For A Better Propaganda

artreture:

You weren’t a broken boy,
But there was something broken
With the way your shoes
Grazed the pavements

I want you around
Even as I say this
Through gritted teeth
And bleeding lips

Both our knees are scathed
From looting antique stores
And fruits from the grocer;
I was weak too, but not a thief

One of us wanted adventure
While the other opted for shelter
Your mind was set, so was mine;
We broke in into a library instead

Broken

Fancy. Those poets collect tears
by the river. Meanwhile i wonder what dying
monstrosity expelled the green froth
collecting along the bank of the river.

Lies, they’re all an artist knows.
Told in paint and ink with hurried
hands. Desperate love. The best
tasting kind.

Spill a quarter for the homeless gentleman
son. I’ll buy you a beer one day
and tell you how to win the world.

Be selective in your cruelty. Tender hearts are
easily broken.

whoartgos:

Somehow we find joy in paper
thin exteriors

Sudden gusts of
wind threaten to abscond with
annoying too-thin housewives
and “Earl doesn’t-eat-enough”

Can’t say he’s just a workout warrior
now…

Awkward

A frail handshake and i’m searching
for your stash, your cache, your
cash. In a state of nature you would
feel my will.

Same time next week!
Until the ink dries!

(via reality-absurd-lie)

Somehow we find joy in paper
thin exteriors

Sudden gusts of
wind threaten to abscond with
annoying too-thin housewives
and “Earl doesn’t-eat-enough”

Can’t say he’s just a workout warrior
now…

Awkward

A frail handshake and i’m searching
for your stash, your cache, your
cash. In a state of nature you would
feel my will.

Same time next week!
Until the ink dries!

Streetlight Eyes

A politically conscious madman
purchases israeli weaponry
against his better instincts.
Leave room to grow

My friend Mike went to
Iraq and built sandcastles.
I always wanted to ask him
what crimson looks like
when mixed with sand

Another friend has skin the color
of a desert floor. I wonder if his
blood is thick like motor oil
or cheap cologne

She thinks I’m lying
through my ivory teeth.
Never believe a smile like that
baby, I swear I seen you
on a billboard. Pupils as wide
as streetlights

That night when white men
chased me through the city.
Trying to confiscate my glorious tusks.

I’m drinking tequila like
It’s my job
And lying through my teeth,
Well, at least the pliable ones.

I had a dream about C.I.A. blotter tests, now somewhere a hippie can’t
Find her lighter.

Free love gave me a sour aftertaste;
You get what you pay for
Captain of industri-
Al waste. A yacht on shit creek
Beats a condo in hell. And shit
Ain’t in short supply. That’s why
It’s called consumerism.

Right ladies?

She masturbated
To my poetry once,
Guess that’s love

Purity Ring

It’s a busy month
When no one stops to apologize
For their crimes

Between streetlights chirping
And the cacophony of one
Thousand useless conversations
It’s difficult to catalouge
The ways in which you’ve wronged me

It’s deafening,
This city,
Not like where you’re from

Where

It’s a certain kind of quiet,
An innocent silence

I remember when you
Asked me to light a match
And dance in it

Deadpan, turns out

Purity is rarely painless

Progress is a peaceful day,
when no one brings up the past,
or the future

We waste so much energy
shoveling documents into the flames

Progress is forgetting my name and
appearing in a strangers hands. Wonder if he wants more than that
skin, you hide so well. His calculated
risk vs. My lack of research.
Does fire in the belly count as a medical condition?

Progress is an open heart.
Rust colored pools and a gleeful
grin, mine. I’d rather be broken,
and in your hands.

apocalypsepoet:

the prettiest girls like my poetry.

I still can’t get laid.

Prompt

The poems write themselves,
every time we stop speaking.

Look from left eye to right,
lips

follow me home. My sheets
are right where I left them.

Unfortunately, when I wake,
yesterday is still chasing it’s dreams.
There’s no profit in wishing.

I’m still alive, I think,
And the day is dragging
like knuckles on the pavement

Today is a new set of knives.
God, they glisten

Yesterday is blank,
like my wallet. So am
I now? Unread words,
broken binding? My spine
was a shattered window. My
goodbyes never quite stuck

It’s not enough
to strip your skin
and plead beneath
the skin

Old eyes don’t forget
easily

It’s not enough to
throw words at midnight
if she won’t listen

Morning pushes at my ribs
And urges me to look upwards.
I can’t tell where the clouds are
Without my contacts, alas
Some of us were built with
Spoiled parts.

—

Evenings fade like promises,
“Don’t forget the lies you told”
Or the feeling of being alone

are people still complaining about the editors?
you guys will never be happy