i've been playing with fire for so long/ burning bridges and turning heads/ the spectators speculate from a close distance/ and debate whether the flames are in need of assistance/ he'll land in the ocean/ a neutral notion on the attack/ shrugging shoulders and turning back/ i never learned how to swim/ i never thought of the advantage/ i was thrown in the pool, but my limbs would protest/ striking the slippery, salty, cerulean surface/ sinking with all that i possess/ i realized the importance, but it served no purpose/ my riches abundant, yet nothing proved buoyant/ swiftly swept under the violent torrent/ it came in waves/ measures of happiness measured by the current/ but lacking the oxygen i need and the confidence to breathe/ a tangible currency/ but feeling nothing beneath/ my feet reached the sand, but i was far from the shore/ supply and demand were valued no more
- afm
Monday, February 16, 2015
better left buried
i lost my footing on the trampled path/ covered tracks, consumed the bread/ buried the parcel and the bag/ i had to go stag/ the stagnant sun was beaming down/ once it gleamed/ but now it seems to melt me deep below the ground/
i'll carry nothing/ i'll care for no one/ take the money, take the plans/ bury it all into the sand/ it's better left buried/ better left buried/ take the photos, holograms/ bury it all into the sand/
the shooter's shooting branches in the fen/ arid wetlands, blaring sounds/ buried the bullet in the head/ i'm better off dead/ then swimming for the chest/ teach a man to fish, but still he'll wish to inherit it/ so pluck your lashes/ pray to fascists/ forget the forest and the tracks/ if life's a gift, then leave the tag/ i'll exchange it/ for a mattress on display/ since either way i'm on my back/
i'll carry nothing/ i'll care for no one/ take the money, take the plans/ bury it all into the sand/ it's better left buried/ better left buried/ take the photos, holograms/ bury it all into the sand/ a barely breathing apparatus/ a crowning case for the problematic/ forget your patterns/ forget your status/ bury the bag and cover your tracks
- afm
i'll carry nothing/ i'll care for no one/ take the money, take the plans/ bury it all into the sand/ it's better left buried/ better left buried/ take the photos, holograms/ bury it all into the sand/
the shooter's shooting branches in the fen/ arid wetlands, blaring sounds/ buried the bullet in the head/ i'm better off dead/ then swimming for the chest/ teach a man to fish, but still he'll wish to inherit it/ so pluck your lashes/ pray to fascists/ forget the forest and the tracks/ if life's a gift, then leave the tag/ i'll exchange it/ for a mattress on display/ since either way i'm on my back/
i'll carry nothing/ i'll care for no one/ take the money, take the plans/ bury it all into the sand/ it's better left buried/ better left buried/ take the photos, holograms/ bury it all into the sand/ a barely breathing apparatus/ a crowning case for the problematic/ forget your patterns/ forget your status/ bury the bag and cover your tracks
- afm
Saints And Sinners
If lust is a sin, then I sin for you.
Much like the wind I can feel it without proof.
If greed is a sin, then my arms sin for you.
I can hold you forever, it simply won't do.
They say time will heal all wounds.
Then I am frozen in time if that is true.
They say give up. They say try hard.
I say do as you please.
You can live with purity,
Or burn beside me.
If lust is a sin, then I sin for you.
Much like the winds at sea it can't be subdued.
If greed is a sin, then my heart sins for you.
It overflows past its brim, and it spills for you.
They say time will heal all wounds.
Then I am frozen in time if that is true.
They say give up. They say try hard.
I say do as you please.
You can live with purity,
Or burn beside me.
Much like the wind I can feel it without proof.
If greed is a sin, then my arms sin for you.
I can hold you forever, it simply won't do.
They say time will heal all wounds.
Then I am frozen in time if that is true.
They say give up. They say try hard.
I say do as you please.
You can live with purity,
Or burn beside me.
If lust is a sin, then I sin for you.
Much like the winds at sea it can't be subdued.
If greed is a sin, then my heart sins for you.
It overflows past its brim, and it spills for you.
They say time will heal all wounds.
Then I am frozen in time if that is true.
They say give up. They say try hard.
I say do as you please.
You can live with purity,
Or burn beside me.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
The Wait Is Endless, The Weight Tremendous
The gate was left open with malicious intent.
Your fate was not chosen, but a business assent.
Lead and be followed by the hollow adherent.
