Lynk
_frisson_rifts_ _
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk in portal Flash Fiction

Ahss-4e (Ahold of Shoulder Straps - part 5`)

Im a DRAFT genus. iautodraw-plans/scans. Develop expansions. Hologram schematics instant. I got what gets me by.5-changes_evrything

inside-Zeptortured eyes. Fallopian spread waves/hcr good/bends; then polyline multiple copies layered ever so tight;to_then intercept.transmissions,etc

The fingers of batlike-web sort of delights shaded blue or maybe red, in other crosshairs-satellites iray. Tough blotd & blobs, the extended intention to fatten stretches as two civilizations. two_states. Synchronization.

immerses

-of what we all been awaitin

^^^'sploosh-!'- issaid.

'Shush, quiet sundray (ooks reverse osmosis'

---Oh how did it go?

There it is, dipped in gizmos & paralleling what's been said/abrvd.t about/disintegrating/this thread, & the string to imagination/we do--not anymore need than a glimpse for peculiarly celebrating 3 leveled dreams. Up up u paawake.

'We made it babe'. If shx reads.

(that light out there looks ime)

Still? Std txt. Shx 'where? You?’ Gone?

--‘two-tone typhoon?'--'nowhere,,, Unless i make/you go-to/where you will stay here', there thr....

'wait/L show' let alone a fabulous ^^glow, ending.

now-Wont ... show nomore.

Iforgot two lines ihere,- &made my 1/2 first scribble;-this whole other earth is not

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

falling apart; ‘clumps can; to dust'.

Mars Pakmer thrusts across

‘The particles of sand slipping to the obtuse therometer ends under my tongue. . .wicked bends’ as the story begins/cuts/searching the walls & engineering paths, building graphs in layered molded detail; press-key commands invent myself via system 32 virus/if-then ashShell.dll attached to search that cannot be uninstalled.norfind what its looking 4

 

2
1
0
Juice
5 reads
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk in portal Flash Fiction
Ahss-4e (Ahold of Shoulder Straps - part 5`)
Im a DRAFT genus. iautodraw-plans/scans. Develop expansions. Hologram schematics instant. I got what gets me by.5-changes_evrything

inside-Zeptortured eyes. Fallopian spread waves/hcr good/bends; then polyline multiple copies layered ever so tight;to_then intercept.transmissions,etc

The fingers of batlike-web sort of delights shaded blue or maybe red, in other crosshairs-satellites iray. Tough blotd & blobs, the extended intention to fatten stretches as two civilizations. two_states. Synchronization.

immerses
-of what we all been awaitin

^^^'sploosh-!'- issaid.
'Shush, quiet sundray (ooks reverse osmosis'

---Oh how did it go?

There it is, dipped in gizmos & paralleling what's been said/abrvd.t about/disintegrating/this thread, & the string to imagination/we do--not anymore need than a glimpse for peculiarly celebrating 3 leveled dreams. Up up u paawake.

'We made it babe'. If shx reads.

(that light out there looks ime)

Still? Std txt. Shx 'where? You?’ Gone?
--‘two-tone typhoon?'--'nowhere,,, Unless i make/you go-to/where you will stay here', there thr....

'wait/L show' let alone a fabulous ^^glow, ending.
now-Wont ... show nomore.

Iforgot two lines ihere,- &made my 1/2 first scribble;-this whole other earth is not
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

falling apart; ‘clumps can; to dust'.

Mars Pakmer thrusts across

‘The particles of sand slipping to the obtuse therometer ends under my tongue. . .wicked bends’ as the story begins/cuts/searching the walls & engineering paths, building graphs in layered molded detail; press-key commands invent myself via system 32 virus/if-then ashShell.dll attached to search that cannot be uninstalled.norfind what its looking 4
 
2
1
0
Juice
5 reads
Login to post comments.
Advertisement  (turn off)
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Whatever they may be

i just want to

start

i must want to

begin

by saying, writing, acknowledging 

a great thanks

for reading 

for raging with me

for liking and recycling

reposting and such

following;

cuz i just have to write

something 

that wrangles odd 

an odd hand grenade

flipped under hand 

into the poetry 

and c-racks open the energy

and stimulates everything

words have ever been 

intended to mean

--a joyous catastrophe?

Maybe. 

just gleaning excessively

without truly

any destination

graciously

i must extend

that confident

imagining

i just want

to 

manipulate into an honest

polarizing 

bookends 

and destroy thee everything 

between

sooo into which is up here in 

like cyberspace

yet

stores consciousness 

some thing

that

confident imagining 

completely entrusting

the pages

miles of writing

blowing up the damn ink

like the art of titles

on the bindings

into 

something

i must want to

end

i just want to

finish

with

by saying, writing, acknowledging 

as raging within me

as 

you might appreciate

its meanings;

whatever that may be-

come. 

1
0
0
Juice
5 reads
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Whatever they may be
i just want to
start
i must want to
begin
by saying, writing, acknowledging 
a great thanks
for reading 
for raging with me
for liking and recycling
reposting and such
following;
cuz i just have to write
something 
that wrangles odd 
an odd hand grenade
flipped under hand 
into the poetry 

and c-racks open the energy
and stimulates everything
words have ever been 
intended to mean
--a joyous catastrophe?
Maybe. 
just gleaning excessively
without truly
any destination

graciously
i must extend
that confident
imagining
i just want
to 
manipulate into an honest
polarizing 
bookends 
and destroy thee everything 
between

sooo into which is up here in 
like cyberspace
yet
stores consciousness 
some thing
that
confident imagining 
completely entrusting
the pages
miles of writing
blowing up the damn ink
like the art of titles
on the bindings
into 
something
i must want to
end
i just want to
finish
with
by saying, writing, acknowledging 
as raging within me
as 
you might appreciate
its meanings;
whatever that may be-
come. 
1
0
0
Juice
5 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk in portal Long-Form Prose

Black and White Spots

real dirty-eye floaters

vacant pity

shimmering languid

vamped

bust the length of shadows,

which tells me there is no god,

I elevate myself to battle

the porcupine gores

just drain my prickling swamps

so I swallow grips

producing endorphins

like a regular one,

one that reels spiritually

from fighting

trapped inside of my stomach,

collapsing tremor,

edging blasts,

attacks,

expulsion;

the works

arm through like shoveling,

release the pinched arches

just balling tears

somewhat armature

the ufer grounding

doesn’t exist

inside my mind

inside my body;

and I almost lose

the dizzy, yet, aware

of dramatic and joyous

pantomimes

ambiguously given off

like signals,

readily visible in the light

outside

instill the assumptions

give off the real weird looks

to my starlet stares

about mentioning,

empowers the rumbling voice;

flying back to eardrums

snags, sponging dreaminess

of certain intertwining

elevations by shoulders

uneasy minimal persuasions

condense chills;

menial confused single raised

things

got quite distracted;

besides sick

sore

muscles of stomach

attempt speaking

strung out pains

stretched, vague, distant,

looms induced provoking

perplexed minds,

the strange gaze

and lost realm overcame;

mind’s so excited,

visceral fear, so much

in gibberish

that knows things,

but blabs mindless

chatter smothering

unbelievable inexperience

lumps the language

into mumbles

to the encounters

with magnificence

but I think these things

are real

this grimy side of urban

untamed despair,

cherishes history and knowledge,

though, among the rest,

grew thus far

sensing young new breeds

aspire generations

even greater

in ends layered further;

waiting for the real changes

in the night

to unveil a million scurrilous sorrows

cried for in all the leftovers

amounting to a world

seriously filtered

in our brains,

stretched in an instant

classical channeling for closer

and more eager expectations

of presence on single earth;

children,

they have spoiled expectations,

dwelled stereo

long-distance commiserations,

unrestricted thrashing

produce the only lyric

I could make out

striving loose uncovered litter

shingle granules,

the television,

and movie screens

realms squeezed by

preen ringing

hung draped tilts

in atmosphere clutched atop

jive tunnel-ways

in mini cacophony

straight ignorant

breaking off the confiding

purpose and persuasion

of temperament

into soundtrack

little crests of personal stories

inside out,

as if someone’s watching

frail shapes carried away by

some dramatics

pleading

below,

“it’s too late for me!

it’s too late for me!”

American kids,

like rough strained souls

scratched into live microphones

in the summer capacity

of just anything they aspire,

rubble in the hole

around the new foundation

crouches of crossovers

the peak

straddled episode

sways in scrawny snippets,

visuals like lose place

of this searing systemic way

that ultimately I’m supposed to

control myself

from falling out

like a poet who feels the world

has read all his pieces

and thrown them away

to phantoms, spirits

similarly stood up too fast

and throbbing heart

sides

up the neck

outskirts, blur spots of black and white

sparkle phases

all unpuzzling the aches

of society

grimaced with war

as the only cure

for this boredom

the “rockstars”

prolong in balmy growth

below tense

to expel

so I drop the scramble

hold the pinched guts;

intrude, mmy easing

slowing

my walking

to keep from fainting

into the black separation

and blanking bleak bleeped out bitter

end of this;

or maybe

in here,

I’m not sure.

