Friday, May 06, 2005
new new stuff (feedback in encouraged)
Confessions of a Linguistic Butcher
The hands rested incessantly as fingers lay in the dripping onto the rounded metallic tube that relays back. A counter-reaction revolution shaking in the sheets of latex. Scent of rubber still wallowing, sweat drips into the rustic drain. Stronger than the month old Trojan wrapper lubricant sitting on the windowsill. The withdrawal of the actions I took; the ashtray stained in guilt. The obsession with city-wide moderate media, cutting out the rectangle articles of inspiration lacking in depth. Hours expire as nothing is done except constant wavering guilt. The purged paper the victim of the moment, sits ravaged by incessant symbolic scratching. Aching for more addicted to the act of engagement.
Poets are butchers:
cutting phrases in alignment—
lining rhythm with pattern.
Mood set by
a set rhythmic pattern,
slight tapping of letters pressed.
As the words split or delete upon one another
broken in order, shaped to the liking.
Blotched skin peeled off structure
torn like a predator chewing a lamb.
Pulsating blood squirts,
ink blot forms around spiral notebooks.
I sit at 2:02am waiting for a striking logical excuse
or witty phrase to spiral this writing into some discontent.
Pondering peer acceptance or approval that never reaches
my unreal standard, but that is what I do.
Accused of not taking it out to the streets,
examining the inner struggle (reality show in progress)
who wants to see the bloody process?
The hands rested incessantly as fingers lay in the dripping onto the rounded metallic tube that relays back. A counter-reaction revolution shaking in the sheets of latex. Scent of rubber still wallowing, sweat drips into the rustic drain. Stronger than the month old Trojan wrapper lubricant sitting on the windowsill. The withdrawal of the actions I took; the ashtray stained in guilt. The obsession with city-wide moderate media, cutting out the rectangle articles of inspiration lacking in depth. Hours expire as nothing is done except constant wavering guilt. The purged paper the victim of the moment, sits ravaged by incessant symbolic scratching. Aching for more addicted to the act of engagement.
Poets are butchers:
cutting phrases in alignment—
lining rhythm with pattern.
Mood set by
a set rhythmic pattern,
slight tapping of letters pressed.
As the words split or delete upon one another
broken in order, shaped to the liking.
Blotched skin peeled off structure
torn like a predator chewing a lamb.
Pulsating blood squirts,
ink blot forms around spiral notebooks.
I sit at 2:02am waiting for a striking logical excuse
or witty phrase to spiral this writing into some discontent.
Pondering peer acceptance or approval that never reaches
my unreal standard, but that is what I do.
Accused of not taking it out to the streets,
examining the inner struggle (reality show in progress)
who wants to see the bloody process?
