the lessonFollowing the last communiquethe lesson by thetaoofchaos
of any order
we'll not find a posteriori death
no grand apocalypse
carried off in bits by ants
or hurtling beside us
like dark matter twins
nestled in our bullet blue capsules
fighting us for singular dimension.
Under stones, behind the clouds
sleeping in fire, circling in bodies
we'll turn over nothing in nothing
that doesn't lead the way to these:
of my judas tree;
I would have you do thisHere.I would have you do this by thetaoofchaos
this is your prayer
your mantra, your news.
I leave it as I found it, papering in the streets.
as godless a truth as you will know
it’s still a ghost of a dream
smaller than theories of infinite resolution.
you will believe it because it has no industry
no acolytes or storefronts.
it’s not an embezzlement of fascination
or confabulation of missing histories.
you will not doubt its truth because your design is hollow
the space inside your car
the adventitious spine that vials through the weeds
the ice of march on adam’s needle
the ants, crickets, beetles under sandstone
waiting in a music box for the catalysts to wake
and split them out into the breen.
you will speak of your awareness
without knowing what inhabits it
like a colour that doesn't hum
or passing through a future forest
of apparitions in bald park meadows
While Driving in the Suburbs on Valentine's DayI’m sure of nothing, no one;While Driving in the Suburbs on Valentine's Day by thetaoofchaos
we’ll never be ourselves.
Our lone device is left to searching
through bins and vessels
on drives and circles
one by one, houses upon houses
secreting pills and thoughts and air
behind their stealthy doors and bellies.
I stab into each of their ugly little anthems.
What is mine?
What is mine.
Windows caught on Christmas trees
the pale hypnosis of television
bleeding through curtains drawn to a slit.
What dares to go on living in there?
Dawn comes drunk and begging
shrill and shameless, undiscerning
‘till the string breaks high above the plains
‘till it’s engorged on everything
the hairline crack in a potted blue sage
the lip of the gutters haunted by cats.
Houses are holding things close to their lungs
moistened in darkness, a glorious sadness
that no one's allowed. Left out! We're left out
of unholy communions, distensions of time.
I've only the rumors to cradle my demons
and only your face, sw
SchijtIn bathroom hoursSchijt by thetaoofchaos
I attempt to live, pretend
the fiery grackles with their lizard hearts
clinging like devils to the front yard oak
are never the worst that they have done;
they give as they have gotten.
The highpoint sun, my closet door,
the window sill, all brook together,
wide-eyed, murmuring amnesiacs
in the throes of an instant opera.
I dream of stony wisdom.
Oh, how I've burned
through her weeping silhouettes
a perpetual abrasion
on the softest parts of it.
I wonder, in whose image?
The concrete scarcely
covers up my industry
and hindsight is a ghost
who sours my endeavors.
But I will make it better.
I Can't Remember Why It Made Me Angry At FirstI Can't Remember Why It Made Me Angry At First by thetaoofchaos
She throws up arms and intellect;
reveling in the natural atomic weakness
of given margins.
She'll never cram enough of space
into her desk to house the whole
and everyone will hate her
for the way she closes in on
that chase us from the tips
peeking through the stratus lip
of our tektonic brotherhood.
Yes, you can go ahead and say it: "Well, that's you
StrappedStrappedStrapped by swansisters
An “X”, old fashioned crucifixion
Each arm, each leg strapped down, the ICU,
a morphine drip, a clear tube winding into my arm.
They bored 4 holes into my head, craters.
Their silver tools pricked and prodded,
but still delicate, an insect’s antennae sensing the air.
But there is no air on the moon.
I want to float from these needles and nurses,
the unease of their kind hands.
I am pocked and dead earth,
I can only reflect what is living.
I am not enchantedI am not enchantedI am not enchanted by swansisters
The dreams came but they weren’t dreams
I was awake but I felt hands, fists, the heat of the witch’s oven.
No gingerbread enticed me just stories.
I would rather have the gingerbread,
Candy canes entering my mouth.
