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
Unfold, Part IIHear me read itUnfold, Part II by BloodshotInk
My bones are creaking.
I hear them gossiping while I sleep,
and they talk of me.
They call me maddened.
They say that the blackness,
the ravenous cave, has devoured me.
They talk of me,
as if I am not here. Am I?
This was my safe space,
In the warmth of my own breath
Now it cages me.
My fingernails grow so long
That they pierce through the paper
and my eyes go wide to see
fragmented light once more.
Odyssea AbstititWhen the blue jacaranda mocked the skyOdyssea Abstitit by Canis44
Sleep bound was she, the drowsy brilliance
below the whispering branch.
Her Caño Cristales hair,
strewn amongst wild blue and green;
Partially over her wanderer, like a warm
crash of wave.
"Your laurel tells of death
but I still need you."
And he,understanding, wept.
"Your garland speaks of the flowers, streams
and the meadows which is our home."
"Here, is where I still love you
this place, where arms renounce arms
with care, warmth and adoration."
"My arms tangle in shadows, and
my mind only imagines; night falls
on my face within the whirlpool."
(She in a dream)
"Kalypso; she cannot keep you.
Our fire was kindled
in the glorious Springtime,
and stays in all the places in
which we played. Wherein,
you loved me and I you.
The flames stay, waiting,
in the marital bed that you made."
-Once more, awake from the immensity-
The depths they spake in choirs
mansuetude and sentiment.parietal flowers of your (mouth, eyes, ears)mansuetude and sentiment. by nighttimebeautiful
plication and pleating of the house plants lives
revel in it: swim in it.
litter your hands with it.
house plants, house cats, house shadows on the grass,
all so orthogonal and plain.
tales so phatic, maybe penitent but never dull.
parasitism should be pushed to perdition
maybe the limbs of the house plants will
pave your terrene and turning gaze.
votre sentiment est tardive et vil et pÔle.
MoonlessThe moonless eveningMoonless by Scarlettletters
turns its back against the sky
and leaves it empty.
Perhaps the morning
will come back with its hands full,
holding up the sun.
The GivingToday I think I will ask GodThe Giving by ClioStorm
why it hurts so much to give birth
to a poem. And does it feel the same for men,
because it was women he cursed with this agony.
Is it the nature of a woman, or the nature of a poem?
I want it to slip out of me, slick with the mess of emotional
afterbirth, but it strains within me, words pushing up against
the patina of my skin, trapped inside, pelting my heart with language
like a storm inside. Sometimes I do not think this feeling belongs to anyone
but me, and sometimes I think everyone shares it, but they hide it better than me.
Are they all shuddering inside with pain, with hormones running haywire, shrieking demons
bellowing that this is not enough, there is more, there is always more, you must
push harder, scream, stretch yourself further, because there is more to it
and this is still not enough. Today I will ask God if he intended for
it to be this way, if he intended for the meaning to get stuck
within my gut, wired into my veins, if he meant for li
To LondonGypsy hopefuls once told me,To London by TheGreatSpyExperim
there are flights leaving for
at any given instant
Upon sizing up our town with
did you realise how little
our frustrations were?
I spoke about this ineffable feeling
of stepping out of one tub
and into new water.
The hotel was done up nicely,
chandeliers and polished English accents.
Labels aside they still mixed
milk into their coffee
and had toast with jam and butter.
I was living under the impression
that most of the Internet
came from my same slice of city pie,
conveniently forgetting about
the undersea cables.
I loathed the lack of vernacular
sentence styles and words.
She saw things through different eyes
and I understood her.
When I found out she was a writer
halfway across the globe
I was selfish
and I loved the world a little less.
It was different
but it was still water.
|my favorite dA poetry|