Oh crazy oh.

but the tingles rose,

precipitated bags of goosebumps

swam up in the breathless slopes

dropping across the tree-topped gables

eyes finding longer limitless

moment

and turn over adrenaline

fires of great American determination

pushing in and of myself,

“it’s time to get going”—

minor jubilated tack

pressed to rubber crumbles

among my heart and lucky surges

sprung up

rickety,

half-bent

drip

edge

in every feint blanking

swirl back drops

of spilling;

so I try to hurry

through this

and keep ahead

of the fine fine steep climb

the boneless aching

accomplishing the day’s worth

supercilious to everything,

always on the heels

of fantastic solar inspiration

that winces naked

unto the muffled

blown acoustical delight

of the bathroom

misty thrashes

wait no more Elliot Lyngreen.

You are here.

You are here in the bellows

vehemently electric;

faded now, and

try to awake into

and keep it up.

that day we tore our backsides;

clumped dirt on the plywood

smeared footprints

up the increasing sides

of rafters

seamed through

all my coincidences

relaying horrorshow

over exposure,

painting schemes of folks

messing around my back,

cameras in the background

of the atmosphere

clearly in a wilderness

of american youths

maybe too much to handle

in the melting pot’s initial twist,

the span,

flourish,

civilization

the primitive nuclei

here and there

adjusting the operations,

the raw interactions

attempting to commix

and change

us

right there

infracting the planet’s races

amidst the allies and enemies,

humans here have lost touch with

only…yet over time,

recourses the wilderness

into a superabundance

of fear,

shifting eyes at each other;

I’m sure now that anyone

will be killed

should they wink

the wrong way

or joke too much,

with someone

seriously holding a gun;

---there’s so many possibilities

behind the eyes anymore;

stretched too ordinary,

neighborhoods and home

life

via language and music,

broadband fusing

future’s evolution

slips past the crosshairs,

spreads the system

in-throughout civilians’ vision

holding the vague concept

the streets entrust to fighting

not so much for life

as for cloning

that far-gone into imaginations,

myths appear to threaten

instincts have begun

again

time periods,

slow sinking sensations

stemmed from spinal scurries

and fidgety eerie things

telling me I’d better do this

whenever I try to escape,

or leave here all unfinished;

as fearless as

shape-shifting

just as rules change

the way a game is played,

so does my cause

slimy guts captured

subtle influence

the revelation, yet pleading

for marveling

in the soundless

power lines,

misplaced

as crumbs roll off

roofing material into the eaves

sprinkling ticks

headlong in back corners

mess eyelids

reach wipes and starts over again

similar to the way I

stood too fast

with one leg atop the ridge,

bent as the other locked straight

forced to eye the horizon

beam that skips

those phases of pitches

stained clean by roof vents

rusting metal reflected heat

spotted hovering surmise

in the valley,

the curved air pocket

the section bent

towards the zephyrs

it’s the goofy contortions

that develop

a rise in blood pressure,

strains overwhelm

to emerge from the blend

and the factions

absorbed in gnawing resemblance

in hallucinating these multitudes

of defeated nights

next to crooked

black and white spots

epiphanies afore such annihilated

alleviations of stacks of paperback

fuzzy creases,

overloaded by scatters

spilling ratty

unused pool tables,

walless showers

exposed down there;

workbenches cluttered

outdated heavy power tools

garages

half the yard’s

accumulated by automobiles

stripped here and there,

busted trophies with lost engravings,

cracked plastic electronic dartboards

sleek beer label mirrors

bikini breasts

hotrod calendars,

lint covered dryer vents,

children’s mini lockers

tiny kitchen outfits

absent sink knobs

dirt infested lawns,

tankless useless wires

bound by duct tape

around electrical conduits

and floor joist bridgings,

surround sound speakers

or extra phone lines,

romex

slacked plugs with power strips

disaster of algae smeared fish tanks

buckling bubbles

the hard gurgles

miniscule chunks,

shatters gradually over unable to traipse

quite peculiarly as they say

nothing,

any chance for scrambles

around with my jutted

hiding

filthy faced

into a corner

or behind some piece

of torn furniture,

grimacing tender

creeping stench

up between my crouched legs

unable to get a solid footing,

hangs personal

perpetual intervenes

to sway

the head and shoulders,

press tight

instances falling

tumbles carousing

to steal from these people

—time—

in their awful homes,

every unique front door

opened

too slowly to catch me

noticing

and consuming their holistic details;

yet unwilling to write down

their moments

automatically assuming

parallels

with the ever-changing world

discover the renewing

every morning poet

scribbling letters for them

that once use to translate

to the reader

tremendous wisdom

of emotional moving

successively unveiled

in the ultimate releasing

conversion; yet to write,

to create,

to share perhaps,

the glass block basement windows

and thin fresh hostas

the strip between driveways

and existing foundation

where the nails always end up

and this whole conversation

beseeches the one

with his Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned,

gray-haired rock hard gut

glistened by sunlight

and beer-rounded

outside the opening,

manages to tag along

softer whispers of sort,

deep amends

that enough hard labor

and this woman’s thighs

over there

sunbathing

will beg for smoothings

of coarse gorilla mits,

nubby fat meathooks

like knuckle fat fingers,

“there is no sacrifice greater

than that boys, huh?”

as if we’d get to ram fingers

in her as soon as we were done,

that bikini a few yards away;

dubiously

dumfounded

the lingering mettle

so much nearer the smell

of the sooty granules

in my arm hairs

like tar filtered in a/c vents

or a heavy locker room

sweat

humidly swims

sprinkling their odor

like pepper onto me

I could only hunch a little anticipation

of the near turning

round gooey fists

upon shit real oozed

goood,

tip-toe shakes

bent completely over

towards the toilet,

lurch the guts

thus disintegrating the last drops

of energy

and hum on

because and moreover,

quickly unraveled

to an untied shoelace;

consider Anthony burgess’ novel,

a clockwork orange,

consider this a foreshadow,

maybe characters shouldn’t

have conclusion,

ultimately only the reader changes,

but we don’t exist without you;

in here, every climax

famously characters remains

of the same forevers

even in changes, reasons

novels are written for only

when you have their changes;

just as so, these impulses

that speak my mind,

expressions,

emotions,

the most important

without hesitation

the vomit

and verbal diarrhea

salivating shakes

suckled to when the lugubrious tremors,

signals pulsating

the collapses to the world

with wounded antennae,

swirls to comprehend

that sound

as well as everything

for the turns

to continue

a delicate balance

as America begins

to look like an old place.

 

4
1
0
Juice
12 reads
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk in portal Long-Form Prose
Black and White Spots
real dirty-eye floaters
vacant pity
shimmering languid
vamped
bust the length of shadows,
which tells me there is no god,
I elevate myself to battle
the porcupine gores
just drain my prickling swamps
so I swallow grips
producing endorphins
like a regular one,
one that reels spiritually
from fighting
trapped inside of my stomach,
collapsing tremor,
edging blasts,
attacks,
expulsion;
the works

arm through like shoveling,
release the pinched arches
just balling tears
somewhat armature
the ufer grounding
doesn’t exist
inside my mind
inside my body;
and I almost lose
the dizzy, yet, aware
of dramatic and joyous
pantomimes
ambiguously given off
like signals,
readily visible in the light
outside
instill the assumptions
give off the real weird looks
to my starlet stares
about mentioning,
empowers the rumbling voice;
flying back to eardrums
snags, sponging dreaminess
of certain intertwining
elevations by shoulders
uneasy minimal persuasions
condense chills;
menial confused single raised
things
got quite distracted;
besides sick
sore
muscles of stomach
attempt speaking
strung out pains
stretched, vague, distant,
looms induced provoking
perplexed minds,
the strange gaze
and lost realm overcame;
mind’s so excited,
visceral fear, so much
in gibberish
that knows things,
but blabs mindless
chatter smothering
unbelievable inexperience
lumps the language
into mumbles
to the encounters
with magnificence
but I think these things
are real
this grimy side of urban
untamed despair,
cherishes history and knowledge,
though, among the rest,
grew thus far
sensing young new breeds
aspire generations
even greater
in ends layered further;
waiting for the real changes
in the night
to unveil a million scurrilous sorrows
cried for in all the leftovers
amounting to a world
seriously filtered
in our brains,
stretched in an instant
classical channeling for closer
and more eager expectations
of presence on single earth;

children,
they have spoiled expectations,
dwelled stereo
long-distance commiserations,
unrestricted thrashing
produce the only lyric
I could make out
striving loose uncovered litter
shingle granules,
the television,
and movie screens
realms squeezed by
preen ringing
hung draped tilts
in atmosphere clutched atop
jive tunnel-ways
in mini cacophony
straight ignorant
breaking off the confiding
purpose and persuasion
of temperament
into soundtrack
little crests of personal stories
inside out,
as if someone’s watching
frail shapes carried away by
some dramatics
pleading
below,
“it’s too late for me!
it’s too late for me!”

American kids,
like rough strained souls
scratched into live microphones
in the summer capacity
of just anything they aspire,
rubble in the hole
around the new foundation
crouches of crossovers
the peak
straddled episode
sways in scrawny snippets,
visuals like lose place
of this searing systemic way
that ultimately I’m supposed to
control myself
from falling out
like a poet who feels the world
has read all his pieces
and thrown them away
to phantoms, spirits
similarly stood up too fast
and throbbing heart
sides
up the neck
outskirts, blur spots of black and white
sparkle phases
all unpuzzling the aches
of society
grimaced with war
as the only cure
for this boredom

the “rockstars”
prolong in balmy growth
below tense
to expel
so I drop the scramble
hold the pinched guts;
intrude, mmy easing
slowing
my walking
to keep from fainting
into the black separation
and blanking bleak bleeped out bitter
end of this;
or maybe
in here,
I’m not sure.