So I cut myself, intricate whorls, the meanings of an Irish sacrament
transcribed in ink by monks who believed
an infinite number of angels could dance on the head of a pin
because they are incorporeal, no bodies to hurt.
I cut myself. One night with razors I cut myself so many times,
drew upon myself images, words, curving lines
until I could not move for a day.
Arms, legs, belly enflamed. Someone could have read it.
I was a princess enchanted by pain not sleep,
the rose briers were embedded into my skin.
But it was not enchanted, I was simply an outsider to pleasure.
The fists were meant simply to hurt.
MorbidMoldy icing on a three-week old funeral cakeMorbid by Bark
Party hats on corpses sitting around a table
I dreamed you again in vast fields beneath the moon
Where the silence screamed out it's nothingness
You were so alone, so alone, and me so far away
In the farmhouse of blue light with my dead
I wanted to pour gasoline around and burn it all
But it would be improper to disturb the sleeping
My head is splitting with your obscene absence
And the rattling noise the dead make when they laugh
personal libertytime severs all bondspersonal liberty by YouInventedMe
a silent revolution
a lonely freedom
enigma.some strange thing existsenigma. by claytonwoolery
and it is not me. it is not.
it has no face on any side
and it has no place to reflect my face back.
the enigma is in the dawn as it erupts over the sea
some language of stars mouths can't speak
relinquish this body into the marsh of living muck
slopping up around the rest of me.
i can't even tell you what i'm seeing. it is not me.
it is not.
Origami-heartsometimes, whenOrigami-heart by introverted-ghost
your lids have fluttered
closed and your breathing
is ragged, i turn away and watch
myself in the dim light echoing from the
hall; a paper dollar, rag-eared and center-folded.
This Poem Should Be Destroyedby LJThis Poem Should Be Destroyed by xlntwtch
I went dancing today
hoping a dalliance would come my way
[It may be too much to ask me
not to rhyme but I'll try for a beat]
I had to use embrocation
and I didn't know what it meant
Until I asked dear Rachel
whose time was gladly spent,
Now I know about various lotions,
a potent start to a mellifluous night
When it's better to dance anyway
because I look more lissome that way,
and thus I may find my true love
with the scintilla of our hand-in-hand gloves.
Sands Of TimeThe master spoke of a caravan of dreams,Sands Of Time by AlecBell
of a crescent moon, of a Damask sky, of the beasts
patiently plodding, crossing the depthless oceans
of drifting sands. Nobody knew what burdens of improbability
were piled high on those uncomplaining creatures' backs.
The silent herders urged them through the night.
The moment of departure left behind on a distant shore of time,
no transcendent star has yet appeared to guide the travelers
to the merchants hungry for the treasures of their desert argosies.
The wastes of time may already have betrayed them.
Fishtank waters when owners are on vacationThe thought kept re-entering:Fishtank waters when owners are on vacation by sherbetblooms
“You have to burn this planet to the ground”.
It was then that I thought about returning to
The chalky whites of crushed moon-bones.
A place that I associate with
My serotonin-less adolescence,
There I was constantly tending to a garden
I just couldn’t/can’t keep away
From beautiful and tragic things
That were made to hurt me:
My ageing fruit drops into dirty ponds
That are made up of dreams
Of you and your lover.
My mind doesn’t want to see you
But my body is trying to
Push you out of my system,
You catch the waves,
The same way you hooked my piscean lip.
This is why I never
Look forward to sleep...
Or waking up.
A chimera of my exes.
I’ve become a husk
That is distant, and cut-cord and preoccupied
With other things,
Which cause me to be late
For all of my appointments
Throwing out the chest of tragedyI look around my roomThrowing out the chest of tragedy by sherbetblooms
And register how much objects
Retain their frequency of aches,
Each one, a different price,
As if I were at the supermarket.
I count the emotional debt
Work out where I’m lacking,
Search the internet
For ways to mend.
Art and online shopping
Are my band-aids.
I finally come across it
On my instagram:
You are not broken,
|my favorite dA poetry|