home, the old way.
same bloody morning sky.
says to leave.
home, the old way.
same bloody morning sky.
says to leave.
I… What? I get China, opium, a misuse of the 被 grammar pattern and of the 否 pattern.
Listen, anon, just English me and we’ll go smoke some opium together. SHIT.
“What? You have anal sex in China?” (Literal: “What? You(plural), negative indicator, in China have ass joining?)
I am not in China. Though I may have had anal sex in China, yes.
drugs, anal sex, poetry. I got a degree in Asian studies?
nd it was suddenly, you kno
but i definitely hadn’t expec
e way her body kinda broke
miling from between both e
like she’d never done poetr
all at once it kinda just ope
like a window i was staring
i don’t quite remember
when my voice started to go out
like a dimming bulb and somehow
i, a mute drunk
and very existential soul
still found my way home
i grateful? What
dark alleys of the heart
can I drain the rest of these thick
lumps from. All of them wanting
to become poems but
i am inadequate
and afraid. Inside an ocean
a tiny mote
without one iota of aspiration or purpose
who can buy a gun.
get down to that still drunk section of your heart
wide-legged mother of
all of your desires. I just want you
once again to live a little with me
by killing something
inside of you. can’t we
get high again in the theater?
and maybe when we make out
two “men” in an alley
little one and
someone will see you the way I see you
and die a little also.
meant to queue this, I’ll let your dashboards recover for a while and go find some water.
definitely still my favorite poet on Tumblr. Amazing stuff
and I’ve cussed at him on more than one occasion for making me feel shitty by being so good.
I haven’t been following as long or as faithfully but is on this post by sheer merit. Really good stuff I think and well worth checking out.
She’s an Argonaut
I try to not like these poems, I don’t know why, but I end up falling in love with way too many of them. Definitely take a look.
Another poet who I’ve never spoken to but admire thoroughly. You’re cheating yourself if you enjoy poetry and aren’t following.
I’m more of an avid reader of this blog because she puts out such a consistent quantity of work. Don’t worry though, the quality is still superb, it’s uncanny.
What can I say? Another great poet who is very surprising at times. If you can’t tell already, I love inventiveness, and if you do too, this is the blog you should be following.
built for low light
one of the absolute best poets on Tumblr. I will stand by that statement with all of the little dignity I have until the end. IF YOU LIKE POETRY AND AREN’T FOLLOWING BUILT FOR LOW LIGHT THAN YOU ARE A FOOL.
you, my sunshine, my only
sun to lay upon my
burning body our
just don’t lose your hair please let me lay
upon it. A soft opening brunette chamber for souls like I
still wasted let’s
never be sober again I’m tired of trying
to not freak out
to deal, man, let’s just divvy up
our whiskey and weed and our
spread wide the
pussies of our souls the
assholes of our desires
and let our mouths be the silent stone
they want to be.
this planet is a large wet crater
living here is like
living here is like
well i guess it’s really not all that bad
i just kinda thought that by now
our flapping gums would have cured something or solved something
worthwhile. the skin and blood hanging from my bony mass
with desire and dysphoria which
fuck off spell-check, is totally a word
bulges in such odd places. Does it also want
to leave this Earth?
I know not.
“Doubt is uncomfortable
Certainty is ridiculous.” I spy on people
for a living in a country
i don’t believe in
I don’t believe in
Sorry for drunk texting you.
I’ll try and write some new poetry
(p.s. pretty sure i’m still mostly drunk though. APPARENTLY sleep doesn’t destox efficiently)
good bye qorls
i hatte peiople
i was alone
forever o think
noew i hav e friends at the bar
but wish i didnt
you fertile lands
in my vbrain
in a foreign bar
beneath morning sunshine
my body rises yet again
still young and graceless in the city
she stirs also in the morning yet
i send my form into the shower like
a stalling biplane
we will retire to the soft summer blanket of Florida once more.
we will transform slowly from being these yet unexploded bombs into an old couple not quite married who cling to one another and smoke pot together still hoping to disassemble Medeski, Martin and Wood from our
garage. i just want for once
to watch someone age completely
and peacefully. please, don’t explode
and stop writing sad poems. i want only to watch your skin rise up in wrinkles to meet me like a plant rises to the sun. shift with such a gentle stillness,
stay a while.
our unearthly bodies
full of acid
shook like piano springs
under that Moonlight Sonata staring up
at the 9 pm sky like it were also some
yet unstruck spring so sure
that our lives were gonna change
with breasts like bruised melons, she approached
as naked as
any woman had ever been
and as ashamed
sticking to the shadows of the bedroom like a velcro sloth or common vermin
i shouldn’t say such a thing her
fine cigarette smoke still upon my jacket
my own skirt rustles against my
dripping, naive about the night.
a molten pipe in my heart put-
puttering down a city street
inside that green celica
waiting for some large hand to feed me
i find john (also a hungry soul
half-melted from that summer) and
we hunt marijuana joints like
two worms beneath a low sun
rolling in the dirt.
poetry, poems, poetics,
spilled ink, spilling ink,
read me, like me, reblog me,
sad poetry, depression,
nihilism and existentialism,
poems about the world,
as hungry as I am,
poetry and drugs,
poems from the past,
poems from the future,
poems my soul said
when my heart was speechless.
your heart must be made of cashmere
i think and fall through the evening
like an anvil through a sky
of alternating black and blue vistas
blank before the poets. I have now rested my soul
upon an also resting soul that our two smells might
make out of the swamp of our existence
some shining beacon. Some resistance
to the intoxication of its breath
looming nearer screaming spindly specter
of a more tangible earth
still beneath us.
no. poets do not have to be whores. we
there is so little time for us.
there are so few vistas left
to intertwine our legs and
meaty sides in. so sparse
has grown the fauna all
our favorite birds once
sang to us from, all
their throats so
. let us remember not
the dull background static
poetry has sunk into shallow
depths of the earth — remember
the staggering pits we have made
not with literature but rather
by piling our small bodies
for some reason my entire once a year vacation back to Florida
has been spent trying to impress Tumblr.
