New Women’s Chiffon Tops. They’re just so chiffon-y.

Someone Likes The Orange Ones

the vacancy and friends of eight squares..

square one.

these women such as myself, controlling my life
..writing in squares.
no highing away wind or car ride sky equivalence
the road lines night forever
the places i haven’t been in a while, have i?
how i’m feeling distracted in the performances at hand
in recolletion
her and i both wonder why we’re off
how others presently offer good and depth
elsewhere in their complection
won’t be bothered at all… or somewhere, a world is ending.

square two.

out of element and in a hurry out of the house
with nothing but the open and closing of a bag,
the self inflicted strikings of one another,
a 2-10 hour routine to follow,
and some things easily tangible at the last minute
it was then..
a couple of echoing animal sounds turned and whispered to each other
" i’ve got some big things ahead of me… like death "
and casually hitched a ride in a mail satchel
hung securely on the feathered wing of an airborne stork
..and if you don’t believe me, when this poem’s over
check your deepest and most nearby closets.. of your red
rubbed raw.

square three.

poems and death….
and if you look very closely, you can almost see carpentry…..
death.. check
body odor.. check
underarm deodorant.. check
fucking hair gel….
and of course, i’m properly dressed for what i’m doing now..
until you can set the time.. about fifteen after eight
the vase and i played corners and returned the very next night to steal it..
but now that i think about it, i still feel like i just got off the bus
and once taken off, there feels to be more space for trees
and how people who wear pants are likely candidates to act as hammocks
…and also,
young males are often subject to risks of serving an eternity of barking up moms.

square four.

we can play faces all day and read from cards, our default sentences
passing through round, yellow cries
what is this, blood in my splintered sandwich?
is there a break?… there it is..
during which, a ghost knocked to return my forum
i wasn’t home, so it left a message on a nearby stoop
and swiftly returned to it’s wedge
between the speed of light from behind a curtain
and the hindsight of a fence..
where it is said that alot of today’s graduates and non-graduates
spend over half of their off subject
and inadvertently stumble upon a sense of relativity in said community.

square five.

and i’ll just check the treelimbs one more time…
fuck!… it drew me in again..
hey… what’d you say your name was?
and yeah, they call me by mine too
conclusion #1. fuck, i lost the bug….
present
landscape #b:148
before you go, i must inform you..
someone called about the code..
and how am i supposed to know if it were a man or a woman speaking..
the code..
enough with the editing already, i mean.. just kidding…
a lost one
not that i’m all that far away.

square six.

conclusion #2. i found the bug..
a no whispering hush to the scroll
carrying the crankworks of the nearly rarest ever two dollar bill
living in full color and motion in a loop and frame
like a politicians’ version of bill murray on presidents’ day
and as far as i can recall, i’ve not been counted in such statistics
with a vulnerably sensitve reply..
having an entire lifetime of mockingbird to play..
thinking my pocketsful were snuck inconspicuously..
well.. i’ll just check the tree one last time..
hey, was this stump here when we passed through earlier?..
oh.. it’s you again.. have we met?
..friends of mine.

square seven.

fuck #3. conclusive, we are the bug..
invisible ink.. why bother?
then, if there are walls
have you the angle above your head
the halo cradled hovering in your arms
is a key to triggering a splash
into my body’s riding wild surf
through it’s moist and pocketed underwater lands of likes
to coast you through the cities
containing structures of odd numbered walls
securing the distance and boomerang effect of a glowing, melting candle
held close, burning shorter in it’s age.

square eight.

beheld by a live man’s vision of a dead man’s sense of letting go..
and jesus may or may not have anything to do with it
i just want my sweaters back…
or to be honestly appreciated in loving memory and artical of clothing..
by now, i’m concered with how to best handle my remains
in regards to paying small contribution to these cycles
and the health of this planet, earth…
for those people who have yet to break a bone, you’re missing out
although.. i’ve yet to have a bone pop out of my skin
or land an airplane in a picnic basket, in a state park
named after a term from the trade of the human hands of animal skinning..
and if i’m making all of this up, i imagine that i have one hell of an imagination.

Someone Likes The Orange Ones

betweenourself

Joined September 2010

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

caution:

" fuck " count: three..
(or four including this one)

i usually try to avoid using words that are commonly found effensive by people in order to attempt to drain the waters from my words, if you will.. but with this, i was trying to try something new

i hope you enjoy

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