Songbird

I find myself in a garden

Riddled in vines much too thick

For your light to pierce.

The more I struggle,

The tighter the thorny noose.

 

I hear your fire-scratched hymns,

Tantalize,

I smell your whiskey-soaked blossoms,

Recognize,

I taste your oil-snaked ambrosia,

Ostracize.

I feel your eyes.

Realize

 

Those eyes

Blue-rimmed vortexes of

Black– speckled with sparkling stars

But your face

Adorns those orbs in pale oceans of

White– weathered with wrinkles of worry

But your heart

Outlives

Outshines

The gilded vessel

Of which imprisons it and

Keeps it away from its other half,

Another heart:

 

Mine.

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Mr. Toots

for those who dont like peaches they seem like little fuzzy beetles without the shell because the whale birds dont know that the boats are coming for them and the snakes are singing the flute-bear’s ballad that says all ferrets should be ostrichized for the mass gifting of small blenders made of stone given to badgers with wings slicing clouds and air-raiding tortoise-tank military bathrooms so that the electric guitars may elicit the revolution of sword people since their homeworld was destroyed by golden-SOLO-cups brimming with the puppies of vengeance and infernapes so we are all blessed to be going down in such a colorful Armageddon.Image

Artsy-Fartsy

This is chrapp.
No, this is awesum.
Tis be saddnesh.
No, it be happyness.
Why, I feel tiurd.
No, I am envigoraited.
Wait, is that angurr?
No, I think it’s tenassity.
Ugh! All is so Uckley.
No, still there be beauty.
Ha ha ha! Ensanitie.
No, perfect insanity.
Look! There goes hate.
No, there is still love.

You reek, ah!

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Divine Little Fools

Run, run, run,

The race

Of humans,

They toil, hard,

Down and down a

Road that coils.

Their faces reflect the ground

From which they came

And where they shall return.

They can’t even look at me,

Their mouths already full

With the sand and nails

Fingernails

Crunch and munch;

They will never sip

My rivers of golden wine

For they are stuck

And can never–

But wait! What is that?

A sole ant breaking the rigor

Of the sacred march?

Clouds of candle

Carry him to my embrace–

Of which I strengthen

For this pioneer.

His face tears with what is

At first

Euphoria

And then

Fear.

Scream. Splash. Silence.

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