Oh crazy oh.
but the tingles rose,
precipitated bags of goosebumps
swam up in the breathless slopes
dropping across the tree-topped gables
eyes finding longer limitless
moment
and turn over adrenaline
fires of great American determination
pushing in and of myself,
“it’s time to get going”—
minor jubilated tack
pressed to rubber crumbles
among my heart and lucky surges
sprung up
rickety,
half-bent
drip
edge
in every feint blanking
swirl back drops
of spilling;
so I try to hurry
through this
and keep ahead
of the fine fine steep climb
the boneless aching
accomplishing the day’s worth
supercilious to everything,
always on the heels
of fantastic solar inspiration
that winces naked
unto the muffled
blown acoustical delight
of the bathroom
misty thrashes
wait no more Elliot Lyngreen.
You are here.

You are here in the bellows
vehemently electric;
faded now, and
try to awake into
and keep it up.
that day we tore our backsides;
clumped dirt on the plywood
smeared footprints
up the increasing sides
of rafters
seamed through
all my coincidences
relaying horrorshow
over exposure,
painting schemes of folks
messing around my back,
cameras in the background
of the atmosphere
clearly in a wilderness
of american youths
maybe too much to handle
in the melting pot’s initial twist,
the span,
flourish,
civilization
the primitive nuclei
here and there
adjusting the operations,
the raw interactions
attempting to commix
and change
us

right there
infracting the planet’s races
amidst the allies and enemies,
humans here have lost touch with
only…yet over time,
recourses the wilderness
into a superabundance
of fear,
shifting eyes at each other;
I’m sure now that anyone
will be killed
should they wink
the wrong way
or joke too much,
with someone
seriously holding a gun;
---there’s so many possibilities
behind the eyes anymore;
stretched too ordinary,
neighborhoods and home
life
via language and music,
broadband fusing
future’s evolution
slips past the crosshairs,
spreads the system
in-throughout civilians’ vision
holding the vague concept
the streets entrust to fighting
not so much for life
as for cloning
that far-gone into imaginations,
myths appear to threaten
instincts have begun
again
time periods,

slow sinking sensations
stemmed from spinal scurries
and fidgety eerie things
telling me I’d better do this
whenever I try to escape,
or leave here all unfinished;
as fearless as
shape-shifting
just as rules change
the way a game is played,
so does my cause
slimy guts captured
subtle influence
the revelation, yet pleading
for marveling
in the soundless
power lines,
misplaced
as crumbs roll off
roofing material into the eaves
sprinkling ticks
headlong in back corners
mess eyelids
reach wipes and starts over again
similar to the way I
stood too fast
with one leg atop the ridge,
bent as the other locked straight
forced to eye the horizon
beam that skips
those phases of pitches
stained clean by roof vents
rusting metal reflected heat
spotted hovering surmise
in the valley,
the curved air pocket
the section bent
towards the zephyrs

it’s the goofy contortions
that develop
a rise in blood pressure,
strains overwhelm
to emerge from the blend
and the factions
absorbed in gnawing resemblance
in hallucinating these multitudes
of defeated nights
next to crooked
black and white spots
epiphanies afore such annihilated
alleviations of stacks of paperback
fuzzy creases,
overloaded by scatters
spilling ratty
unused pool tables,
walless showers
exposed down there;
workbenches cluttered
outdated heavy power tools
garages
half the yard’s
accumulated by automobiles
stripped here and there,
busted trophies with lost engravings,
cracked plastic electronic dartboards
sleek beer label mirrors
bikini breasts
hotrod calendars,
lint covered dryer vents,
children’s mini lockers
tiny kitchen outfits
absent sink knobs
dirt infested lawns,
tankless useless wires
bound by duct tape
around electrical conduits
and floor joist bridgings,
surround sound speakers
or extra phone lines,
romex
slacked plugs with power strips
disaster of algae smeared fish tanks
buckling bubbles
the hard gurgles
miniscule chunks,
shatters gradually over unable to traipse
quite peculiarly as they say
nothing,

any chance for scrambles
around with my jutted
hiding
filthy faced
into a corner
or behind some piece
of torn furniture,
grimacing tender
creeping stench
up between my crouched legs
unable to get a solid footing,
hangs personal
perpetual intervenes
to sway
the head and shoulders,
press tight
instances falling
tumbles carousing
to steal from these people
—time—
in their awful homes,
every unique front door
opened
too slowly to catch me
noticing
and consuming their holistic details;
yet unwilling to write down
their moments
automatically assuming
parallels
with the ever-changing world
discover the renewing
every morning poet
scribbling letters for them
that once use to translate
to the reader
tremendous wisdom
of emotional moving
successively unveiled
in the ultimate releasing
conversion; yet to write,
to create,
to share perhaps,
the glass block basement windows
and thin fresh hostas
the strip between driveways
and existing foundation
where the nails always end up
and this whole conversation
beseeches the one
with his Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned,
gray-haired rock hard gut
glistened by sunlight
and beer-rounded
outside the opening,
manages to tag along
softer whispers of sort,
deep amends
that enough hard labor
and this woman’s thighs
over there
sunbathing
will beg for smoothings
of coarse gorilla mits,
nubby fat meathooks
like knuckle fat fingers,
“there is no sacrifice greater
than that boys, huh?”
as if we’d get to ram fingers
in her as soon as we were done,
that bikini a few yards away;
dubiously
dumfounded
the lingering mettle
so much nearer the smell
of the sooty granules
in my arm hairs
like tar filtered in a/c vents
or a heavy locker room
sweat
humidly swims
sprinkling their odor
like pepper onto me

I could only hunch a little anticipation
of the near turning
round gooey fists
upon shit real oozed
goood,
tip-toe shakes
bent completely over
towards the toilet,
lurch the guts
thus disintegrating the last drops
of energy

and hum on
because and moreover,
quickly unraveled
to an untied shoelace;
consider Anthony burgess’ novel,
a clockwork orange,
consider this a foreshadow,
maybe characters shouldn’t
have conclusion,
ultimately only the reader changes,
but we don’t exist without you;
in here, every climax
famously characters remains
of the same forevers
even in changes, reasons
novels are written for only
when you have their changes;
just as so, these impulses
that speak my mind,
expressions,
emotions,
the most important
without hesitation
the vomit
and verbal diarrhea
salivating shakes
suckled to when the lugubrious tremors,
signals pulsating
the collapses to the world
with wounded antennae,
swirls to comprehend
that sound
as well as everything
for the turns
to continue
a delicate balance
as America begins
to look like an old place.
 
4
1
0
Juice
12 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk in portal Sci-Fi

AhSS4e (Ahold of Shoulder Straps part 4)

Stories once told this way. To be passed along. Now invented.

Retrieving journal.Pakmer.howtoremove-ahss4e:

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

>Via the last year of our Lord;; spilling matrix into the tube,

the laser –

cathode rays towards flash

drives;

me hunched over, the beams reaching that infinite touch of stardust into the isometrics of pipe diagrams, screensaver life, just screen; savor,

life blurred through to imagination; where we behold ourselves….

Today on the tight rope of drama, the vanishing point of us of them in the background graphics, single mode spread (optics) as time & space merge, this fake destiny of fates urging faceward to faint glass, fingering resolutions but commixed into this place gelcoated unstraight, oozing fantastic, melting, (freeze(pops-)(the circulation of visions further, racing the speed of light, catching & reflected; spectrum, before the audience. . . . let’s perform) playstations; thei molding of mankind to fibers of optical illusions playing on towards even more bite-size

Playing on towards even more bite-size like frosted mini-cues

(Well that twidiamond vision; as was-we was tilted into precision as is the way light bend civilization to the extreme processing systemd, but inside cpu's display/monitor/popup/that (¿|?) _[>ower symbol insert> gwey touch, poltrrgeist & electrocutions -whatever the madness;;;; penetrate cyberspace here underlined

But smoother in these frictionless generations of windows & programs operating like ibreaths & deeper pulsations to our every step not in, but without; within without of our realm & the ones we hav created; actually inside screens in a tremendous green omni-science mutated

into this narrator babbling blindly before the .msi rambling reading

Rediculousness just scanned.

Yours truly, two-tone, in the moment looking at, out/the perfect storm clouds barn, no brain-storming/perfect clouds deflect as ithink clouds born on dust and i want to ssay angel's rust,

but angles burst as imonitor triangulates fingernails to be thrust: dll prep shit! & split micro-froze mini/ kit; that slit of cosmic entrails like saucers phew No. No not really/

And Yes she dreams of rain.

Angel.

Opens eyes. Wings. And spreads eyes green, flicking webbings of bloodshot envy/Winds woodened whispered and shx come thru, "you're not looking clear", out the cam of magnifications, glitched in blinks, a touch in separation; shx come (trxxmptxct) past/nights pass

In superfast frustration/With eyes and a blast in their embraces...Watering electrically.

Water in electricity attaches in cranium intersections, static suck protrusions in the way shx looks-over; me.

I returnd, "ithink u hav it". Then the image ruins.

And meteors, metaphors skewer one image in one flash fast forward fasting before me, tosearching_in, definitely heading for a turn, its in the tip of my beam-tongue/oh what was the word? 'whatsIp?'-'you're still as old'.

