They said a ship was sinking but never stopped to wonder if they could breathe water.
..Its that onrush of a new sensation filling your molars like cool air on cavity,
its like those busy words trying to teach themselves new meanings among jumbles,
boundless junk-piles of syllables, cadences with graces deflowered,
if you time each step rights it set to that synch, drawing attention like a leech,
when you're tired of how your pencil-margined face is represented in the larger lines of the world,
you become a journalist; you're no longer a person, but a voice.
you can even become journalist of your own life, your ideas hostaged to your own line of
interoggative questioning, how much can you sweat yourself out?
Appearance is an artful weapon; Our long hair is our dark skin,
our negligence towards our own bodies can be seen as liberation, still
painting our nails when we're painting our white picket fences,
showering our own bodies with liquids to replace theories, something a bit more fluid than another 'ism
our own colors shining through like partiotic symbols done in several coats,
something to die for covered with something to blindly obey.
Waking up everyday is like marrying a stranger, cold to the sheets
and not yet making music with the morning hums. (Noises like) the city sounds
so busy when it screams its
lungs out, but then again I heard if you don't
break in the vocal chords you'll never
use them again. (she played on mine like ropeswings)
Maybe that's why the image covers most of what is actually being said,
a man with a swastika on his chest preaches charity for the homeless on a street corner and goes wholly unnoticed,
a silence-vowed art student unknowingly exposes his dharma when he pleads for someone to please see love his way(for he alone knows true love who hasn't seen it).
A girl has her lips pierced together and mirrors the movement of man with electric tape X's,
how can they talk except to build up the hot steam behind floodgates and shrapnel-twist moans like whistles?
Is it odd that everyday I miss my body less and prize my aching mind more?
sex creates graves motioning seductively to be filled, the unkempt waves when you stop watching,
everyone falling to the gray and waning touch of wanting more.
Except us, we could live on ocean-water and grass-roots. We could drink holy water and eat communion wafers,
we could plant flowers looking like calm buddhas paused thoughtfully in lotus positions
and trample on them with leather boots. We could be complete in walking over gardens, or we
could make the sunlight out of hair-strands and chemical dye.
We could make sculptures out of debris and pretend we've lived a thousand lives
and threw it away for a thousand more.
its like those busy words trying to teach themselves new meanings among jumbles,
boundless junk-piles of syllables, cadences with graces deflowered,
if you time each step rights it set to that synch, drawing attention like a leech,
when you're tired of how your pencil-margined face is represented in the larger lines of the world,
you become a journalist; you're no longer a person, but a voice.
you can even become journalist of your own life, your ideas hostaged to your own line of
interoggative questioning, how much can you sweat yourself out?
Appearance is an artful weapon; Our long hair is our dark skin,
our negligence towards our own bodies can be seen as liberation, still
painting our nails when we're painting our white picket fences,
showering our own bodies with liquids to replace theories, something a bit more fluid than another 'ism
our own colors shining through like partiotic symbols done in several coats,
something to die for covered with something to blindly obey.
Waking up everyday is like marrying a stranger, cold to the sheets
and not yet making music with the morning hums. (Noises like) the city sounds
so busy when it screams its
lungs out, but then again I heard if you don't
break in the vocal chords you'll never
use them again. (she played on mine like ropeswings)
Maybe that's why the image covers most of what is actually being said,
a man with a swastika on his chest preaches charity for the homeless on a street corner and goes wholly unnoticed,
a silence-vowed art student unknowingly exposes his dharma when he pleads for someone to please see love his way(for he alone knows true love who hasn't seen it).
A girl has her lips pierced together and mirrors the movement of man with electric tape X's,
how can they talk except to build up the hot steam behind floodgates and shrapnel-twist moans like whistles?
Is it odd that everyday I miss my body less and prize my aching mind more?
sex creates graves motioning seductively to be filled, the unkempt waves when you stop watching,
everyone falling to the gray and waning touch of wanting more.
Except us, we could live on ocean-water and grass-roots. We could drink holy water and eat communion wafers,
we could plant flowers looking like calm buddhas paused thoughtfully in lotus positions
and trample on them with leather boots. We could be complete in walking over gardens, or we
could make the sunlight out of hair-strands and chemical dye.
We could make sculptures out of debris and pretend we've lived a thousand lives
and threw it away for a thousand more.