I really gotta get back into fucking bitches,
your chest feels like the skin
of my freshly (un)frozen beer bottle. I am sure
the snowglobe you’ve blown your heart into
(though you swear it was done by a boy named Mike [fake name])
must also be a pretty globe to look into
i find its fragility most
attractive and fucking sexy
falling from unrecoverable heights.
Best is a big word. Probably punching my second guardian/father/thing in the face when I was little. He was not a good guardian and that was the first time I hit anyone. That was also the first night I ran away and I realized that I could make it on my own. Right or wrong at the time, I mean, the cops picked me up and I was taken back though I did get situated with a different guardian shortly after, it doesn’t matter, what mattered was that that night was the bravest I had ever been and just FEELING like I could survive myself alone in the world for one night at that age was what I tried to write my first poem about. Then my elementary teacher told me it was kinda confusing and that she didn’t get what I was trying to say (it was really, really, really shitty) so I didn’t try poetry again for almost a decade. true story bro. THE SECOND TIME I TRIED 2CE I ACTUALLY DECIDED TO EMBRACE STONER STEREOTYPES AND BLASTED PINK FLOYD WHILE MY OWNER DROVE ME IN THE CAR TO GET PIZZA IT WAS PRETTY FUCKING AWESOME TOO THOUGH SO I DONT KNOW
the planet’s vast evening had wrecked upon the bare face of the window
like a black-blue sledgehammer
swung by unseen insects. Suddenly he was drunker yet
by her measure. Her large Sauron’s eye accounting
of the missing bottles from their small second fridge in the small apartment
where they both drawled on and on and
on and on a n d o n a n d o n with the insects
trying to water the lushness of their hearts. He was always drunk
by some standard, a tiny weevil whose life was muck beneath some shining kingdom
neither one had yet seen reappear from a fabled homestead.
“maybe it didn’t exist or
maybe we’re just the wrong people for kingdoms.” life is so drawn out
with maybes. He thinks. Dawdles in the white and blue plaid zen of the kitchen,
moves into the burgundy zen of the bedroom, forgoes the zen of lovemaking
and forgoes yet further, such wonderful things
yet to be beholden or be behold
for sleep as simple and as drunk as he could get it.
into great silence we drifted gentle
as toothless cats who
have clawed before at moons as distant and unreachable
as ships sunken beneath each
unseen coast, we
among Arizona, siblings of dark beer
our pierced lips each shining crescents
shallow graves waiting to bury the other
of our two
with smiles of shining crescents beneath the buildings,
adjourning the ether
and the world.
sorry I’ve been out today! An ex came over and apparently I’m such a nice guy/girl that I will not refuse your blatant signals for “I still miss you sex” so much as I will find platonic conversation to distract you with for ten hours until you have to start your shitty midnight shift.
Promise more original stuff tonight/tomorrow guys!
your smile so nearly resembles a white sword
i still clinging like a soaked rag to your existence
hoped you would arrive
deep within my heart
that turblent chasm.
wallow no longer in despair. turn no more the key of loneliness. bear not the kidney stones of modern existentialism. i
remember the quiver of self-doubting
your lips would become before each smile. We no longer desired
to abandon our vessels to all
the alcohol and depressing novels. but
even after all that darkness
i still wander the apartment at odd hours of the night
knowing why I got up but not
why I would do it again.
in my discount brown jacket and
listening to an album by The Pixies and
running one smooth leg against the drywall inelegantly
wondering why I suddenly crave molly wondering why
i keep waiting for the anvil to come off of my head
so I can stand. What am I
doing with my life?
“no. i will not eat
the chestnut of your desire
nor the apple of
oh sweet bar
ista, your body is a lens
soft mahogany kitsch ambient
bracelet eyes that flicker
like a fall
I will never deforest you.
at night it has dim blind eyes
a used shotgun shell of lakes
and hemorrhaging streams
the building shrink until it’s
an aging savanna my grandmother
lies so still ahead of me. Swollen brain
and eyes like sunken ships
if only I could make it faster
what treasures they
discarded by the door
your two red high heels
that the world outside
isn’t yet over with
the wind was creeping in the open bar-lit window
but you weren’t, most of your essence already
filling the grave of my basement hovel
stretched sleeping on the couch
as alone as I was. or maybe you were
dreaming of other artists also sleeping in the basements
of small men, wanting some day
to fall from the great height of literature into
some grave of your own? The eggs were nearly ready
my own soul so infertile
you half-through my chapter of your life
like a dug-in rake.
i a stoic at your place
wound up on the couch
your return to us vessels
that still linger in the orb of moonlight
let into your Manhattan apartment
filling our bodies like a black mist
shrill as ice
for the return of your body
seeing her sober
so naked in her yellow dress so
surrounded on all sides
with blue skies the
clear eyes of her father
he has never seen her drunk
but i have
bucking like a dying animal
eyes wide and lazy
slurred speech filled with longing.