August 18 by The Running Son
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Here’s the best of my unpublished poetry over last week or two. Part 12. Love you all. Enjoy. 😉
collection pt. 12
“..with mild cyclical aftereffects”
I ate the moon.
It was blue,
and It was cheesy.
I threw it up too.
It was gruesome,
it wasn’t easy.
But then I grew up
crazy cycles making
for days, pulling many
tides my way.
“tongues spoken in the face of a shyster“
You spit snake oil! You could soil a boiler room.
I’m toiling for nothing, I could be off converting
or a bee
or a geese
or a meece
or a rock
or a clock
or a crock-
or a dial.
Probably easier to drink the whole Nile.
connected reflections red-line affection–friction dictated–a necessary expression confessing depression, lesser passions, and questions. Beloved, affecter, deep-throater for credit, your absence is so select, so precisely meant for neglect. Always erect, waiting. I guess such direct attention is senseless, best left for the efforts of guarding Angels, my replacement, or half-lidded, and latent but intent sages carrying extra supplies of placeholders, and patience.
Written, as is, while listening to loud music (house, I think) 8/16. I wrote despite broken concentration, a sort of stream of consciousness, curious to see if I could carry rhyme and theme.
That’s me, shameless.
you’ll never name me.
I remain cross-category,
leaving me nameless.
I will make a home in you.
I’m viral, like the flu.
I spiral down, bi-polar,
a side-bar on you-tube.
No pokes or jokes told.
I’m hopelessly sold
out, statistically all-in,
will never fold or go broke.
Just holding my take
and spending my winnings.
waiting to see.. previously unpub’d
“a verbal abuse”
A fact I’ve observed: to incur
claps and reactions for my absurd
and crappy ass laugh-lines,
I crack half words into verbs, turn
verbal slurs and curses into nervous
little verses, just to pass time.
previously unpublished snippet
Wake up! Train’s
at the station, leaving
One nation under
a strict 5-7-5 haiku plan,
rationing 140 chars, @signs
and promotions, #hashtags
and feint notions of
“Dead Poet’s Society”
All I’m saying is Adam burst.
Combusted under pressure first.
Eve’s little words weren’t the worst
part, or the serpent that happened on
her, in person. Adam was no man,and
no man, or manly nomads can take
that shit back after it’s been spat.
By neutron stars he is hypnotized.
Surprised by how nebulae collide.
Foraging for his glasses, this four-eyed
Alien misfit forgot his three alien asses
(now he cannot sit, or even shit).
Reaching back in memory I find my lost youth waiting for the tooth-fairy, imagining what it would be like in school, where all rules make sense, and futures snap into concrete clarity.
But school became heavily ruled structure–form followed function–and we made assumptions that life was one big need to be met by toil and human production.
♫ hope u enjoyed! Jim –
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