this is geneticthis is geneticthis is genetic by ~turquoise-truck
maybe plato's mother liked to feed him alphabet soup.
perhaps i should drink some myself, chew up the letters like
medieval monsters digested knights. let
the sentences dribble through my teeth.
my metabolism cannot digest light choked cities,
nor can it churn windswept snowfields into new testament;
peer through the drywall to glimpse the wires inside: clear cut.
i peer at my own skin and try to decipher the dialect
but i can't glimpse god through the follicles.
only alphabet soup. streets of mental poverty
that haven't learned to line their soup up with reality.
if everything is a light switch
then maybe we must adjust to the dark
shanghai childshanghai childshanghai child by ~turquoise-truck
you take a bike
and rust it with raindrops and humid
summer mist, and give it scars that tell memories
of reckless crashes and bike rack disasters
and dark windy nights pedaling above
the lights of the city,& you take a child-
frayed at the edges,
forest-born and you give her a book of numbers
which she must memorize—if she is to be anything.
let her sing,
a poor bird lost in paradise.
you take a soul
and slip it into a body too small to contain it;
watch the way her eyes shine&
you'll know it wants to escape.
maybe you'll see her twirling in the yellow spotlight
as even the streets
grow quiet to watch her.
she hears them hum, and dances to their
concrete rhythm; sometimes
you can hear the ancient bones of bamboo forests
creaking to her footsteps too.
(you gave her HB pencils&
put her in a cage; she sits, flightless.
why tell her to fill in the bubbles on the sheet?
10 minutes left—watch her curl up and cry.
you realize you should have given her wi
feathers of a genrefeathers of a genrefeathers of a genre by ~turquoise-truck
i am a paper bird
in loose leaf flight,
tearing my pages to be heard.
inshoresNothing but militant unrest and a bruised television echo quantifies these dreams.inshores by ~ProtoRepublic
A train-stranded stutter wrecks the lungs
and in negative come dazzled ghost
or maybe the repatriation of a gasoline lake to the lamp glow in the pale fuselage-
all white cathedrals of crack-headed angel mayors flashing on the wall
or dying pine black across the window-
every off-yellow raincoat blooming down the street which isn't a street
every irradiated rumor of space trapped in the pipe-bomb ceiling as I lie and choke on a thickened atmosphere of weaponized shine.
The house is empty and quiet and I beg my body to move
as my bed becomes slowly surrounded by eyes.