1. |
My Friend Rusty
03:16
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In this cracked rearview mirror I find myself lost and my cheeks like this car they are tainted with rust and with rusty lines once drilled so deep in my head but my quill's feather's and my inkwell is dead and it's dry like the desert I've built in my room so I'll burn the den
drain the pen flee
from the womb so I'll
Burn the den
Drain the pen
Flee from your womb
(Screamed at ending)
Your comfort
Suffocates me
Makes you hate me
Your cushioning asphyxiates me
Makes you
Hate me
I'm over heated (×whatever)
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2. |
I was never asleep.
03:43
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As the sun rose above the hilltops even earlier on the chronological map of each passing day, brighter, more significant, and more clearly radiant than he had seen in a very long time, or at least since he’d last opened his eyes during the daylight hours, he felt lost in a new world inherently different from the nights he habitually, if not obsessively, lurked in and leeched from in the hopes that he too, like Edgar Allan Poe or Lovecraft, could capture the darkest point already available to the human conscious and put them on display like the script of a Twilight Zone episode, for like the Twilight Zone, his work was not black and white for necessity, but for affect.
Nocturnalism-Blessing or curse-Can I-Can I-Be alive in the day as night-Please -Allow me darkness only when needed-I’ve done nothing-I will do nothing-Unless I have the cover of shadows
As the moon creeps above the snowbanks even earlier along the chronological map of the sleeping hours, fuller, more pale, and more clearly radiant than he had felt it in far too long, or at least since he’d made the faulty decision to open his eyes during the daylight hours, he felt blanketed by a kind of clarity inherently different from the days he desperately, if not grudgingly, waded through and fed in the hopes that he too, like the Businessmen and the joyful workers, could capture the lightest points and make them as available to his consciousness as the script of a Twilight Zone episode, though like the Twilight Zone, his work was not dark for necessity, but for affect.
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3. |
Eraser Burns
03:34
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4. |
Birth of a Sad, Sad Lion
04:02
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Trapped in my head and I can’t get out and I know this is a cliche
all poets of note and many of no mention at all are trapped
I am not alone in this predicament
I am a comrade
but that is no great comfort if the war we fight is between purposefully sad or wastingly happy
changing nothing
waking up from that safe pretend euphoria
and going numb
My cold bride,
My dark eyed post-love,
My late friend,
Do you feel when you write your poems about some mysterious ‘him’ that dumped you via the telephone before putting his crude inebriated tongue and bittersweetly sober heart on tape?
Did you ever feel me or was I the totem for your pretend euphoria?
Did you wake up
In my bed
and go numb from the night before’s pretend euphoria?
Was I a little boy? Lonely and longing for a semblance of control?
If that’s the case
only you can say for sure
and you were a doll
in my dollhouse
I could not see my grip on you or yours on me
I’d had sex before, as you know
but never with the meaning you gave to it
In my childish heartfelt delusion
our pubescent lovemaking was mature
we were adults, you said
but me
I had just been born
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Tundra Boston, Massachusetts
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Previously called Pvt. Practice
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