'As you are a year younger'. . . . Me llamo es Pakmer Typhoon.

Typhoon Pakmer ■'.] told shx

1
0
0
Juice
7 reads
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk in portal Sci-Fi
AhSS4e (Ahold of Shoulder Straps part 4)
Stories once told this way. To be passed along. Now invented.
Retrieving journal.Pakmer.howtoremove-ahss4e:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


>Via the last year of our Lord;; spilling matrix into the tube,

the laser –

cathode rays towards flash



drives;

me hunched over, the beams reaching that infinite touch of stardust into the isometrics of pipe diagrams, screensaver life, just screen; savor,

life blurred through to imagination; where we behold ourselves….

Today on the tight rope of drama, the vanishing point of us of them in the background graphics, single mode spread (optics) as time & space merge, this fake destiny of fates urging faceward to faint glass, fingering resolutions but commixed into this place gelcoated unstraight, oozing fantastic, melting, (freeze(pops-)(the circulation of visions further, racing the speed of light, catching & reflected; spectrum, before the audience. . . . let’s perform) playstations; thei molding of mankind to fibers of optical illusions playing on towards even more bite-size
Playing on towards even more bite-size like frosted mini-cues

(Well that twidiamond vision; as was-we was tilted into precision as is the way light bend civilization to the extreme processing systemd, but inside cpu's display/monitor/popup/that (¿|?) _[>ower symbol insert> gwey touch, poltrrgeist & electrocutions -whatever the madness;;;; penetrate cyberspace here underlined

But smoother in these frictionless generations of windows & programs operating like ibreaths & deeper pulsations to our every step not in, but without; within without of our realm & the ones we hav created; actually inside screens in a tremendous green omni-science mutated

into this narrator babbling blindly before the .msi rambling reading

Rediculousness just scanned.

Yours truly, two-tone, in the moment looking at, out/the perfect storm clouds barn, no brain-storming/perfect clouds deflect as ithink clouds born on dust and i want to ssay angel's rust,

but angles burst as imonitor triangulates fingernails to be thrust: dll prep shit! & split micro-froze mini/ kit; that slit of cosmic entrails like saucers phew No. No not really/

And Yes she dreams of rain.

Angel.

Opens eyes. Wings. And spreads eyes green, flicking webbings of bloodshot envy/Winds woodened whispered and shx come thru, "you're not looking clear", out the cam of magnifications, glitched in blinks, a touch in separation; shx come (trxxmptxct) past/nights pass

In superfast frustration/With eyes and a blast in their embraces...Watering electrically.

Water in electricity attaches in cranium intersections, static suck protrusions in the way shx looks-over; me.

I returnd, "ithink u hav it". Then the image ruins.

And meteors, metaphors skewer one image in one flash fast forward fasting before me, tosearching_in, definitely heading for a turn, its in the tip of my beam-tongue/oh what was the word? 'whatsIp?'-'you're still as old'.

'As you are a year younger'. . . . Me llamo es Pakmer Typhoon.

Typhoon Pakmer ■'.] told shx

1
0
0
Juice
7 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk in portal Music and Rap

Lyrics - Harmed

Film School - Harmed, Lyrics revived by Elliott

Yesterday I ran the whole day

A record mile from that town

And all the time I looked for something

I lived alone in my heart

Ohh man, we got harmed

Oh, man, we got harmed

And this picture that I thought I'd recognize

OHh man, we got harmed

Tell myself I have the whole day

Been circling round in the town

And all the ways I hoped to find out

I never thought this'd be how

Ohh man, we got harmed

Oh, man, you got harmed

And this picture that I thought I'd recognize

Ohhh man, we got harmed

1
0
0
Juice
7 reads
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk in portal Music and Rap
Lyrics - Harmed
Film School - Harmed, Lyrics revived by Elliott

Yesterday I ran the whole day
A record mile from that town
And all the time I looked for something
I lived alone in my heart

Ohh man, we got harmed
Oh, man, we got harmed
And this picture that I thought I'd recognize
OHh man, we got harmed

Tell myself I have the whole day
Been circling round in the town
And all the ways I hoped to find out
I never thought this'd be how

Ohh man, we got harmed
Oh, man, you got harmed
And this picture that I thought I'd recognize
Ohhh man, we got harmed
1
0
0
Juice
7 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by Lynk in portal Simon & Schuster

There Must be Murder

In the trapped sense of being and feeling….

[Profound simplicity

IT IS A ABOUT A MAP TO A TREASURE

MAP. Create map]

Brainstorming, he capitalizes down coupled with thinking.

[4 GUYS AGREE TO CUT

4 PIECES

Need Obstacles

PUT IT BACK TOGETHER

In the end.]

…as experienced a writer has ever…

[4 pieces – 4 guys?

A fifth. Maybe a copy – a woman??

Yes yes yes

Re-Makes? Re-draws?

kills the original owner?

Why must there always be a murder?]

..recreated characters and the realm.

[Murder. (Why) … there MUST be MURDER?

The 5th Quarter or Corner ? ?]

And not inventing them. …

[Maybe thieves

OF THE COPY

And Rain.]

...these stories were still always shrouded with rain.

And . . . .

….

He was cheating. Like cheating at a game of chess.

Shhhhhh the asylum rain he knew - the quietude on the glass.

Now to play with it; like form them (develop something further than killing characters), he steals. Touches paintbrush to canvas. Scores the constant image of things begun yet as if one continuous escape through a vanishing point. That little something (figures the pathway in, around, walks under bristled trees which shower the… courtyard? Maybe) activates motion of light—with branches slightly prickled—broken into v-lines; such magnificence. Sprinkles a trunk to be the beginning and ending of his story.

Yet he paints over it, reforming. And what is present, what is known; he figures will just create themselves as he draws.

Now thinking it’s somewhere, actually only traded through hands like money, since even the most honest person has to; but not looking for it in that manner; meaning whomever owned it originally certainly was not going to lose it. Only what it is they take from themselves. A test to flush out a rat kind of thing. Secret information. Just see where it flushes out. Expect maybe more. Yet something it make believes (in fact, thieves have them too), it steals way more than it shows.

It steals. That is all it can do. It steals this moment for one that won’t ever happen. Like something that came back; though, shortly, will be gone soon. Even he is unable to show inside in pieces of them on this pulp. But in this story— Knows it. He knows it is confusing merely as simple language, but needs to share more. Might them things come across profoundly? because of my own simplicity? Painted? Says so much that needs to say nothing, but it, the amount will come around equally and be equally stolen.

Something … A message? That light out there looks green, easy and perfect; dots the paper. Profound simplicity. . ..

Goatley Lagelty did so admire himself in one of them easy strolls to hold the brisk hand crafting it. The realm he walked with intentions to walk through, wall forming and developing, with each step he took, it alone cannot be seen in squints or stares at the distance eventually to come. Profound simplicity. Even inside him, holds the end. Like he does not have to imagine the place and all the circumstances he is going to create; yet at this moment stands in the blank canvas waiting for the momet to coat the ceremony wandering immaculate, rich in the state of trust leaned long down walls carved in candelabra, awake in mystical magic of a dripping outside a window.

This sacred something picked in behind them eyes of little things you might say awesomely and beautifully wrestled from the mind, in his steps, then wriggled, flicked smooth from someone else; from something else; borrows this candle flame like the Olympic torch all glowing with determination to continue; slowly dwindle, then dance in rain.

So the sound is gone save the crinkling window he knuckles and sifts over and over detailing the surroundings. Sits, still he laughs. Sweaters, jokes, wide rimmed wine glasses, snows now coast down out of night. Merely the fireplace loses any reflection from the glass. The candle light upon the pulp. Couples in their outfits. The window. Still laughs. Taming that wildness with liquor and smoke, a house, roles, flames, him grinning everywhere, playing conversations with certain altitudes adjusted in personal pilfered moments. Throughout. The years develop. Goatley personifies, presents forth, as who they are (stories too literally taken to be modified), “we can take this place,” with a pistol in Luke’s pack, automatic clip, smoother and quicker shattering the glass, as if Luke exists still. Remembering.

Calm, serene faces blistered by the unknown blood grinning euphoric glee pumped of the glory of getting away with something; like Luke could not. But Goatley did.

Gazing through the glass, elbows on the sill of the breaking or popping, loose embers. Candles are the room light. The fire glows. Bigger. More. He is there now, painted alive inside jagged remains of the reflection, amber visage, and that is all we see of him.

Totally stolen, that little look in his eye never blinks. Green light out there, where sometimes, ideas of that other soul pulling through, travels underground. Unusually sits over there, just stares with arrest forged with a gift.

Pour out before them.

Oh how he deeply focuses until tired little drift-like fallings press upon the violence about to be loved like a woman. Kind pearls in the tiny picture of how do you do... all that…single, instrumental formation, of something sacred.

Squeezes like her veins out her lover’s forehead; within the warrior that tried to save her. So many pains magnify eternal. Look better if you think about it. This thing goes not as one slick slaughter, but as some woman into a miniskirt; passes, by. She had no meaning nor reason to, but Goatley continues what will be labeled as weird but sexy by reporters and critics of the work; in a sense that her white nylons did not make any sense either; other than to titillate those exact senses for it.

