For A Better Propaganda

For A Better Propaganda


The Author
The Wood Room Collective
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Collabs
Spoken Word

EEKS
Wood Room Collective
Harrisburg, Pa

sea org

lookedlikelaughing:

pass me the purp
ensconce me in fine humors,
elevated, thetanless,
jim beamy and brave

for a bit.

or patio permanence,
breezed as fuck and chugging it,
the newest scenery
pouring down my throat,
adam’s apple all sing-a-long ball.

but some, resin days.
a stone gut heavier than
Virginia’s pockets,
gurgling in my sleep. 

but there’s a military for everything,
if you enlist, yank your fist out of your chest.
even the most diminished forces,
a rifle squad of Coors, pop songs,
can rid your rocks.
 
for a bit.

ghostsista:

MY SCANDALOUS LOVE AFFAIR WITH THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

your husband’s tombstone
between all the weeds I steal
our very first kiss

][

before dawn: nightfall
and my dead lover’s cock shall
rise, mount the hard ghost

][

grass stains on your knees,
your back, the palms of your hands,
inside you … the dead

][

spring’s last missing moon
this damning erotic life
the one that we choose

(Source: ghostsista.com, via mermaidsbite)

perfection is
elusive

to the point of
being mythical,
a cult of faith

which is unfortunate

sadly, skin is
soft and bones
brittle, especially under
harsh conditions
  why pyramids couldn’t
  last on my shoulder
  blades

and i’m prone
to folly, looking
behind the couch
for

nothing in particular

simply unravel the
taut film from its canister,
bubbling black reflecting
sun like slow moving water

or better yet fling
it into the bottoms
of clouds

when they, they clouds,
meet smoke stacks
man meets creator
and the earth keeps
spinning

so far we’ve come
no closer to anything
resembling a conclusion

oli-row:

Absolute legend. Thank you Patrice.

(via perforating)

Rest In Sleep

set by the water, i
lost a velvet tongue
in that brisk stream,
it’s pouring through rock formations
over downed trees

  i wonder how lightning
  chooses it’s victims,
  surely not with the antiseptic
  hand of chance

mangled umbrellas are
left for dead, no one
fixes anything anymore,
time erodes the sharp
edges of our (least)favorite
memories. we think of
each other in muddled terms,
dregs and grounds

"bury me in bed"
i pleaded, “at noon”,
so i can remember this
feeling

Scrap That

prongs
tasting blue
blood, clinical
snake-veins rupturing

walls, smooth opaque
casing cloaking colored
innards from sensitive
eyes

make sure you unplug
your human every night,
and erase the days events
from memory

poindexter, who sheds
tears for scrapped metal
besides the thirsty and the
desperate?

Baseline at 80

mermaidsbite:

If your brain resets,
what is your baseline?

I know mine:
Marboro reds or filterless Camels,
Cape Cod, Malbec, or bold red cab,
running shoes or Teva flip-flops,
felt-tip fine point, never ballpoint,
any rag paper with a slight tooth,

If you see me someday
in a long, white braid
walking the beach,
in tennis shoes
smoking, big
cup, a bit
drunk,
stop

and say you love me, I’ve hit baseline

Ask to read my poetry;
I’ll have written my best lines…

- mermaidsbite / Christiane Lopez

Inverted teeth,
jagged and stained by
aged wind, they smile
back from a yawning
crevice

i am rocks and sand
curiously peeking over
cookie cut edges
(macadamian dusting
caught in the swirl of
an eastern wind)

i am descending into
inevitability

Against the odds
I hope the dye
should land
on two

Aged bones
bleached white,
someone was foolish
enough to say

let’s get married

Notes

Slipped under doors
Discretely

Who the fuck is you?
I’ve got enough paranoia
In these hands to make
Horrible mistakes

These days go on and on,
hours falling like clothes
from desperate widowed
shoulders

These days walking outside
is a political statement,
I wear bias as a proud flag

Someone remind me
of our ancestors names,
my progeny should live
well enough to dishonor
them