Criptic Critic Conscience and Known for it

Saturday, July 17, 2010

It's a living

I don't want to post boast
It's a living, selling is like a dream
Scourge yourself a spare dollar for the orphanage
where we wash our plans clean
to hang up for all to admire

I don't want to seem like I am
desperate is evidence only of living
perhaps the voice of Harold Bloom in my head
will help me find the way
to deal with you

I've got a lot to say, just no hole to say it
house hold, car go spatula swipes the mixing bowl
I am alone, now out side the gates of the cemetery
not looking for entry, just alone.
Clubs will save me, start one
divide the central line of living
between acquaintances brushed with a velvet set
morsels of mortal marsh mellowness so ripe
the fingers squish
plump centers a popping of skin
and then the dressing.

Plato was right, we've lined up to be enslaved
It has the prize for most popular game for ever
long time, Against the backdrop of of murderees begging for their blows
children impailing themselves on blunt instruments
time gentlemen it is time,
swing out side where the wind blows
near the carnival of the merigoround, see the fresh
frayed flesh span across the struts of a decade of
paint. Ask not what you can do for your country

Kafka was right, be out of sight or you will be eaten
Spencer who was he , a boy lost, left wondering wandering
did it help me
to know that as a child
I was an angle, holy
delivered in front of igod
an affront to his puny body casting
his tin ear shadow.

Get out of my darkness cried the hungry
I sit as my lot is cast
do not pity me, only help me if you can
If i die sitting on this street right here
it will only be just like the flower under that tree just there
My pain will be your destiny
Bloom you desert me
can i rot here in the street
where cars go
voice warm enough to
say it all

All the death instinct, All life vivid in front of death principal
Rebellion strong and purge free greed, the war of our age
love in a hand basket, shopping for enlighten ment
had it done
and now leaving ti on the sleeve, like a bee sting, for memory's not served
by a fortress, truths more devious of for and against or another.
no I'll take the load road back cracked by weight and age upon this sternum
breath upon a temple and see me rise
and fall, rise and fall
never look down, no have to
not above have a rabbit and
have it in your ear
crash the walls with not thought to their thinking
and let out the cry of sounds sorrow, along type of tone to narrow to be trusted
for long, till after, I'm gone
gone along.

This time, I'll take it's mine.

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