The simple undone reason (or am I doing this for no reason, he ponders) again speaks to him –‘never have I any need to reveal these things’—so misunderstanding in the looks she is giving, that truly deeper within, somewhere in the conscious of meaning and purpose is actually thinking nothing at all. Yet now, strangely, Luke, with some weight in value in the poor stray out of her return, that began with unknown direction, but cleverly cycles the guilt, can actually say, ‘substantiates’ it.

He spits up.

The excitement every time. He has stained clothes, through pieces exposed, shoots magic straight down to his heart, back as fast; he spit up the little bit of bile. When he spit the spat froze. She falls back into the mix.

Again and again mystical magic of dripping icicles; all stolen from something else. And part of its personification or character, is human, blank, face creeps in, cheek bones gleam, appear. Because of the actual shape of the bones and closed jaw and cheeks flighty, almost seems like a smile at the stare of Goatley we stare at.

Studying these strange tales that connect the tales he knows unveil, uncloak, and uncover the inevitable reason. Just the cold glow and the silhouette trickle sitting on a concrete haze. Lavender. Group trees under sprinkles, quiet the drips around, onto the scatter; his head splattered, soft, against. His hand’s push tiny towards the enormous touch of like a finger, ripples the picture with a ring on it. Limbs barely decorated, roughly covered in soft lingers of the few crisp frost curls (a crush on crystals), of warmth exhaled, just amazed, almost hovering breath in whirs rhythmical, her husband. Her love. Dead. Goatley Lagelty’s drip . . . . drip . . . .drip returns. Closer exhales.

Maybe thieves learn things never intended to teach. Green eyes…inside this glow, the same old touch warming this becoming beauty within, which seems brightened towards weakness. Through frost shadows, hard grooves envelop of the once moist ground, freezes leaves and limbs. In like this dark frost her green eyes focus at the spotlight upon them; flapped, open, tint the cheeks once, glow a smile, keenly. In her round lifeless face, tiny frame -with those pure legs detailed in flows. Blouse. -Lightness whips. Sandy blond. Yes she was.

Wash the middle, the room, right through the window; where she emerges. Form the candle light fireplace. Sit in the tree frost, immune to the cold, “this was not how it was supposed to go.”

Somewhere under the night inside candle-lit shattered window these two lovers hold each other. Arms wrap perfectly uneven. Intertwined only by their eyes staring looks at the trance itself of which remains creating itself; as but everyone feels; as the only one who wanted to snatch the thing. Yet ended up killing everything.

Imagine this and snatch from thieves the hope of enjoying the huddled dream. Observe that beauty, those moments embracing, the gentle peeks, the single image of the entire story, Goatley's face and a kiss swinging glances romantically.

Drawing this image somewhere under the night and inside candle lit window, he makes the couples lovers…the beauty; yearn; that embrace to be holding; by little looks within, snuggled so close his breath fogs the remaining glass.

That which does not exist anymore; but is okay to give and simultaneously take since she can’t exist; it’s okay to steal those lovely green looks; because she does not, and we do not, and for it will then be replaced by his upturned sleek graces. By Goatley getting what he came for.

The fifth quarter of the map.

Together, though, they must be separate.

Someone told me once that everything written from within should be only from the head and straight from the heart, no matter, and nothing interferes. Pour fire run along like candle wax; like you know what it feels like all melting flowing down over and down onto, yes beautifully onto you streaming, cut, edge, wedging soft gleaming sides perfectly melting and solidifying all at the same time. Not so much the idea or metaphor which we have grown accustom to, but it actually happening, like it is something you know, you think we should know about. We have read and studied but how well do we know something? Without experiencing? You never see the thieves from the perspective of one. Or do you? No intends to be one. No one murders to write about it? Or have they?

And treasure heroes stealing from thieves, or better yet what should we know? Unless…..

-Goatley feels as he skims alive the books along the bookcase, in the background…-

it were say real.

The hard part, he feels, is that it only exists in mind like a piece of something you cannot witness—but imagine. Yet you still wonder it as you’re not thieving, killing, or fighting the pirates. So in fantasizing becoming one, for the experience and to reflect as clearly as if we should become thieves, he creates the story a little further.

Whispering nothing weighs like a gun in Luke’s rigged up little idea to push right through next to the hedges, straight inside. Too much tips into, directly through the middle view. A courtyard or even perpetual quiet area with fragile glass separating from there attaches the ground that started all the growing outside of it; perhaps so incredibly, so simple that it was perfectly captured.

And leaving an insignificant bullet hole as if in water, as if shooting through falling water … but frozen; the vanishing point; something that will make believe, that says so much inside there, freely stared upon; simple profound chunks of glass blow out.

A message.

That light out there looks green.

Go for it.

Ceremonial wandering, immaculate candle flakes caught in dwindle flicker, pressed into eyes. The frozen, beautiful wrestling, swapped, stole inside; the first poke through, just barely past, just into the window. The bullet bursts away breathless, leaves the glass just in pieces.

6
3
1
Juice
19 reads
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by Lynk in portal Simon & Schuster
There Must be Murder
In the trapped sense of being and feeling….

[Profound simplicity
IT IS A ABOUT A MAP TO A TREASURE
MAP. Create map]

Brainstorming, he capitalizes down coupled with thinking.

[4 GUYS AGREE TO CUT
4 PIECES
Need Obstacles
PUT IT BACK TOGETHER
In the end.]

…as experienced a writer has ever…

[4 pieces – 4 guys?
A fifth. Maybe a copy – a woman??
Yes yes yes
Re-Makes? Re-draws?
kills the original owner?
Why must there always be a murder?]

..recreated characters and the realm.

[Murder. (Why) … there MUST be MURDER?

The 5th Quarter or Corner ? ?]

And not inventing them. …

[Maybe thieves
OF THE COPY
And Rain.]

...these stories were still always shrouded with rain.

And . . . .

….

He was cheating. Like cheating at a game of chess.

Shhhhhh the asylum rain he knew - the quietude on the glass.

Now to play with it; like form them (develop something further than killing characters), he steals. Touches paintbrush to canvas. Scores the constant image of things begun yet as if one continuous escape through a vanishing point. That little something (figures the pathway in, around, walks under bristled trees which shower the… courtyard? Maybe) activates motion of light—with branches slightly prickled—broken into v-lines; such magnificence. Sprinkles a trunk to be the beginning and ending of his story.

Yet he paints over it, reforming. And what is present, what is known; he figures will just create themselves as he draws.

Now thinking it’s somewhere, actually only traded through hands like money, since even the most honest person has to; but not looking for it in that manner; meaning whomever owned it originally certainly was not going to lose it. Only what it is they take from themselves. A test to flush out a rat kind of thing. Secret information. Just see where it flushes out. Expect maybe more. Yet something it make believes (in fact, thieves have them too), it steals way more than it shows.

It steals. That is all it can do. It steals this moment for one that won’t ever happen. Like something that came back; though, shortly, will be gone soon. Even he is unable to show inside in pieces of them on this pulp. But in this story— Knows it. He knows it is confusing merely as simple language, but needs to share more. Might them things come across profoundly? because of my own simplicity? Painted? Says so much that needs to say nothing, but it, the amount will come around equally and be equally stolen.

Something … A message? That light out there looks green, easy and perfect; dots the paper. Profound simplicity. . ..

Goatley Lagelty did so admire himself in one of them easy strolls to hold the brisk hand crafting it. The realm he walked with intentions to walk through, wall forming and developing, with each step he took, it alone cannot be seen in squints or stares at the distance eventually to come. Profound simplicity. Even inside him, holds the end. Like he does not have to imagine the place and all the circumstances he is going to create; yet at this moment stands in the blank canvas waiting for the momet to coat the ceremony wandering immaculate, rich in the state of trust leaned long down walls carved in candelabra, awake in mystical magic of a dripping outside a window.

This sacred something picked in behind them eyes of little things you might say awesomely and beautifully wrestled from the mind, in his steps, then wriggled, flicked smooth from someone else; from something else; borrows this candle flame like the Olympic torch all glowing with determination to continue; slowly dwindle, then dance in rain.

So the sound is gone save the crinkling window he knuckles and sifts over and over detailing the surroundings. Sits, still he laughs. Sweaters, jokes, wide rimmed wine glasses, snows now coast down out of night. Merely the fireplace loses any reflection from the glass. The candle light upon the pulp. Couples in their outfits. The window. Still laughs. Taming that wildness with liquor and smoke, a house, roles, flames, him grinning everywhere, playing conversations with certain altitudes adjusted in personal pilfered moments. Throughout. The years develop. Goatley personifies, presents forth, as who they are (stories too literally taken to be modified), “we can take this place,” with a pistol in Luke’s pack, automatic clip, smoother and quicker shattering the glass, as if Luke exists still. Remembering.

Calm, serene faces blistered by the unknown blood grinning euphoric glee pumped of the glory of getting away with something; like Luke could not. But Goatley did.

Gazing through the glass, elbows on the sill of the breaking or popping, loose embers. Candles are the room light. The fire glows. Bigger. More. He is there now, painted alive inside jagged remains of the reflection, amber visage, and that is all we see of him.

Totally stolen, that little look in his eye never blinks. Green light out there, where sometimes, ideas of that other soul pulling through, travels underground. Unusually sits over there, just stares with arrest forged with a gift.

Pour out before them.

Oh how he deeply focuses until tired little drift-like fallings press upon the violence about to be loved like a woman. Kind pearls in the tiny picture of how do you do... all that…single, instrumental formation, of something sacred.

