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

Chatter

Passing cars and
wings, The oppressive
hum of engines, Who
knows when hibernation
kicks in?

Gosh,
what’s with the accents?
Dripping Pennsylvania,
I hear the woods calling.

Accept fate
like a stern
warning

Simple

Today left in a cloud
hopelessly open
Is the river
still bleeding about
town?

Birth,
the sun rises awash
in blissful ignorance,
the milk of early morn’

Waving flags tell no tales
of nights since past, felled
trees do all the barking

unfortunately, the rain is
drowning out the sound
outside my window,

there’s always tomorrow

The birth
then the bath.
Clean God’s
mess from those
shrinking feet

Babies are born
shrieking, wise
beyond their frames

bent flowers
turgid with rain
petals weeping

today is plastered
on your face,
dripping

and tomorrow is
somewhere else,
another lifetime
away

sage advice:
don’t look back

your neck can’t take
it, we’re only built
to run a certain
number of miles

and you know

they don’t fix anything
anymore

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?