It Must Be

When I find a poet I don't like it always makes me want to write poems.
I think that most people are supposed to find inspiration in other poets?

Oh well, whatever gets me writing eh?

I promise a little something within the next week. Or rather I promise myself to hack something out because I will feel like a failure otherwise. (My hands have been quick on the D.I.Y sector lately so there)

Fatalist Wordplay

ALL CHOICES REPRESENT LOSS
ALL CHOICES REPRESENT LOSS
ALL CHOICES REPRESENT LOSS
ALL CHOICES REPRESENT LOSS
ALL CHOICES REPRESENT LOSS
ALL LOSS REPRESENTS CHOICE
ALL LOSS REPRESENTS CHOICE
ALL LOSS REPRESENTS CHOICE
ALL LOSS REPRESENTS CHOICE
ALL WE LOSE ALL WE LOSE
ALL WE LOSE ALL WE LOSE
ALL WE LOSE ALL WE LOSE
WE ALL LOSE, GOD DAMN IT.
But sometimes even the losers get lucky.

Skilling Drives it Home

I wonder what might have been with a hurricane
Cyclonic circulation whipping me about
Up and down in and out
So much work just to up and change direction

Everything intense
Always
Drenched to the marrow
And your hurricane is now a typhoon
With no eye in sight

I've always been exhilarated by inclement weather
In the end it might have killed me, but

Better to die by natural disaster than
Fade out
An untouchable Star

Regrets

I Just Wanted
to
Experience
Life
Outside
of
Normal.

W/You.

Electric, Eclectic

I watch them quarrel from a far.
Now who was in a better position to understand The Last Unicorn than The Last Unicorn? But all that incorrigible fool can see is the poet's sanguine face, all she can hear is her vitriolic talk. Of course she takes it personally. She, the saturnine, under a veil of piss.
They bid one another farewell. And The Last Unicorn is all by herself again.

I take out my pen and pad:
Dear Last Unicorn,
A poem must be as honest as an object crafted by a worker's hands. Please be careful there are all sorts of ghosts prowling these confused streets.
Yours,
The Last Unicorn

When The Last Unicorn found the smeared note she scribbled a reply:

Forget modern nature and scream for your lover. She paused and added this,
There is an inner universe with infinite possibilities. Too much to worry about old ghosts.

More Than Ten, More Than Words

A Multiple of Ten

Lace those slippery fingers
round my tired back

Too many vertebra
but I'll keep typing
keep swapping ideas

just so
so we can get out alive

imagine this
a body broken in pieces
of ten

Neglect

Thirty words. I won't let this thing COMPLETELY DIE.

History's beaten the hazard
A Stranger in a dark place
A Hog in a Kitchen
A Little girl in a big city

The blind are more determined to see
"A place a time gone out of mind"



That last line is Plath from her book of poetry "Collosus"