Poetic Expression
Artistic Critiques
Genuine Inspiration
The World has turned over its shadow
Kids leave the lobby & electric cigars
Around this time we charge our balloons
First edition, simply redefinement
Can you hear me going up the staircase?
I’m a tiger… animal in show
Zeitgeist night at the Apollo!
What you thinkin’? I’ll think it anyway!
Fifteen hundred-Seven people
Giving wind… to electric balloons.
Grizzle, below my waist-line
Shallow rainbows i have seen
The earth was a common place
And the protector has given me skin
.
The square is triumph of slaw
And triumph is ninepins
Of joy our mass turbulence
.
From scholar to scholar
To heavenly man-
Made leaders
Kimberly Yung
.
Rescue my blasphemy
As thankful can be
The wall is cold
And I Am
.My animals and I have become comfortable,
Like old men playing dominoes atop of a building
The syringe is to wide for my cattleless prairie
St. Thomas Aquinas once warned me of virtue
The tagger of midnight was frightened by vice
Jerusalem buried the dreams of Muhammad
Have we forgotten we were all made of salt?
And the earth is simply a canvas of currents
Like water, air, and the apolitical gods
The reception was held at a house by the lake
No one showed up except for the goose
Migration made victims of all of our slaves
Reverie was played at noon, the bugler refused
To be woken with food so graffiti was given
Instead of a fish there was Christ the apostle
The music was loud and awfully pagan
I had no choice but to try the syringe
St. Thomas Aquinas was just jealous of comfort.
We reached the mangrove just at the break
The feathers had left us, and only we stood
Glorious, attracted, in infinite awe
And she was so gentle, speaking and giving her back towards me.
When the waters resided and the stork bird left land
She wanted a promise, that wasn’t the sand
I bit her and told her to keep quiet and still
And she was so gentle, speaking and giving her back towards me.
The gloom gave birth to new sounds and new meanings
Apparently magic wasn’t her style, we divided the stars
and built castles with words, she grasped at the knowledge
of snakes that can swim, and only the mangrove knew of this sin.
The machine wasn’t relative, at this given time
But the smell of the radiant translucent force
Was one mixed of spectrum and mineral stone
My elbows were hurting of holding so tight.
I let go of my lover, (As i shouldn’t have done)
She turned and she looked at me,
And her eyes changed of colour, in raw disbelief.
I touched her skin, and she wasn’t gentle with her front towards me.
Like all of the lovers that come to the mangrove
She was part reptile, and came from the roots
At this certainty-knowledge she undressed her skin
Her being was luminous as she buried herself.
My eyes were condemned to a hologram fear
Perplexed in their beauty of infinite sphere
Like a garden that flourished with blood of ten saints
Guilty and gentle the mangrove I curse.
The dim light of moonwaves tattooed on her arm
Left traces of ancient colorless life
Barely divided, we both shared the disease
.
The sensual prowess she put out to be
Unmatched by my faithless, scarcity-bound
No room for transition, only for fear
.
Awoken unknown by the realities and verbs of perfection
Secret desire is digital love without any tolerance
For the faint hint of smell.
.
Bottom feeder… she knew my name
I gave truth to the statement
“Whence all poets are dead, poetry liveth”
.
Her face was a scar, and I was so comfortable
In telling her nothing except how the moonwaves
Caressed our disease.
But we lived in a world where love was erupted by the passing of age. We (as all victims) had forgotten the truth and only illusions of desires evolved. No other vision could sharpen our fears as they forged the reflection of good things in heaven poured through the years. From symptoms of karma and the fierce lemon fields no hopes were transpired by the breath in her eyes, and she was a statue of lust and red meat, while I being righteous fasted the earth. Vile pagans of summer praised in the river that needed the blessing of lost human blood.
I so gently remembered to empty my gun, all over the natives who worship the rain.
When no other hindrance of momentary guilt could stain the eyes of the unmarked children, and the ghost of ancestry unawakened by the wallowing fear that besieged the streets at this particular hour on this side of the war.
The sin was remembering that a country at war is the enemy narrow, and our sweet home of American Way was paid for by blood money, by cursed entertainment and the eruption of oil, to feed our self loathing & fuel our dependency to a harlot-polluted by the new age of false.
If only our idols hadn’t stood in the way, we’d still have a chance toward clean-air remembrance but as long as the churches agree with this war, Satan the general feasts of fresh meat, as you and I would if given our way.
Saddened the Savior died on the cross, and redemption is simply a brand and Arcade.
The Postmodern is not Christian,
Neither is War!
A Day in The Life of Real-Life Revolucionario Chase A. Shelton.
Short Story about Insanity.
