For A Better Propaganda

For A Better Propaganda


The Author
The Wood Room Collective
Tumblr Featured Writing
Collabs
Spoken Word

EEKS
Wood Room Collective
Harrisburg, Pa

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

bleed me

from royal purple
to the swelling red
of rebellious clouds

dust rustled up from
patriots slung over
castle walls, there’s
someone’s flag waving

guttural reactions are
born, like us, in a cottage
somewhere, from compiled
threads with DNA bent like
frayed zippers

coming undone

men as specters
drifting

women as sundials,
basking

soil pushed from it’s
set feet by the agressive
winds of mid-summer

Anonymous said: Do you take in poems for your blog

not really

erasing all the poems
written in a given timeframe
cop-out, go meta

alternating states of
dizzying optimism
and damp resignation

life is either a journey
or a sentence

basically

basically

(Source: 666papi, via ruinedchildhood)

i’ve turned to
a dull husk,
rolling about
apathetic streets
deeper into alleys
and side-streets,
weeds choke the
sidewalks and beckon
to the dying bees,
we are sanctuary

next to the church,
where sometimes
bald gentlemen in
suits, and older
women in hats
congregate and
drink pomegranate-red blood
somewhat sparingly

past the corner store
that feeds the vacant lots
blunt wrap wrappers and
sour-salty-sugary-synthesized
manna

in search of some fine
paper, something i can
trade for oil

yours like
freshly born
pizza, tug at
my edges, burn
your mouth

yours like
the last hit,
smoke crawling
from your lips

yours like the moment
before tomorrow,
smile at the ceiling
while i snore,

yours

matthew-pasquarello:

whoartgos

the palm reads apocalypse. 
deep beneath our feet are
the ant-armies
getting ready for the
sober battles fought by
drunk assholes.

we’re worried about
income tax and missing
our favorite shows
and
putting on enough
sunscreen and
getting laid, but there
are
worse things than the
trivialities of a sullen earth
and
there are worse things
than a bruise or cut,

because there’s the
end
of
it
all.

dope