im from russia originally and my babushka told me not to whistle in doors cause it summons satan. i whistled a lot when i went through my goth phase as a teen in the early aughts.
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What even is poetry?
I suppose it’s for when life is too weedy and wonderful for prose.
We waited a long time there in the brambles, amidst the tobacco smoke, we talked for hours. What were we on about? It didn’t matter. Together was wonderful.
She motioned towards the middle distance. A gesture altogether fitting for our joyous apocalypse.
Read me the story in the stars. That is what her eyes whispered.
I gathered myself. Trying very hard to remember all the echoes.
The distance remained.
Bewildered I sipped some of the coffee chilling steadily with the onset of evening.
I let the cicadas drown the question.
Beyond a billion years of bones nourished the trees that swayed amidst the rose tinged sky.
The South smelled of mildewed lumber and magnolia.
Her…
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Trading tales
Out there
Where all else fails
Little care
She rests her head
On a shoulder
That’s long dead
Yeah she’s growing older
But still in circles
She wheels
The wreck through cycles
Bursts seals dance jigs and reels
Golden red
Sweet neck
Empty head
All hands on deck
To little care
Seaworthy
She’ll just stare
Too wordy
But just you wait
We’ll get there
Better then, yea better late
Silk hair
Paintbrush
Sketch a future
In tears and smiles
My suture
My little care whiles
My time away
Till
Skeletal
I’ve nothing to say
Be a scaffold
For burst roses
A tale that’s told
Forever
Of little care
That’ll never never
She’ll l just stare
Towards the horizon
My all my why
That the future lies on
Yea we’ll never die
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Barely breathin
Through the incense
That’s hidin
The cigarettes
And the mysteries
of the Orient
Are just histories
Wrapped and bent
Dropping into ashtrays
Just behind the whiskey glass
Rouding days
Up with tallies made of grass
You’re dirt
My dirty cheap perfume
And you hurt
With your strange silver smile in the gloom
Can’t dispel
That memory
The smell
Is too deep in my skin and my hair
Now there’s nothing left to do
But sit in the rain
With a head full of you
This much is plain
Drink in the dew
Till the morning unfolds
Like the pictures you drew
Still that perfume holds
Till I drown just to wash off
Must become a river
With a life like a moth
Dusty waters deliver
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There upon the minute hangs a phrase
Summit of salvation
Dares a finger raise
Cardinal point
Full of form beyond dimension
Honey fountain angel lips annoint
Beside the aeon
In musty hall
Shining ray dispels the Eidolon
No more in thrall
Dancing now
Through electric gardens
Electing how
These rings of wardens
Would uncoil
To blossom through
The dusty soil
True as true
Rapt in the silence
Of eternal song
Yes the dead can dance
As far as long
Here amongst tobacco leaves and gin
Where porches bake
And ages grin
Her hand I take
To celebrate the passage
Of an aeon
As magnolia spills upon the page
The everpresent dawn
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So I just heard some coldplay coming form the TV…
So here’s another vaguely amusing list as I drink myself to sleep….
…I dunno if these are still a thing but back in highschool (Mid oughts) I couldn’t help but notice certain patterns.
Checkered Shorts bro…
1) Is called Cody no exceptions
2) Listens to Coldplay
3) You’re eventually going ot have to kick his ass
4) Smug
5) Average Student, Average Conversationalist, Just all Around Average
6) Probably Skateboards Sometimes
7) Will Bum Cigarettes but doesn’t actually smoke
8) Faggy 90’s boyband hair
9) Possibly gay
10) Insists that you’re gay
11) Let’s face it you’re both gay
12) Too gay to actually be gay
13) Uses Axe bodyspray as a form of chemcial warfare
14) Is offended by pretty much everything
15) Yuppie parents that have those stupid tennis ball garage door strings
16) Obsessed with basketball but can’t actually play all that well
17) Mom is kinda hot
18) I was nineteen when the market crashed. I suspect Cody’s parents were at fault. That house did always seem a touch too nice.
19) What the hell is a mission trip?
20) Do these people survive on cereal?
21) And they said the Soviet Union was beuracratic nightmare. How many post its can you put on a fridge? Christ almighty. The micromanagement.
22) Subrubia is hell.
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A coupla more songs
And its time to die
Same old fatalism
Somethin like two wrongs
Don’t make a try
Raindrop prism
Filters
Same old fatalism
Call it pessimism
Heavy hitters
Put on those tracks
Follow the rails
Again and
A coupla more songs
Draw some links in sand
Mostly longs
In whispers
Made of suggestions
Compulsive vespers
Miss and directions
Researching and
A coupla more songs
And its time to die
And and and same old fatalism
Under a rosy sky
Floating cherry smoke
Epileptic relativism
Gin and coke
And a coupla more songs
and its time to die
Filters parliament
With a heavy sigh
Empty boxes that cement
Every tender why
Same old fatalism
Random assembly
To chase away
Determinism
Determined to stay
Who said what to where and when
Is that destiny? Was that destiny?
I don’t Amen.
It’s hard when you speak in periods you know
Yea it goes something like
A couple more songs that grow
Into a cheap old mic
Maybe one day will glow
Like that same old fatalism
Like a raindrop prism
That arcs double wide
Trailer park philosophies
Theyr’e on our side
That same old fatalism paints symphonies
Come on baby do ya wanna ride?
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The cherries that you bought at the super market
Were almost as sweet as the fleet way that you share a cigarette
In smoky whispers that decay regret
O and never will I never will I cry
From this moment on
There is only a glad song
Deep within my breast
I’ll stay high at last without a feast or fast
Ah, the memory so neatly tied so tidy
Ever in my brain
Balm for every pain
O Francis
Let loose your chances
let’s have wild dances
Out there in the rain
Yes I am again
I am again
For I have nothing more to gain
Tender is the moonlight dappling the morning
As it fades to sunlight
I look at stars which twinly are more bright
O my chief delight
O Francis
let loose your chances
Lets have wild dances
Lift another cup
For there is no faith but up
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The Fractal Journal 