Squeezes like her veins out her lover’s forehead; within the warrior that tried to save her. So many pains magnify eternal. Look better if you think about it. This thing goes not as one slick slaughter, but as some woman into a miniskirt; passes, by. She had no meaning nor reason to, but Goatley continues what will be labeled as weird but sexy by reporters and critics of the work; in a sense that her white nylons did not make any sense either; other than to titillate those exact senses for it.

The simple undone reason (or am I doing this for no reason, he ponders) again speaks to him –‘never have I any need to reveal these things’—so misunderstanding in the looks she is giving, that truly deeper within, somewhere in the conscious of meaning and purpose is actually thinking nothing at all. Yet now, strangely, Luke, with some weight in value in the poor stray out of her return, that began with unknown direction, but cleverly cycles the guilt, can actually say, ‘substantiates’ it.

He spits up.

The excitement every time. He has stained clothes, through pieces exposed, shoots magic straight down to his heart, back as fast; he spit up the little bit of bile. When he spit the spat froze. She falls back into the mix.

Again and again mystical magic of dripping icicles; all stolen from something else. And part of its personification or character, is human, blank, face creeps in, cheek bones gleam, appear. Because of the actual shape of the bones and closed jaw and cheeks flighty, almost seems like a smile at the stare of Goatley we stare at.

Studying these strange tales that connect the tales he knows unveil, uncloak, and uncover the inevitable reason. Just the cold glow and the silhouette trickle sitting on a concrete haze. Lavender. Group trees under sprinkles, quiet the drips around, onto the scatter; his head splattered, soft, against. His hand’s push tiny towards the enormous touch of like a finger, ripples the picture with a ring on it. Limbs barely decorated, roughly covered in soft lingers of the few crisp frost curls (a crush on crystals), of warmth exhaled, just amazed, almost hovering breath in whirs rhythmical, her husband. Her love. Dead. Goatley Lagelty’s drip . . . . drip . . . .drip returns. Closer exhales.

Maybe thieves learn things never intended to teach. Green eyes…inside this glow, the same old touch warming this becoming beauty within, which seems brightened towards weakness. Through frost shadows, hard grooves envelop of the once moist ground, freezes leaves and limbs. In like this dark frost her green eyes focus at the spotlight upon them; flapped, open, tint the cheeks once, glow a smile, keenly. In her round lifeless face, tiny frame -with those pure legs detailed in flows. Blouse. -Lightness whips. Sandy blond. Yes she was.

Wash the middle, the room, right through the window; where she emerges. Form the candle light fireplace. Sit in the tree frost, immune to the cold, “this was not how it was supposed to go.”

Somewhere under the night inside candle-lit shattered window these two lovers hold each other. Arms wrap perfectly uneven. Intertwined only by their eyes staring looks at the trance itself of which remains creating itself; as but everyone feels; as the only one who wanted to snatch the thing. Yet ended up killing everything.

Imagine this and snatch from thieves the hope of enjoying the huddled dream. Observe that beauty, those moments embracing, the gentle peeks, the single image of the entire story, Goatley's face and a kiss swinging glances romantically.

Drawing this image somewhere under the night and inside candle lit window, he makes the couples lovers…the beauty; yearn; that embrace to be holding; by little looks within, snuggled so close his breath fogs the remaining glass.

That which does not exist anymore; but is okay to give and simultaneously take since she can’t exist; it’s okay to steal those lovely green looks; because she does not, and we do not, and for it will then be replaced by his upturned sleek graces. By Goatley getting what he came for.

The fifth quarter of the map.

Together, though, they must be separate.

Someone told me once that everything written from within should be only from the head and straight from the heart, no matter, and nothing interferes. Pour fire run along like candle wax; like you know what it feels like all melting flowing down over and down onto, yes beautifully onto you streaming, cut, edge, wedging soft gleaming sides perfectly melting and solidifying all at the same time. Not so much the idea or metaphor which we have grown accustom to, but it actually happening, like it is something you know, you think we should know about. We have read and studied but how well do we know something? Without experiencing? You never see the thieves from the perspective of one. Or do you? No intends to be one. No one murders to write about it? Or have they?

And treasure heroes stealing from thieves, or better yet what should we know? Unless…..

-Goatley feels as he skims alive the books along the bookcase, in the background…-

it were say real.

The hard part, he feels, is that it only exists in mind like a piece of something you cannot witness—but imagine. Yet you still wonder it as you’re not thieving, killing, or fighting the pirates. So in fantasizing becoming one, for the experience and to reflect as clearly as if we should become thieves, he creates the story a little further.

Whispering nothing weighs like a gun in Luke’s rigged up little idea to push right through next to the hedges, straight inside. Too much tips into, directly through the middle view. A courtyard or even perpetual quiet area with fragile glass separating from there attaches the ground that started all the growing outside of it; perhaps so incredibly, so simple that it was perfectly captured.

And leaving an insignificant bullet hole as if in water, as if shooting through falling water … but frozen; the vanishing point; something that will make believe, that says so much inside there, freely stared upon; simple profound chunks of glass blow out.

A message.

That light out there looks green.

Go for it.

Ceremonial wandering, immaculate candle flakes caught in dwindle flicker, pressed into eyes. The frozen, beautiful wrestling, swapped, stole inside; the first poke through, just barely past, just into the window. The bullet bursts away breathless, leaves the glass just in pieces.

6
3
1
Juice
19 reads
Load 1 Comment
Login to post comments.
Advertisement  (turn off)
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk

Gorgeous Flames

smoldering semi gas smell

and a single spark in me

to wrap love around

(like more reels

than the b-side montage

on Nevermind)

as pressure feels

like the grip of wheels

as my patience

skid marks pavement

to get to your place

in them gorgeous flames

ahh my loves for you

ignites the sun

frees the highway

without signs

in incredible emptiness

a weightless candle

that is dawn and so vital

at the speed of sound

as free to me

as fiction in the public library

with ethereal moon

behind soft white clouds

is coming that which

far away forever

pursues

and if words could define

your real face

i could only smile

as they try your name

sensing the shine and glows

those fiery likely laughs

the same mine explores

so into the landscape

of spirit

over the pass and open heavens

to the extended floats

as if coins

upon every crest of the ocean

were all going to

see you at the center

of the universe

the one and only gorgeous flames

which

dovetails and intertwines

all of eternity's challenges

as if the rest were not

connected

by greasy chains

rather smooth gravity

and this beyond gorgeous flames

whom she shall always be

and infinitely graced as

my sweet dreams

 

3
0
0
Juice
14 reads
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk
Gorgeous Flames
smoldering semi gas smell
and a single spark in me
to wrap love around
(like more reels
than the b-side montage
on Nevermind)

as pressure feels
like the grip of wheels
as my patience
skid marks pavement
to get to your place
in them gorgeous flames

ahh my loves for you
ignites the sun
frees the highway
without signs
in incredible emptiness
a weightless candle
that is dawn and so vital

at the speed of sound
as free to me
as fiction in the public library
with ethereal moon
behind soft white clouds
is coming that which
far away forever
pursues

and if words could define
your real face
i could only smile
as they try your name
sensing the shine and glows
those fiery likely laughs
the same mine explores

so into the landscape
of spirit
over the pass and open heavens
to the extended floats
as if coins
upon every crest of the ocean
were all going to
see you at the center
of the universe

the one and only gorgeous flames

which
dovetails and intertwines
all of eternity's challenges
as if the rest were not
connected
by greasy chains
rather smooth gravity
and this beyond gorgeous flames
whom she shall always be
and infinitely graced as
my sweet dreams
 
3
0
0
Juice
14 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk

The Eunuch

The further they went through, hurried beneath the divided sky, the more they began to tell themselves they had martyred already.

Glazed upon that similarity, they yearned the design. Like the electrical poles, like the crosses; laden with pockmarks, remains of innumerous or various staple and nail holes, old weathered bulletins, fraught wood, splinter slit in long splits over their sides; they were rugged, marked, raw, beholding; and if they had to, would hang these two down these small sidestreets epic, novel. The wire connections attached little angles and minor old-fashioned cul-de-sacs without curbs, gravel drives that branched the ideal anointing. Circulated the innumerous pilgrimages richly through to the basilica, where an opening into the woods, as if each infidelity has been tracked to every shade of gray tall atmospheric layer they rolled under over and over unyielding, as if the continuation of the threatening and the electrical flow within that revelation—one for every single sin great or small—made a permanent mark directing everyone’s attention to the place.

“Well now, who’ll encounter us out here?” in some sort of marvelous absolution and sacrifice, they continued; these folks who come here this afternoon and one of them asked practically out loud as the other continued.

That was when what looked like a man, half glorious, half disheveled, spoke. And Similar to the dust-clouding, that is, maybe as the dynamic Tertullian, the glory, that truly does not exist, falls short even, of sainthood, like Origen, with an in-between area, at least from here to the reader; as of yet, separate significance from the reader because of slow Time; or conventionally, from a saint’s period to a modern man’s; and the glorious idea of faith that expanded in that short standard timeframe which had not been distorted I tell you. Yet, without sacrifices—due in part to the feeling martyrs have necessarily done what was required; so many unjustly repent, and only the occasional requests upon them watching over apparently seems contingent—however, to truly consider them at great attention on the man in the great preceding era, requires a different sort of faith. As for, it is like the apologists’ mourn since years presumed in merely triple digits existed; for, how long the hermits dug their own sandy graves in the desert!! for how long Anthony fought the devil in them tombs!! Was how long it took him to respond to her, “eh-everyone??”

