November 2011
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Parts///Labors
Had his happiness been anything but a dull stone bell,
He could have heard the ringing in his ears.
But instead, He brushed it off as he waltzed about the campus bookstore: varied and varyed in his approach. Swimming with only himself, drowning in slowest motion like a worm in honey (-more likely whiskey. oh. Ok. Whiskey it is.). Looking endlessly for a reason to have fun (and the means to...
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Sequences
He’s absent today, and surely will sit in the back of the class when never arrives.
Blurs cascading,
fractals reminiscing amongst
these particularly
gruff, urbane hues.
His favorite stairwell is he again,
back when the colors of past
drained together; Slurring themselves
better than his Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday/Everyday speech ever could.
Where the impressionistas bled grime,
he...
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He's Listless
“It’s been a bad year for apples” Joe mentioned, as a white picket fence evaporated forcibly before him.
Painting the slightest of concrete, cauterized, coiling in the sweetest of colloquial October, he. His grandfather’s bland cow eyes winced at the thought of his stoop betraying color. Selecting only the most gray, he and his set to the unfortunate task of painting the concrete once...
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Character idea: Barry
Barry is a metaphysical bear.
He wonders and wanders about his beariness.
Suppose he find it in the chair leg opposite
of
this particular reality and finally solves his identity crisis.
Barry is a careful soul (bleached he is),
Barry is muted, on-edges, a basket case indeedy-do!
who strikes the picnic baskets of opportunity closed/open
with a switch and a button (Clawss)…
He...
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Nothing: Volume 11
He inhaled the most intrepid of shadows; awake.
And sun didn’t want to admit his addiction: mistakes.
For rising and falling,
(the motions of tide),
are much meant for moony,
the sun’s very own bride.
And memory never made her more beautiful. All our pal sun-ra has, he does.
Joe plucked the cigarette from the cellophane hive, compelled evermore.
His window is giving him...
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Talents
My grandmother had many talents.
She cooked like a mother of 14. Smart as a whip she was. Knew how to bake. How to sew all those buttons back on. How to hug until the pain went away. How to love.
She also would parachute better than an unlucky fighter pilot.
Open her throat like a good, good girl does. Letting it all in.
And left my father and I to realize this.
Her best talent. Making an...
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Nevers
The tepid light is humming lies and slander to me.
My wrist still aching; bloodied.
…”thrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrealgoodcuthrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr……..” She says.
Don’t mock me I tell her. You know well my blood is as thick as my German head. Pleasant. Very.
My great grandfather came from the old country with cleaver in hand. One hell of a butcher. Knowing the cuts...
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Nothing: Volume 10
He spilled his seed wan-ton esque about the ground.
Pollack in output. Drippy-drop is his son.
Also:
Corrupt. Unforgiving. Grinding the evidence,
so far back into his mind,
that even his molars could only wave bye-bye.
These are the lean years for him. Surely.
Nights dragging the lake docile,
hours confessing they have no inner resources,
men pushing back their hair callously;
as if...
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Nothing: Volume 9
This is the sound of your vision carving moments into tangible images.
Somewhat akin to that single glance that lets you see every last fucking grain of lonely, despicable straw by the way-side of the road, leather blaring hot, as you couple rubber with road at speeds only the law could imagine. And as you begin to wonder how they could ever keep track on all of us, all the time, you lock in on...
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The Truth Is...
You’re either insane.
Or a mediocre writer.
And you’re not mediocre,
are You?
-JS
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Sketch No. 32
Drainddigital, Opaque, Obviously not all the way there. We wave our silly hats about the air. A fellowship forlorn and no better born.
And we have no darkside.
Nothing about us worth forgetting. We swear of the greatest intent. My hardly heart is hurting, so let me in if not we.
Let me find the looking for, and take it.
She views purrfect.
Why not her?
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Exceptions.
Let him fill her.
Fully.
It had been
Hours since he had languished about the bricks in the stairwell.
Talking into her said scent, the sweetness of gradient grandiosity.
Tired and destroyer was he………………………… who knows?
He Leers; Slipstream cracks fold together under the
flash of mortar’s sky, mortars fly.
Bless the mortal...
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God Knows Only Tradition (By J. Slaadrr)
Spirit lurching,
I singswansong out your passive of ears,
Whispering sweet nothings into the mirror,
Colloquial iron cask sentiments.
Plop downward eyes out on the tile,
Think about her. Again. Try again.
This fishing has become.
Oh so tiring….
Friend quo, Fish for me,
bring me coffee or tea,
find my hand the dumb darkness, try to love,
and come away
Empty-headed and handed,
A savage...
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Pity
Hopeless romantic/pseudo-poet
Looking for
Endless horizon.
Must love destructive decisions, debauchery, and unthreading the tightest of this world’s screws.
Sorry. No text messages. Serious inquiries only. I bruise like a banana.
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First Gasp
Give in to the infinite,
Gasp at the temperature frigid,
In life as river-drawn.
Throw yourself at puddles
And fire the clay,
A man’s past is best muddled.
And we:
Cradled by god and creeping circuits.
Nitid.
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3 Years
We wanted peace and god never wrote me back.
13 letters to the almighty, folded and thin… Dante himself could not plead more.
To my fellow moralmashups:
Be not afraid of the infinite.
Her blessings can sometimes whisper and wane,
coil and crack,
foil and fumble
us all.
If you find yourself in the ethereal arms of time, blink.
-JS
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vinylforsale asked: hey, do you discogs?
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Observations
I watched an old lady,
the smallest I’ve seen in so long,
(4 foot and shrinking) shop at the store.
She was probably loved for most of her long life
by some poor soul who may have died on her.
55 years of loving companionship maybe.
Hers was a fragile nature all her own.
Feasible and slow movements of enduring patience,
delicately grasping her small amount of groceries,
wander about...
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Dear God (Volume 2)
All you have ever known is tradition.
-JS
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Joey P. Slaadr
Being a worm, plump and dangling,
He spun webs worth telling to others.
Tales of the fantastic,
Lights unyielding,
Broken star needles leaking salve of
Salvation.
The pisspoor posterchild
Of drama itself.
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Dear God
Dear god,
Please turn up the
Volume for the voices
In my head.
They are becoming hard to hear
Clearly.
Thanks so much. Loved you
In Bruce almighty.
-JS
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Love Fragment 1
Two quiet souls,
We rail against the wind,
Float amongst directions,
Endlessly.
Such is life.
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Vision Quest: E
Towards the glip-gloss white sheen his gazed tossed, in morning; nouveau. Glare windows slowly rise out of the sun, vex’d. It was around 10, and his was a cautious expression, his fingers blithely wandering about the air. Fractions of morning noise, half worded-wounds, slammed doors, began to stir the air. Arise. Endlessly, the stream of kitchen appliances flew. For once he saw the...