many small people, doing many small things, have the strength to change the world.............
A Cure For Writer's BlockWhen your pen hits the paper and nothing comes out
With a full cartridge, something's about.
Sitting there lonely staring off into space
You've got Writer's Block mate, it's a terrible case
The symptoms are some of the worse things to *bare
If left untreated, might as well say a prayer.
Diagnosing the problem is the first step to take
So let's get it started before it's too late.
Do you find yourself doing, the things you've put off?
Or watching TV late at night till you cough?
Dusting and cleaning. Hunting for food.
Surfing the net since you've found yourself glued.
Hanging out with friends all night long?
Getting them together for a night on the Town.
Or lying in bed staring off into space
Tossing something up till it hits you in the face.
This list of symptoms can go on and on
Keeping you busy for weeks, whilst mentally withdrawn.
Now on to the cure which you'll see,
It's really quite simple like *growing a tree
To Block means to stop, the ideas from flowing.
Get this barrica
assembly for pompeiithere has been a poem stuck between my molars
from the night before I decided the hands of my wrist-watch
needed someone better to wait for. there wasn't one metaphor
for time I missed with us and I know you asked the half
a century worth of summer alcohol in your veins this
more times than I did;
"you don't get to hurt over dumping a year of alienation
in one fight he never saw coming," but you see, now
the backs of my hands don't hurt with morning sickness.
I don't fake spasms in my nerve endings louder
than my mind's own dark places; I have learned to say no
after swallowing that I had to deny you so many things
you asked for well before you earned right to them. for starters,
i. you did not earn the glorious, then-private hourglass
of my body. you begged with the reserved desperate
in your sly grin and showed off the glisten of my virgin skin
on deceiving pixels.
in your virtual hands, my body felt limp-- a bottom-heavy
chalice of airless vessels.
ii. you did not earn the lo
Because of Doctor WhoBecause of Doctor Who I am Afraid of...
2. Christmas trees
5. school food
7. blue tooth devices
10. children's drawings
11. MRI machines
13. gas masks
14. brass bands
17. the dark
21. coma patients
23. ...and hospitals again
25. weight loss pills
30. old ladies
Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.
Our alarm doesn't ring, it sings
Pharell beating our mornings
'til we remove from our snooze. We
forgot the tink-tinker or
and emerge the same.
The same commute to work:
Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk by
thumb movements. Our ears dumb
locked into a Will-I-Am trance. Not
a glance of the changing scenes;
the only birds we see are angry.
The same office echoes with
of emails blaming others and smack-talking.
instead of actual talking. We fall for
the hype of Skype and only Siri’s
voice drones narrow answers
we accept as truth.
The same playground, huddled corners;
Children pick a blackberry instead of
picking blackberries, for their late-night
Facebook fights. Words will always hurt see:
no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unless
there’s an app for it.
What do we do when stop?
Orwell you're too late
took thirty years to demonstrate your
doublethink and we all cling to
anythingi'm anything you say i am
a goddess eating grapes
gravity without the weight,
sutra girl slipping through space
a mountain with no peak
the smell of morning sheets
an apple with no tongue
tarnished silver with one bright eye
the breath before, after shooting a gun
leaching ashes to get to lye-
so you can burn without being
over dramatic about it, so you
don't have to light yourself on fire-
i'm the last sigh of the greco vine
a heart that twitches with transplant,
a stupa, the great, dome of my remains
that first naked jump in that dark, naked lake
the exhaled smoke that nowhere knows where it goes,
the distraught eyeglass that killed an ant,
the little offering you hold in your hands,
the freckles that brush you more than i do,
the sternal end of your collarbone that
sticks out, impatient, i kissed it,
or i meant to- the tilt in your
voice when you say, 'i miss
you.' the dream you chase
in sleep, the tapping of
your knee, i'm anything
you say i am. i hope
i'm the outline of
mia culpa, mia miasmaI'm still counting chromosomes and odd numbers
still playing hopscotch over the symmetry
of your shoulder blades, your whispers
skipping 'cross the seventy percent water
the one forty proof rum, still running
until we can sleep,
that thing they called relationship
something common, like counting
rocks at the bottom of a wishing well.
I am slipping through, sliding into
a seamless cervix, and she's serving
throat lozenges in the mean time,
mean time and mean country
serving time in this union, this marriage,
they served cough and coffee
held the Capricorn, held up the register
held the infant to the sagging bosom of
Hollywood and serfdom and surplus
as the nagging empress struts her new clothing
on the turnpikes of Mulholland Drive.
can you feel the elasticity of time as sleep approaches
as the veal spills over red royal carpet
like tumbleweed's of lamb chops rolling 'round
Rockefeller's city center.
so shed dead skin
and skim the film of old money
see my t
on losing a fight he couldn't start (pussy)"you took my fucking
put your fists away, young man.
straighten your spine and
widen your eyes and
put your dick away, young man.
every time you fuck, you become
a smaller, stupid little boy
nobody took 'your' 'fucking'
anything, nobody reached into
your body and drank your blood,
nobody cut your legs from beneath you
and hung them from the rafters singing
'nah-nah-nahbooboo your blood is gone
and your legs are too!'
nobody wrestled me from a firm, steady grip
nobody raped me on my doorstep
nobody ever thought of you
during this beautiful grace period
there was nothing to take because i was not
there and you turned your back on me and i
turned my back on you and i cried about it
and then you cried about it and maybe
a year ago i would've given a shit but
i've already fucking given you everything
i have and i am finally fertile, i am finally
moaning my own name in my sleep, i am finally
safe in my sandy shell, pick me up and rattle me,
I'M NOT COMING OUT I'M NOT COMING OUT
Unpainted RealityMy brain is sick.
It only thinks of twisted things.
Like how we burn our eyes out,
And we rip our wings.
And then we sit in the dark,
Staring blankly at each other.
Our eye-sockets bleeding,
On a wounded brother.
Then we kneel down,
Praying to the sun.
Hoping things get brighter;
But we don't know what we've done!
We take our tongues out,
We scar them with razors.
Spitting every blade
Across other people's faces.
And if you start feeling,
My words are getting dark;
I'm just painting pictures
But you are making them stark!
And now you feel dead;
Surreal in your mind.
So listen to this preacher,
From the land of the blind.
on commuting with no hurrythere you go
lighting matches in the rain,
walking with two feet
that the gods gave you
because they cannot walk,
heading home as if with news
of some miraculous disaster,
counting the steps between yourself
and the clouds that disappeared
behind the grey veil of October.
thunder and lightning unfold
so close above
and you dream of a destination
somewhere in the south
where birds and stormy weather coexist.
behind you there is nothing,
running water will erase
every footprint you have left
on the dark sand of this metropolis.
before you there is distance,
enough to live your life
in a constant state of travel,
but not nearly enough signs
for you to know
where you are heading.
close your eyes
as not to be blinded
by the red lights and the yellow warnings,
those ever changing speed limits,
and open your arms
as to be looked at by the sun
that will soon peek out behind the nothingness,
ripping the veil
of the vast, unending