Something heroic travels in spoken word; written, though, becomes spread of myth as well; and here, well eagerly telling in fantastic beliefs and magic possibly of such a distance, that somewhere, in sometime—mind the aforementioned saints —one existed, say parted a fire around oneself chained to such a belief. Here are the greatest heroes, loomed once in physiognomy; and I am to believe I witnessed in some old fascination, a life, a miracle, and a day further inferred with one of these saints face-to-face, but, honestly, discovered in that sort of world, with a perception of faith, when these two individuals who consecrated and conceived this holy being out of adultery.

And this child I had believed there remained—by documentation—beneath the wiry connections like beard hairs into faces, and close sporadic gray strands frazzling and curling long with the dark far horizons that once surrounded the ecstasy of warm eyes where they stood, squinted with confidence when this place severed its penis. Not just in as ever awesome as any saint that ever lived, but I believe in every encounter that leveled universes as if in some access through these awfully brave dimensions; which shaped, shifted the entire continuum, Time, and maintained a grotesque elongation of faith in the period from their existence to mine watching them endeavor in that veracity, and that possibility, overlooking a new mulling presented by practical thinking, that they were somewhere; and as continually marveled after such lengths of my own apathy and turned quick in the luxuries of one praying right beside that day, “I know, I know” as Morris had growled contently into that person who wondered about faith. Moreover, as he robustly went, “you are my hero, my hero.” And she just moaned and moaned.

So this new understanding I awaited passed along; finally developed a few, and blended away the myth that fell into a place; for, rapidly gained strength that is intangible, the force that holds through them stories with blessed understanding of such divine diminution, that places mighty wings upon this Morris, and upon the Eunuch he bore as if it were willed, in the same thoughts and literatures as Aquinas, in word without iniquity; in say, joined impetuously to record a sojourn placement along the road for whomever, however long it takes to become published; to some boy centuries forward, a real necessary requisition; wanted to take the path that it takes to create a saint.

“Let me tell you,” he went, “I have been holy set apart, yes. And aware of my own sacrifice in this wheeled chair, I live, though, splendidly in this area of congenial paradise certainly designed by the good will of the Lord for my security, my own severance. An illicit son of an old Franciscan student, the seminary up the road here in Cahreis what I call home. But, all overwhelmed with suffering in this world; yet all the tragic, and all the disappointment with the all mighty and what He left upon this earth as an existence before everyone here around us today, nevertheless, with all this effort for continuation, processes in a mere old tiresome, repetitive pilgrimage. Yet, I know no depletion of faith; of the repletion that grows; and I know the multiple shrines that have come into this place; and perhaps in all effort, I know that I won’t reach some before me, where we are today, as no more than but only an endless dream which merely started years ago.” he told them with lackluster gazes, he deemed it; and to those of whom were not listening let alone present.

Morris could not resist nor control sidled eager twists in firm nudges towards an inexplicable lateral burst that crashed and glimmered the splurge of the shadow of electricity across the sky, which circulated from the galvanic mulling in their musty expanding imaginations, insinuations and ensued a half forgetting of the nearly halting consumption of the interceding power, when the intermediate focus essentially within the woods and his confidence of them possible patrons alongside yet assumed Morris as if a carcass turned roadside when further the transformer had parted the portion of the woods and exposed these two instantly healed by a laying on of hands today, “of course, with enough faith.” As enormous and rather rude an intrusion that disembarked there from the procession.

Not far along the modest stretch of road outstood the impressive edifice, which nearly took all the awe from Morris’ claim. The burst and the fire up in the electrical wires as this congregation promenaded in tens of thousands in its shadows with a similar hallowed fire atop their own clutches, toward the upper basilica. Nearly all of them shared their ailments as they approached, a whole murmur of cries and complaints swept across the way. To the park benches out in the front lawn of the gift shop, the overpopulated throngs emerged into. The sick, in indulgence, unwound prayers instantly in mind; and because Morris continued with them that made it inside behind the shrine, the thunder rolled the clouds over which nearly fell like a river in pieces on those left outside.

Whereas he knew, just as saints had known in the old stories, Morris knew he was already chosen to be revealed in the limitless; a seemingly inevitable and only apparent in mind and hope ridiculousness that overwhelmed. I otherwise was in an ordinary grave instance that generated over the binding of some spirit and vanished into the curbless streets unseen.

He already knew before my thoughts were even in the roads outside. Morris’ vehement, knew the punishment of a child conceived in this manner or style; as if implying the storied right to oppose pagans, gave way to the impression of him being merely an untouchable stain in a glass window. “Consequences are much harder than decisions,” he claimed. Where the complete awareness of minding physical contact within me realized his coat against my hands, without thinking, crossed several times to which everyone in their excruciated fingers thought that they must convince themselves by relying on these words, what he did know, was the impressive child that would be born.

Something of magnificence that neither sight itself nor heart, no, only the soul could withstand followed. “You will need more than just pleads from today here travelers; requires innumerable confessions, countless searches for truth. Today is mine and this blessed boy’s.” …But no one celebrated this comment. It was like looking for something and when they found it they could not have it. No one else knew to follow, to dream alongside of it. Never partake in what it is. The place overwhelmed the day in and day out with all the suffering in the world, all the tragedy, of the disappointing many that had lost the faith and more confined atmosphere, there, with such lucid vicarious perceptions and despairing fiddles, they slowly, upon whirling miniature begging, perhaps, at lengths, gripped into clutching, winding importune prayers to be healed and astonishment that these two did I not melt beneath them. And that was it. Over and over in the smallest breaths he said to her, “I know. I know. I know. I know…” though they did not know what for.

After the mass ended and we were instructed, all the thousands before the priest, to go in peace. So spread the cruel assumptions that just swelled within the bellied land of gravestones by the black spire fences over time; they now carry a thinking that saints await hallowed to give souls to the Lord; because of the instant ability to prayer in the last minute before the only place to find this beautiful physical realm is gone astray. Just as so, upon entering the glorious brightness outside the dim tremendous lull of the stain glass aura, house of God mind you, the outdoors (is his realm, too, right?), before this pathway serried in a routine and rather rude intrusion, some perennial parade for the half forgotten nearly halting all consumption of the intermediate knowledge, and as if assumed to just turn the carcass roadside, now remains with an old-fashioned and uncertain unveiling . . . . no wait. Hold on, not Eunuch….Centaur, the Centaur! Oh, oh man! Oh lord, now I probably seem just completely ridiculous. I apologize. … Morris was supposed to be a Centaur with a lady, and… oh this is embarrassing.

 

3
1
1
Juice
8 reads
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk
The Eunuch
The further they went through, hurried beneath the divided sky, the more they began to tell themselves they had martyred already.

Glazed upon that similarity, they yearned the design. Like the electrical poles, like the crosses; laden with pockmarks, remains of innumerous or various staple and nail holes, old weathered bulletins, fraught wood, splinter slit in long splits over their sides; they were rugged, marked, raw, beholding; and if they had to, would hang these two down these small sidestreets epic, novel. The wire connections attached little angles and minor old-fashioned cul-de-sacs without curbs, gravel drives that branched the ideal anointing. Circulated the innumerous pilgrimages richly through to the basilica, where an opening into the woods, as if each infidelity has been tracked to every shade of gray tall atmospheric layer they rolled under over and over unyielding, as if the continuation of the threatening and the electrical flow within that revelation—one for every single sin great or small—made a permanent mark directing everyone’s attention to the place.

“Well now, who’ll encounter us out here?” in some sort of marvelous absolution and sacrifice, they continued; these folks who come here this afternoon and one of them asked practically out loud as the other continued.

That was when what looked like a man, half glorious, half disheveled, spoke. And Similar to the dust-clouding, that is, maybe as the dynamic Tertullian, the glory, that truly does not exist, falls short even, of sainthood, like Origen, with an in-between area, at least from here to the reader; as of yet, separate significance from the reader because of slow Time; or conventionally, from a saint’s period to a modern man’s; and the glorious idea of faith that expanded in that short standard timeframe which had not been distorted I tell you. Yet, without sacrifices—due in part to the feeling martyrs have necessarily done what was required; so many unjustly repent, and only the occasional requests upon them watching over apparently seems contingent—however, to truly consider them at great attention on the man in the great preceding era, requires a different sort of faith. As for, it is like the apologists’ mourn since years presumed in merely triple digits existed; for, how long the hermits dug their own sandy graves in the desert!! for how long Anthony fought the devil in them tombs!! Was how long it took him to respond to her, “eh-everyone??”

Something heroic travels in spoken word; written, though, becomes spread of myth as well; and here, well eagerly telling in fantastic beliefs and magic possibly of such a distance, that somewhere, in sometime—mind the aforementioned saints —one existed, say parted a fire around oneself chained to such a belief. Here are the greatest heroes, loomed once in physiognomy; and I am to believe I witnessed in some old fascination, a life, a miracle, and a day further inferred with one of these saints face-to-face, but, honestly, discovered in that sort of world, with a perception of faith, when these two individuals who consecrated and conceived this holy being out of adultery.

