Sometimes, every once in awhile, I still write poetry. To me, poetry has become the result of when your heart gives itself without your mind's consent. It's just a somewhat pretentious way of singin' the blues. Maybe it's a little dramatic; maybe it's a little old-fashioned; maybe it's a little pathetic-perhaps, it's even misplaced or unnecessary; but hey, if it takes shit to make bliss, then eventually I'll be able to convince myself to feel pretty blissfully.
Here are some words that have been in the vault for a few months:
Lacrimose, lacrimonious, Lacrimosa.
The answer's not on the internet;
The answer's not in a cigarette;
The answer's not in solids exchanged under the stagnancy of night.
Tip-tap-tipping in sight.
Receiving a fright.
Engaging in a fight-
I think I'll do both;
Effecting the other.
Dramatic swells of sound abound,
Cracking like shells on metals;
Uttering decrees of belief in-
And hope for-
Masses of hair.
Little freckles gently dot your epidermal landscape
Amidst the subtlety of gyrations.
And weakness in resistance.
Pushing against heavy-reamed paper,
Attempting to tear the wall to shreds;
Taking the right-sided softness,
And masking it behind
Cold networks of circuitry.
This is the architecture I drafted.
This is the story I wrote-
I will stop running now.
I still have a ways to go.
I want a piece of ephemera with you written all over it-
Dashed with the potency of your stare,
And cased with the abbreviations of your words;
Guarded by the curtain of your hair,
And tilted like the tires of your car.
As do cans of beer;
Codes plug-in systems,
And logic sometimes aligns with the toes of
Bought with style,
Somewhere in the city,
Boutique or not
I'd crack my front tooth again
Just to react in the mid-tone shadows
Of an unpurchased bar.