By a window with an aimless breeze
Coming rare enough to bring down
My heavy veins, hot and buzzing, God loving
Off half a bottle of brown ale,
To, an empty inside. To long life.
To an empty inside, the wind rustles
Like crumpled brown paper.
There, my reflection in the window.
I crumble my hand into a fist
Like a stiff brown bag-
I've been reading Milosz, friend recommended.
He writes from Kraków, a city where I've breathed.
How have I been there?
Of all cobblestones to walk upon
Tracing the steps of my past life
I return to this culprit fold
With an ancient tickling in my heart
To feel at place with my old places.
A gerbil squeaks its wheel in the cage
Living and dying for its one dimension.
Brown ale, heating my chest now
My hands feel weak.
The window, again, I am
Understanding my angles.
What is true about Boston or Kraków?
Everything feels brown to us now.
6 comments:
i'm going to step away from raps this time, i've run out of puns
"what in? to an empty joyside"
by anonymous
baby batter
penis pancakes
no wait, penis mancakes
venus handshakes
is basically the same as saying sex
playing tetris with a hardened nipple
can be as gratifying as punching your ex-girlfriend's asshole grandma
or like the wind through the prom queen's hair
visions i used for masturbation
even though she wasn't that hot, but just the idea of it...was phat
but not as phat as fucking someone i loved
which is more than a visceral experience, as you may know
so cerebral, and time kind of stops for a second and you almost forget to keep fucking
and that's the point where sometimes your movements are similar to a fish out of water
and then you say to yourself "what the fuck?" and bring it back on point
scents are like landline phone numbers
cause you forget them but you actually don't
cause you smell them again one day and you're like "oh yeah, THAT shit"
and it can seriously make you cry, especially if you were raised by two crazy women and instilled with deep emotional capabilities
like obsession and sex-addiction
and when you sat there on your desk
squinting and looking mad goofy and probably writing some dumb shit
i was like "damn shawty is enthralling"
but i could never figure out how to ball to you
unlike mike jones i do not posess the undeniable capability to ball hard
TO THE SECRET ROSE
Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose,
Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those
Who sought thee at the Holy Sepulchre,
Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stir
And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep
Among pale eyelids heavy with the sleep
Men have named beauty. Your great leaves enfold
The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold
Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes
Saw the Pierced Hands and Rood of Elder rise
In druid vapour and make the torches dim;
Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him
Who met Fand walking among flaming dew,
By a grey shore where the wind never blew,
And lost the world and Emir for a kiss;
And him who drove the gods out of their liss
And till a hundred morns had flowered red
Feasted, and wept the barrows of his dead;
And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown
And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown
Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods;
And him who sold tillage and house and goods,
And sought through lands and islands numberless years
Until he found with laughter and with tears
A woman of so shining loveliness
That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress,
A little stolen tress. I too await
The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.
When shall the stars be blown about the sky,
Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?
Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,
Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?
yeats
yeah
you need to make more
more
more
more
feed the beast
energize the angelic
http://newyork.craigslist.org/brk/m4w/791706282.html
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