September 2020

Nevermore

Poetry Drafts / / By 
It doesn’t matter





It doesn’t matter





I let the smoke seep into all that
remained,
into the dry
dreams of
death





I let the smoke fill me
& from there
I took the stairs





to Nevermore

Poetry Drafts / / By

madeofsaltwater-deactivated2021:

About Skies and Twilight

fruit fly eggs as the latest superfood!

where wet bulbs and swampmonster apps proliferate,

even vegans enjoy the seedlike pop.

tickety boo bobs yer uncle sam i am good to go

as Kate seeks the first person voice, i question the singularity. how easily i become scottish. im less stoic than before. i say whats on my mind. i drink less coffee. men on ladders look in my window fixing bricks. Kate would know how all this relates to adorno or kafka. She would mention her friend ann who writes books that people buy. She would mention her dog. i read Kate and weep. this reminds me of reading Kate and weeping. I mention painpain. painpain is a quebecois rabbit whose name translates as breadbread. or down the road perhaps, sandwichsandwich.

“if rilke does not understand, its because he does not want to understand.”

-marie darrieussecq/penny hueston

most likely a lover of pears

.

“how easily I become scottish“ – oh, it only takes me a bottle and another half of the same, to hear inside such voices… to express utterances of likeness… Am I already damned or just drunk without knowing ?

Mrrrs

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Mrrrs





Soon I will fade
Into darkness and the
forgotten
realm





My words will merge with others’
Our diluted truths
standing together
In the room of mirrors





Reflecting

Rubber End

Random Unsorted Drafts / / By

& so the story ended
Not with a bang
No balloons popping
But with a whimper
through letting go of
That rubber end,

untied

Filled to its brim
With life —

Wasted

red dwarf

Poetry Drafts / / By 
A little red riding hood was your only cover,





I stood there naked in the rain





Dangling





Our lips touched briefly





Like two cats
Fighting at night, like a razor long
expired





against my puny feathers





of manhood.

My Meadow

Poetry Drafts / / By 
I called her Meadow,
Overgrown and left to
Her own devices, to her
Own Piper’s calling.


I called her Meadow,
Untouched for decades
Yet still flowering,
Persistence is never futile
It seems.


I called her Meadow,
In my mind her silence
Echoed between absent
Trees, beneath stars of
Comfort living.


I called her Meadow
In my dreams
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