Open and swallow to be coherent,
Or choke on the bottle and pretend that you demand it.
Reckless abandonment, for your life is but an instant,
Yet we're hung up on the news and the views it elicits.
Dazed and confused, crazed then induced.
Sedate the abstruse like slaves in the noose.
A door to door census bearing questions that are senseless,
Yielding well-constructed answers with no ounce of sentiment.
The air we ingest grows thin from embellishment.
We'll charge by the breath to cover the deficit.
We're building buildings on buildings with rooms made for elephants,
And sending the billing to tombs of unfortunates.
Desolate inhabitants of arrogant gentlemen
Healing the world for extravagant elements.
Marble and granite are granted to skeletons,
Succumbing the manic with middling medicine.
The slate was made broken. You wiped it clean just for profit.
The gate was left open, and we refuse to close it.
You can blame it on the government or Jesus of Nazareth,
But at the end of the day it's your reflection where the mirror sits.
There's no emergency entrance, only a mandatory exit.
Walk, do not run is the bane of our existence.
Your fate was not chosen, but a business assent.
Lead and be followed by the hollow adherent.
Open and swallow to be coherent,
Or choke on the bottle and pretend that you demand it.
Reckless abandonment, for your life is but an instant,
Yet we're hung up on the news and the views it elicits.
Dazed and confused, crazed then induced.
Sedate the abstruse like slaves in the noose.
A door to door census bearing questions that are senseless,
Yielding well-constructed answers with no ounce of sentiment.
The air we ingest grows thin from embellishment.
We'll charge by the breath to cover the deficit.
We're building buildings on buildings with rooms made for elephants,
And sending the billing to tombs of unfortunates.
Desolate inhabitants of arrogant gentlemen
Healing the world for extravagant elements.
Marble and granite are granted to skeletons,
Succumbing the manic with middling medicine.
The slate was made broken. You wiped it clean just for profit.
The gate was left open, and we refuse to close it.
You can blame it on the government or Jesus of Nazareth,
But at the end of the day it's your reflection where the mirror sits.
There's no emergency entrance, only a mandatory exit.
Walk, do not run is the bane of our existence.
- afm
Friday, February 6, 2015
Slaughterhouse 6
So it goes.
There was no one. No one was around him. Nothing at all, for that matter. The other prisoners swiftly dispersed throughout the streets. Billy did an about-face, and once more for good measure. Only the inhabitants of the mines remained. He was alone, but he was free – and so was the wagon, abandoned no longer.
There were no reigns in the wagon. No grain or water for the horses. An empty coffin. Fitting, since they were still attached to their bridles, clearly left for dead. Billy did not think twice on the matter. Whether their previous owners were abandoned in desperation or currently floating in the post-war debris, their loss was now his gain.
So it goes.
Billy found some rope they were using as equipment to hoist up the corpses at the mines. He tied a fisherman’s knot around the hitch conjoining it with two bowlines, placing each one securely around the horses. Still, far from a carriage. A coffin on wheels. Death's chariot. Freedom was not certain, unless one finds sovereignty in death. It was time to find solace. It was time to find life. With a quick flick of the wrist they were off.
No grain. No water. The horses collapsed in a matter of minutes. Billy was so set on reaching a destination, he forgot the nothingness that encompassed him outstretched for miles and miles. The bombings defeated the Germans just as they defeated his chances of survival. The horses lied dead by their ropes, Billy was at the end of his.
So it goes…
. . .
There were no reigns in the wagon. No grain or water for the horses. An empty coffin. Fitting, since they were still attached to their bridles, clearly left for dead. Billy did not think twice on the matter. Whether their previous owners were abandoned in desperation or currently floating in the post-war debris, their loss was now his gain.
So it goes.
Billy found some rope they were using as equipment to hoist up the corpses at the mines. He tied a fisherman’s knot around the hitch conjoining it with two bowlines, placing each one securely around the horses. Still, far from a carriage. A coffin on wheels. Death's chariot. Freedom was not certain, unless one finds sovereignty in death. It was time to find solace. It was time to find life. With a quick flick of the wrist they were off.
. . .
No grain. No water. The horses collapsed in a matter of minutes. Billy was so set on reaching a destination, he forgot the nothingness that encompassed him outstretched for miles and miles. The bombings defeated the Germans just as they defeated his chances of survival. The horses lied dead by their ropes, Billy was at the end of his.
So it goes…
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