she tells you to write on the spot. jazz in the back . . . ground.
i want to talk about today, but the mother and father want to share apple slices and talk futures.
adieu.
LAST NIGHT (not a title, it's a time frame)
rhyme scheme,
pivotal, poetic petulance,
worded pits in the seeds of the moment
[each and every moment]
minor morning mild moment
of alter aging egos
and pithy, petty, picture-perfect sentences,
sentence me to my doom,
to my future gloom - my prosperous poverty -
for placing my words on a pad
and pouring this thought to
picky peoples sipping time through
trendy twisted tubes
at misplaced
tables
where these misread
fables
were the seams of the
modern society,
the modern
variety.
it seems the bystanding, side-lining waivers
admit
I MUST CHANGE my fickle
ways
for fleeting, flowing
highs of
conformity.
I say " YOU
MUST
CHANGE
YOUR LIFE" to
face the fiction-truth
the clock will tell [you], and,
I say my words are the straps on my feet,
the waist-line hanging
lower,
and the cotton touch, the touch, the feel of this skin
on my back.
These words are now. This time is mine.
Take your change and pocket it.
THIS AFTERNOON (the thought process convulsion 7th period)
Listen to this jazz beat,
faux-acid heat,
paper stripped and deskbed words.
I hesitate to write
because in this
guilty cubicle,
in this
fire-breathing brain,
I am my own worst enemy.
Deprecating self,
tainting truth,
and
telling tales of how my words are
[dull, monotonous]
and and and they go on and
on
and
it never stops.
I cannot touch time.
I cannot see scent.
I want to climb to mountain tops
of lattered words,
ascending,
into imagination fascination,
rising into brilliant-bodied
stories
idolized by children
like
the way
I
idolize adults
whose
words I want
to be
and to
breath.
But is what it is and I justify what is just and what I am and
it's just I MUST CHANGE MY LIFE the way YOU
MUST
CHANGE
YOUR [own]
LIFE .
I must accept that my
future's fate fades
like Tuesday into Wednesday
and that I am
something
worth
grasping,
but you must or should or can or could
change that you to realize
I am me,
I am nothing special.
adieu.
LAST NIGHT (not a title, it's a time frame)
rhyme scheme,
pivotal, poetic petulance,
worded pits in the seeds of the moment
[each and every moment]
minor morning mild moment
of alter aging egos
and pithy, petty, picture-perfect sentences,
sentence me to my doom,
to my future gloom - my prosperous poverty -
for placing my words on a pad
and pouring this thought to
picky peoples sipping time through
trendy twisted tubes
at misplaced
tables
where these misread
fables
were the seams of the
modern society,
the modern
variety.
it seems the bystanding, side-lining waivers
admit
I MUST CHANGE my fickle
ways
for fleeting, flowing
highs of
conformity.
I say " YOU
MUST
CHANGE
YOUR LIFE" to
face the fiction-truth
the clock will tell [you], and,
I say my words are the straps on my feet,
the waist-line hanging
lower,
and the cotton touch, the touch, the feel of this skin
on my back.
These words are now. This time is mine.
Take your change and pocket it.
THIS AFTERNOON (the thought process convulsion 7th period)
Listen to this jazz beat,
faux-acid heat,
paper stripped and deskbed words.
I hesitate to write
because in this
guilty cubicle,
in this
fire-breathing brain,
I am my own worst enemy.
Deprecating self,
tainting truth,
and
telling tales of how my words are
[dull, monotonous]
and and and they go on and
on
and
it never stops.
I cannot touch time.
I cannot see scent.
I want to climb to mountain tops
of lattered words,
ascending,
into imagination fascination,
rising into brilliant-bodied
stories
idolized by children
like
the way
I
idolize adults
whose
words I want
to be
and to
breath.
But is what it is and I justify what is just and what I am and
it's just I MUST CHANGE MY LIFE the way YOU
MUST
CHANGE
YOUR [own]
LIFE .
I must accept that my
future's fate fades
like Tuesday into Wednesday
and that I am
something
worth
grasping,
but you must or should or can or could
change that you to realize
I am me,
I am nothing special.