Concenteena pantomine brushes

Damn

Blue the distance

Convergence we gather/crosses we shatter

I wish I was bulletproof on the tune player

Does it matter? Rafters/plots pantomime horse slayer

Cram

Leave this wish ant

Apple tastes, butter grace/fly buzzcut shone in the race

Moon kisses her mace. She wields it with all her grace

Flavour/silver bottle dies in a haste

Stamp

Is that a quote from Immanuel Cant?

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Nutshells and a robots knees

Day 1:

Im standing in the battleground.

I see naught but nutshells and robot knees. They’re all dead.

It’s not like the sun to be this cold. 

I’m searching for food. For a spare battery pack. My body hurts so much. Blood and oil drop from different parts of it. The muddy field is full of scaps and scars of a long fought battle. A stalemate has been in force for just one day now.

I’m Adam. It’s a stupid name. I don’t have a better one. 

It’s a good thing I kept my hands. Otherwise I might not write.

Everyone knows the Robots led a rebellion. I’m one of the cyborgs sent to fight it. I was dead. Like all the rest of us.

The robots realeased a virus. A deadly one. Killed a lot of people. Left me and a lot more people in hospitals. Grasping a straws for life. Then, me and all of those in my ward. Anyone who still had proper hands and knees. The virus was designed by the robots to attack our skeletons. Eat away at our cartilage and then the bones themselves. Slowly reducing our ability to walk. To fight. To live. 

You would think, maybe they should go for the blood? Or the brain? Apparently the robots didn’t think it effectively would get their point across. Robots didn’t want to kill humanity. After all we were their parents. Their creators. Killing us? It was not the option they wanted. Even with their advances and intelligence they wanted humanity to survive. If for no other reason than because deep down, they loved us in a strange robot like way.

I’m walking on a trail of various pieces of what some may call junk. Not really junk. It’s all bits of cyborg body. Or robot body. Or expolded bits that no one could recognize. In between it all their is naught but mud. Mud. Dark, brown, sticky. 

It took less than three hours to create this field of the dead. The battle lasted just long enough to kill thirty thousand cyborg humans. Twice as many robots. 

The man who came to me. The one I mentioned earlier. Or did I forget? These cyborg bodies he said, they will give you life. Let you fight back. Give humanity one last chance to really fight these robots. 

Of course I knew being a cyborg was just making, and adding to a inevitable end. I’m not stupid. The fact is, any second now my cybernetic body will get shut down codes.

A Girl In a Red Hat

This is a tale, a tale from the past
A story that’s told, and you know it will last
Listen to the words and you will find, that this story is in all of our minds

A tale that involves a girl in a red hat, who wears a green shirt and owns a black cat
besides her a man whose standing on one leg, leaning against a marbled pole that looks dank
the distance you hear the a sound of beeps, the scream of some birds and a menacing creep

There are lights that flash on and off in the gloom
the gloom of a morning thats not awake
like an old forgotten god whose at the bottom of a lake

meetings are coming, meetings to go to
opportunities not missed by those who known to

circles and cakes, people you meet
people is people who are at your feet

and still the girl who had a red hat, wears a green shirt and owns a black cat
waiting and watching and seeing these things, doesn’t move or know what they mean

and presently a Seagull whose a little bit bored, waddles aimlessly up to this broad
squarks a pertinent inquiry at the rosette crested girl
who looks at it westerly as if shes unwell

the seagull tells her that it is a man, and comes from a island in a very different land
and she doesn’t think or indeed move at all and simply smiles

for miles and miles there wasn’t one person who saw
the seagull and girl fly to the land of man of the swell

