
missing arm and eye…
Carried off downstream;
against a fatal current;
chased by my nightmares.
All Things Uncertain.

It’s happening again…
days that feel like,
they won’t ever end;
weeks without moonlight,
my spirit’s shaken,
hard cold truths,
screwed into,
all things uncertain…
Its familiarity to me,
is a tell-tale sign,
of my misery, indeed,
an old friend of mine,
all-consuming,
tried and true,
I default to,
what will comfort me.
A Scotch Whiskey Wetsuit.

I soaked my wetsuit,
in Scotch whiskey,
a dead man’s trick,
my Mama taught me,
a plastic beach pail,
two fifths of Bell’s,
to fight off any fears,
and drowned any tears,
to send me right back,
out there to the swells;
A Scotch whiskey wetsuit,
weighs down heavy it’s true,
weight enough to snap the strings,
of my given perceptions of reality,
and the trick behind the trickery,
is to swim back to shore eventually,
a return most likely,
not destined to be,
if the swimmer in the wetsuit,
also indulges in Scotch whiskey.
Pelagic.

Increasingly,
I’ve admittedly,
been:
aimless and,
without direction,
hesitantly,
I have already,
embraced:
emptiness that,
has by now replaced,
heavily,
dragging beside me,
burdening:
a lifetime’s,
anchor sinking,
buoyantly,
it’s hopelessly,
returned:
surfaced between,
bridges long burned.
Shot Out.

Rips, Tears and Lullabies
Look at us, there, sitting pretty – all smiles;
photo after photo, flipping through untruth;
the blurry colors in the background,
have fuzzed the edges around me and you.
So much time tossed away seeking the simple;
something I shouldn’t have to choke free from you;
no matter what I want to believe or deny –
I can’t ignore the stabbing in my womb.
You’ve made your decisions, just like I made my own;
Back when life was a highway and my lead foot was down,
When the words between your mouth and mine
might have held meaning as they hung around.
Believe me when I howl at the waxen, pock-marked Lady –
That my intentions only run pure for yours,
That the scars on my skin can only barely begin
To ever describe the horrors.
I’m following tiny footprints down the spiral towards the drain;
In such a disillusioned, unwilling mind frame,
Piles and piles of lies and goodbyes, rips and tears and lullabies;
My teardrops obscure my perceptions abroad,
In a room full of people who only seem to smile or nod;
The fakeness: tangible, as the bills in a fold,
Tucked away, out of sight in a tomb of fool’s gold.
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