2019 February 13th, Wednesday

Second day with time on my hands, and binding myself with absent-minded rhyming. Or maybe that just means that I actually have a mind? Thankful for that. Would suck if I didn't.

Day by Day

2019 February 13th, Wednesday

 

 

I keep my soul in my pants pocket orphanage these days

 

 

The cold abortion cradles my morbid formulas of emotions

 

 

Chemicals symmetrical yet unbalanced, unbroken, forged my war words, move on forward

 

 

They lost their will to fight, these people

 

 

And abandoned me here like the Ten Commandments of fear

 

 

My features growing bleaker, on the lonely bleachers

 

 

The cars parade like Saturday, serenaded, waiting patiently, the roads ancient beings, anchors of society, the traffic lights beckons quietly of solitude calling you longingly

 

 

The world philosophical in every molecule, soft and fragile, stagnant like my follicles, a child in the suburban foliage

 

 

A boil on the soil

 

 

The snow swallowed my feet whole

 

 

Wet and cold I fold over the slushy erupting concoction

 

 

My body digs into the air and stares onward

 

 

Neither liquid or solid

 

 

My lungs have sung so many Gorillaz songs that sometimes I cough blood mixed phlegm and spit gaseous fire into orbit

 

 

Sore lips, I think I’m chapped in this rapture, captured by rap collapsing in happy ever afters

 

 

There is no disaster, only wheezing, pleased laughter

 

 

Feel like you were there yourself, work it out, dare (Gorillaz)

 

 

It’s cold, but never did no harm, in the hives eyes of this car farm, I carry on and make my way to the train

 

 

Stained in my chains

 

 

Heart beating graffiti seeds grow under the snow believing in the damp fleeting of the evening home

 

 

In the afterglow, the night comes, and light has nowhere to run, spun in the webs of darkness, ebbs the heartless

 

 

Cartilage of shattered matter stab the horizon with their silent metal cadavers willow wisping indifferent that they’ve become cities, pity

 

 

The cartridges disembark parting with the people, and add to this scrap rapture, clattering into homes and shops and deposits decomposing decorating decimation disassociated

 

 

And I wonder if the world looks grey from outer space

 

 

I wait patient in the train station, irrigated with irritation, because I missed my places to home, and now I roam the sidewalk tomes, and write these poems

 

 

And my future is coming on without me

 

 

Because humanity is an ornament of importance, and we’ve passed that cornerstone, unconforming

Reviews

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

Now I’m hearing a hip-hop track behind this clever and fierce piece. Your lines beat on the reader like waves of sound, flowing, alliterative, with intricate rhyme. Stark, unapologetic imagery pulses-“pants pocket orphanage...cold abortion cradles ...cough blood mixed phlegm and spit gaseous fire into orbit”. Love your Onomatopoeia throughout-“patient in the train station, irrigated with irritation”-applause! Dark, violent, vitriolic, personal. Loved the journey your masterfully creative poem/tune took me on. Thank you RJ!