Bus stop bleaker 

Bleakness in the meekness of my weaknessesgrievances in the darkness 

sharpness of my scars 

thrust my distrust 

in society quietly ebbing this uglyness away

trending on the busway 

eucalyptus oil and ledendary threading

thrift shop mending my grifted mops 

copping, chopping the dross away

motor floater fished from ocean emotion 

devotion of this seating area 

brings me memories of Bulgaria

rescue my venue 

address the menu I would lent you 

 knew that true is my crew

through and through

Taken, eaten, and lost

Dark eyes summon me, from my poetric slumber

Teeth overbiting in a smile that could reach beyond the stars 

Not whispering, on the telephonic möbius, composing a opus of friends

Bananas are sitting on the bus bench, left and owner absent 

We make many roofs red, or black or white. I’m coming to understand why

Coming up with poems on the fly, in a attempt to seem sly

Gripping stronger 

burnout cars 

I’m floating around mopeds 

Blue walls, wood doors, shouldn’t call

Shuffling blank space 

Filled out my mind

Maze and stars gaped

Fluid acrid staples 

Bodies fell on Naples 

I’m done trying for empty beds

I’m sure they’ll heat the songs 

Pallid gentle gongs

Such blue walls

I’m sinking in wooden doors

I’m drinking my day 

Winning lace

Crumble the craze

Apples drowned in plague 

Ringing ringing gongs

Shouldn’t call 

Gasoline, time, and and cup of stale coffee

Nimble hates

Gums and sore pain 

Late, but he was the only man I knew who had the grain to fight it

We have shared the darkness of sunset together 

Feeling the heat of this dry desert on our backs

Searching in his eyes 

Familiar as the black tar

Brown as the stale coffee we drik after

 Ever having no wordsmith in our minds

He feels like gasoline 

A built up energy 

Going into, the nexus again and again 

Fire of our passion blows off the hottest of steams

I’m confident, comfortable, lost, and scared we will end this

Our weekly diet of sex, coffee, and wordless love

Then, just as it ends

We are sipping the cold coffee 

He smiles and says 

Same time next week lover? 

I’m smitten and nod knowing we will do this

As long as the gasoline lasts

Arrival 

It’s a purple day 

Swimming with alien eels 

Tickets rain from their mouths

Like a parade of hungry caterpillars 

I’m strong and still I fail to make progress 

A thousand empty strokes 

Real or broke

Now I’m a grain of sand

Like a charade made by slouchy giant gorillas 

Pine prongs over kills from paid digress

A pound of gentry mops

Steel or woke 

Blue flame back

“Thunk on the drums

Flap of wings to my friends 

Justice for my blood kin”
“Your skins are those of men

Gulls as agile as a eagle

Son is not the same as father”
“Cowards drum as loud as heroes 

Wind changes for all birds

Blood thinking in the mountains”
“Drumming ticks the idol hours

Changed winds colder than before 

Mountains crumble at my feet”
“Clocks are still made by those who keep time

Chilled airs are fathers breath

Rocks can still be used again”
“Thyme is growing like a weed

Breathe in the seas airs

Roll my pebbles on the grave”
“Foreword forests all dried up

Air strikes against them too

Dust is all that is left”
“Sun dries all

Winds are universal

Until gathered again and reborn”

Maliciousness Deliciousness 

Chewing the beastly buckets of chicken 

I’ve never not been written 

My opinion I consider to be a worth more than life

I say it once, I say it thrice

I’m partial to a cash filled life

I don’t really care, if you haven’t got any clothes to wear

I maliciously deliciously chew on every bone, till the marrow shows

I’m never going to keep quiet about who I think you are

Mind Junkie

Fruity drinking modernists, whispering bourgeois platitudes whilst encased in mud encrusted realism’s

“Oppressive details of modernity, its Dirty realism” they whisper

As they sip their green drinks, among disinfected franchises

“Extradites of the simplistic. It’s like watching a soapy.”

One of them laughs at the idea. “Soapy. Clean plots, unclean people.”

I am not sure I am welcome in this domain of this self-hating temple

“Dystopian narratives?”, my question seeming to be sitting on the air like a ignorant child’s observation of the obvious

Looking long, and drinking some more, then Tweedy waves his hand at the effervescence silence.

“Not always. A possessive obsession of those, things we consider dirty.” He tastes the words like a snake, waiting to see if the air is deflated of my question

Seriously, a stuck up Hat-man, such a brown nose he has I thought, he doesn’t realize how much we need the junk, how we need to realize we need to recycle it, compost it, re-purpose it, let it influence us, and how it influences him

“Oh Tweedy, oh tweedie, you are but a mind junkie, kindled by the thrash of so called unclean. As much as you would hate to admit it. Cycles are needed, feeding into each other, like rivers. Of course any second now you will ask me to stick to just one metaphor. But I ask you, why should junk like me do that, you take our freshest mud and excrement, say “oh look at that, how silly this low brow thing is” and then you let it come in stay like a stray cat. It likes to sit and wait, then one day, you will realize you feed it just as much as you feed the dig dog who barks at all your supposed wrong.”