And this child I had believed there remained—by documentation—beneath the wiry connections like beard hairs into faces, and close sporadic gray strands frazzling and curling long with the dark far horizons that once surrounded the ecstasy of warm eyes where they stood, squinted with confidence when this place severed its penis. Not just in as ever awesome as any saint that ever lived, but I believe in every encounter that leveled universes as if in some access through these awfully brave dimensions; which shaped, shifted the entire continuum, Time, and maintained a grotesque elongation of faith in the period from their existence to mine watching them endeavor in that veracity, and that possibility, overlooking a new mulling presented by practical thinking, that they were somewhere; and as continually marveled after such lengths of my own apathy and turned quick in the luxuries of one praying right beside that day, “I know, I know” as Morris had growled contently into that person who wondered about faith. Moreover, as he robustly went, “you are my hero, my hero.” And she just moaned and moaned.

So this new understanding I awaited passed along; finally developed a few, and blended away the myth that fell into a place; for, rapidly gained strength that is intangible, the force that holds through them stories with blessed understanding of such divine diminution, that places mighty wings upon this Morris, and upon the Eunuch he bore as if it were willed, in the same thoughts and literatures as Aquinas, in word without iniquity; in say, joined impetuously to record a sojourn placement along the road for whomever, however long it takes to become published; to some boy centuries forward, a real necessary requisition; wanted to take the path that it takes to create a saint.


“Let me tell you,” he went, “I have been holy set apart, yes. And aware of my own sacrifice in this wheeled chair, I live, though, splendidly in this area of congenial paradise certainly designed by the good will of the Lord for my security, my own severance. An illicit son of an old Franciscan student, the seminary up the road here in Cahreis what I call home. But, all overwhelmed with suffering in this world; yet all the tragic, and all the disappointment with the all mighty and what He left upon this earth as an existence before everyone here around us today, nevertheless, with all this effort for continuation, processes in a mere old tiresome, repetitive pilgrimage. Yet, I know no depletion of faith; of the repletion that grows; and I know the multiple shrines that have come into this place; and perhaps in all effort, I know that I won’t reach some before me, where we are today, as no more than but only an endless dream which merely started years ago.” he told them with lackluster gazes, he deemed it; and to those of whom were not listening let alone present.

Morris could not resist nor control sidled eager twists in firm nudges towards an inexplicable lateral burst that crashed and glimmered the splurge of the shadow of electricity across the sky, which circulated from the galvanic mulling in their musty expanding imaginations, insinuations and ensued a half forgetting of the nearly halting consumption of the interceding power, when the intermediate focus essentially within the woods and his confidence of them possible patrons alongside yet assumed Morris as if a carcass turned roadside when further the transformer had parted the portion of the woods and exposed these two instantly healed by a laying on of hands today, “of course, with enough faith.” As enormous and rather rude an intrusion that disembarked there from the procession.

Not far along the modest stretch of road outstood the impressive edifice, which nearly took all the awe from Morris’ claim. The burst and the fire up in the electrical wires as this congregation promenaded in tens of thousands in its shadows with a similar hallowed fire atop their own clutches, toward the upper basilica. Nearly all of them shared their ailments as they approached, a whole murmur of cries and complaints swept across the way. To the park benches out in the front lawn of the gift shop, the overpopulated throngs emerged into. The sick, in indulgence, unwound prayers instantly in mind; and because Morris continued with them that made it inside behind the shrine, the thunder rolled the clouds over which nearly fell like a river in pieces on those left outside.


Whereas he knew, just as saints had known in the old stories, Morris knew he was already chosen to be revealed in the limitless; a seemingly inevitable and only apparent in mind and hope ridiculousness that overwhelmed. I otherwise was in an ordinary grave instance that generated over the binding of some spirit and vanished into the curbless streets unseen.

He already knew before my thoughts were even in the roads outside. Morris’ vehement, knew the punishment of a child conceived in this manner or style; as if implying the storied right to oppose pagans, gave way to the impression of him being merely an untouchable stain in a glass window. “Consequences are much harder than decisions,” he claimed. Where the complete awareness of minding physical contact within me realized his coat against my hands, without thinking, crossed several times to which everyone in their excruciated fingers thought that they must convince themselves by relying on these words, what he did know, was the impressive child that would be born.


Something of magnificence that neither sight itself nor heart, no, only the soul could withstand followed. “You will need more than just pleads from today here travelers; requires innumerable confessions, countless searches for truth. Today is mine and this blessed boy’s.” …But no one celebrated this comment. It was like looking for something and when they found it they could not have it. No one else knew to follow, to dream alongside of it. Never partake in what it is. The place overwhelmed the day in and day out with all the suffering in the world, all the tragedy, of the disappointing many that had lost the faith and more confined atmosphere, there, with such lucid vicarious perceptions and despairing fiddles, they slowly, upon whirling miniature begging, perhaps, at lengths, gripped into clutching, winding importune prayers to be healed and astonishment that these two did I not melt beneath them. And that was it. Over and over in the smallest breaths he said to her, “I know. I know. I know. I know…” though they did not know what for.

After the mass ended and we were instructed, all the thousands before the priest, to go in peace. So spread the cruel assumptions that just swelled within the bellied land of gravestones by the black spire fences over time; they now carry a thinking that saints await hallowed to give souls to the Lord; because of the instant ability to prayer in the last minute before the only place to find this beautiful physical realm is gone astray. Just as so, upon entering the glorious brightness outside the dim tremendous lull of the stain glass aura, house of God mind you, the outdoors (is his realm, too, right?), before this pathway serried in a routine and rather rude intrusion, some perennial parade for the half forgotten nearly halting all consumption of the intermediate knowledge, and as if assumed to just turn the carcass roadside, now remains with an old-fashioned and uncertain unveiling . . . . no wait. Hold on, not Eunuch….Centaur, the Centaur! Oh, oh man! Oh lord, now I probably seem just completely ridiculous. I apologize. … Morris was supposed to be a Centaur with a lady, and… oh this is embarrassing.
 
3
1
1
Juice
8 reads
Load 1 Comment
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
In 15 words tell me why you write
Written by Lynk

I write to Link

To connect. to share this confusing syndrome i have. to explain my issues for posterity.   

6
1
2
Juice
12 reads
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
In 15 words tell me why you write
Written by Lynk
I write to Link
To connect. to share this confusing syndrome i have. to explain my issues for posterity.   
6
1
2
Juice
12 reads
Load 2 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk

Bird

A little birdie once told me so

There's too much strength 

For this earth to evaporate 

Not so much within yours truly

But A strength the God of gods

Could not vanquish 

(Otherwise, what

Was the point to squish

Nebuale into a world?)

The wind in its soul

Good you heard

Of my impact

The Bird inferred

With a voice 

Like wings of a butterfly

And yea then I was 

hanging out and with it

With this mad-crazy poetic 

Prosing on about and never written

Oh How in minutiae 

sheer emo gleams

Without all the creams

Save fir the rediculous

Moonbeams he ceremony

He championed as literature

At gazes in tiny species

Merely when existing aloud

That celerity which was him

Etched in an age on stages

With muses ruining generations

With Philosophy heartbreaking

In every bar corner of the cities

And freaking garage chords 

Then emulating via radios

Like elongated this eloquence

In instances overwhelming

As if the philosophy ordure

As if the philosophy mindset

As if we had no opposition

Or no chance to offer

A small varied view

To that dropped, like gross rain

Onto windshields

As if we were merely cameras 

Watching from in the trees

These Perspectives greater than

Yet too much strength

And The way he even said

I do believe in Jesus

But my faith ends there

However I choose 

And i gotta tell you

Yet no matter 

Where i awoke

As i have lived 

In a multitude of homes

Stains wriggled open my heart

Form a better form against thee arts

Cuz then there is the same bird

Chirpa chirpa churpa

Warming through ma soul

Warming up like that fresh sense

Of a new Spring

Just beyond new windows. 

3
1
0
Juice
13 reads
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Lynk
Bird
A little birdie once told me so
There's too much strength 
For this earth to evaporate 
Not so much within yours truly
But A strength the God of gods
Could not vanquish 
(Otherwise, what
Was the point to squish
Nebuale into a world?)
The wind in its soul

Good you heard
Of my impact
The Bird inferred
With a voice 
Like wings of a butterfly

And yea then I was 
hanging out and with it
With this mad-crazy poetic 
Prosing on about and never written
Oh How in minutiae 
sheer emo gleams
Without all the creams
Save fir the rediculous
Moonbeams he ceremony
He championed as literature
At gazes in tiny species
Merely when existing aloud
That celerity which was him
Etched in an age on stages
With muses ruining generations
With Philosophy heartbreaking
In every bar corner of the cities
And freaking garage chords 
Then emulating via radios
Like elongated this eloquence
In instances overwhelming

As if the philosophy ordure
As if the philosophy mindset
As if we had no opposition
Or no chance to offer
A small varied view
To that dropped, like gross rain
Onto windshields

As if we were merely cameras 
Watching from in the trees
These Perspectives greater than
Yet too much strength
And The way he even said
I do believe in Jesus
But my faith ends there

However I choose 
And i gotta tell you
Yet no matter 
Where i awoke
As i have lived 
In a multitude of homes
Stains wriggled open my heart
Form a better form against thee arts
Cuz then there is the same bird
Chirpa chirpa churpa
Warming through ma soul
Warming up like that fresh sense
Of a new Spring
Just beyond new windows. 
3
1
0
Juice
13 reads
Login to post comments.
Advertisement  (turn off)