Monday, November 15, 2010

Free-Style

Better not boxed in
or locked in a corner,
giving up on life
but, i'm hardly a goner,
no longer somber
staring up at the moon
or out the window
in a pensive mood,
no longer will i brood,
no longer will i swallow
your bullshit like un-chewed food,
fuck your tailor-made life
mine's a hand-me-down,
but it fits me alright,
good enough to go out a night
when the light
don't shine too bright,
my eyes are cast down
but my thoughts move
faster than the speed of sound,
wandering around
like a vagabond
dumpster-diving
living amongst past regrets
that harden with time like baguettes,
but, i still butter them up
and dip them in the
oil and vinegar of life,
and make a meal for men
that is fit for mice,
I break open centuries
and fry them on the griddle,
order my sentries on the extremities
to meet me in the middle,
i am mobilized, sterilized,
but, my words rarely go
memorized,
but hemorrhage from minds
only to remain the glimmer
in your eyes,
the air that touches your lips
that separates them from mine,
the secret in your ear that remains
suspended in time,
the fire that burns but defiantly
refuses to shine,
that one last breath
made just before death
that's so much sweeter than the rest,
that you actually never feel,
those are my words,
a compost heap,
a rotting pile of absurdity
full of decomposed
poetry and prose...

~Marvin






1 comment:

  1. These thoughts travel deep on downtown sweeps
    where the streets carry me at varied degrees
    and I peep the scenerey and how it's neglected
    I reep some Benifits in fits of tragedy perfected
    per the mishaps that distract my traction at times
    the fractions break upon impact
    there's like a million of mine
    to mind, it's hard to find in shattering bones
    the grissel's grizzly to depict, but so subtle and simple
    in the the tones that float thick
    I'm brazed in armor, graced in arbors
    littered flesh pressed on harbors
    within the labours of love forlorned
    in the midst of motherless daughters
    and fatherless fathers muttering laughter
    in the here and after ever after chipped shoulders on chatter
    foreshadowing sensative matters
    sensing the hypertentions mentioned in the hands that gathered
    while being hunted in the summers and wispering in the winters
    once fall springs upon them they're winded and rendered...

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