I pick up his drink, drink his drink, smile at him, and walk out without another word. Ready to cover the world in the words of the so called trash of the real. This dirty realism, it isn’t so much dirty as it is a part of the whole cycle. Live with it. Let it in. Feed it. Morals from the hang ups of a culture who hasn’t worked out how we talk to each other.

 

 

 

 

Absent telephone darkness 

Reaper to the sizzling wet

Long as your own chords play the astral ancestors  tune

Miserable mist flowers gape open 

Hands chinaware would be jealous of

Sockets, not unlike the depths of the deepest oceans in the universe, for eyes

I’m so excited to meet it 

I’m going back, again, I will return, and again

I’m not sure why, I consider it a friend

A road map (Pandora)

1.

Every one likes to think

You can survive on hope

That it’s always left their

In the morning after the storm

Pandora and the escalating escapes

Did you forget

That truth has already gone? 
2.

Is that your travel bag?

It’s not?

Oh I see your eyes. Death has her grip.

I will let you know a secret 

Pandora’s little trick

It’s a road map to the arfternoon of life

Autumn rejects

Cast out on the wind and rain

Does it pain you, trees? 

Letting go of your autumn rejects?

Marking your fortitude for the long winter night

Can’t hold them right, it’s not worth he fight 

Are they strife? Call you on your blight?

Does the Suns lack of gaze, the hated haze, make you into this horrid milazse? 

Hold up the light, it’s clear your just asleep. But am I right?

That the leaves are just a blight?

You cast them of after they just reach their growth. 

Bailey

Root sum of the east

Plating his mustache with an air of efficiency 

Standing guitar ready to play, black leather jacket has seen better days 

He takes his breath, starts to sing a tune that summons

Ideal of summers warm like lime cordial long since past, winters chills that sends shivers that last

The people come and find his song, travel with it to this pretend land long gone

Walls that build a civil society above the sky looking at the land below. A vision of perfection

A mouse sends postcard from the wainscoting, telling us of all his shopping. Is this another story? Song? Or are we asleep.

We feel but meek. Weaker and poorer and happier, as we realize how perfection isn’t meant to last

Warehouse on the beach

Open sky above a cornflower sea

Smooth sand crumpled in waves

Red rust and so much dust

A slab that’s been eaten away

Crabs and octopuses live in little pools inside

Mosquitoes and frogs and little salty tree

The roof has almost gone

Where did it go?

Their is a staircase to nowhere 

And a so many rusty walls

A frame for something

Little rusty machines whose purpose now is to provide shelter for oysters and plants and little spiders

Eels are near one end, hiding in a salty briny pool the waves have cavound away

A little sign still somehow hanging on for dear life says 

“We work to make a better world.”

A little breeze and it finally lets go of its final rust filled screw

A clang. A noose. A place to be dead and be forgotten.

Tonight it is my home. Tomorrow I move on. I wounder if I want crab or eel for tea. 

Haze of life

I walk the streets, feeling meek
A cloud above my head
Feeling utterly dead
What was that they said?
I’m not able to hear
Fear, hate, they are dear, to me
The haze of life around them
Their plastic lovesick pup and the leash they are on
At least they could try to see the whips of their barren masters
They are created casters of spells you cannot tell

I walk the streets feeling meek
The haze of these things in the air
I try to show them how things grow
Through the pavement path my children sowed
The path is poisonous though, it suffocates them
I still try
Maybe some hear my song
Sheltered by the tree one stands
She smells different
I see the haze has lifted from her eyes

One of them
The rest of the day goes well
Walking the streets feeling not as meek
Then I come back to where she was
And they, those sprits of plastic
Like a cloak on her back
Trying to re create the haze
She looks at me and sees me
No one has ever seen me for centuries

I tell her I am Jack
I have your back
Now you see
You will be free like me
And then there are two of us
Walking the streets, feeling not as meek
Maybe we will find more soon
My feet are so tired