For A Better Propaganda

For A Better Propaganda

The Author
The Wood Room Collective
Tumblr Featured Writing
Spoken Word

Wood Room Collective
Harrisburg, Pa

Teeth and Faith

i imagine you as charcoal
orange begging to bust through
the shell

capable of bringing
down a whole house
if deployed correctly,

your skin…i see you
smile with closed eyes
and wonder why we
don’t spend more time
looking in the mirror

together, we’re all

helps quiet the passing
cars and muttering
lips leaking exhaust,
curious there aren’t more
muzzles in this city,
my home

where the broken streets mean
something to me, they’re ingrained in
my skin

where history saunters past
every day

remember when you were weak,
you had hope

now i have faith

Like a Memory

i want to crawl between
your ribs and cling

i want to seep
between your (aging)
panes of glass as
you scratch above
my skin

sometimes you sound so

You’re beautiful
a sombre portrait

I see residue,
your steps illuminated

Never return
to those places you

Believe in the altruistic naivety
of simple men,
a simple man

hate is tempting
like red and sickly

i feel like kindling
tightly wound

all of my favorite words
escape me, pursuit is
a lonely occupation

company is not sport,
nor as fulfilling as a warm
meal spread evenly across the tongue

i’m not sure where these steps
are headed

Go West

You’re playing the piano
and we’re singing the songs
from that musical you like

I’m squinting to read the words
and watching your fingers crawl
over the keys

Somehow you keep surprising me

I left with suitcases,
too-full, and memories.
You changing outfits, adjusting
makeup. I waiting patiently
with the dog

…I tell everyone that
happiness lives where
you do

Dry Rub

I told someone to
get off my nuts

It felt good.
My brain grabbed
at it’s crotch
(through the jeans),
and wanted to light
a cigarette

Too bad I quit that
disgusting habit.
I spent Sunday after
work marinating
in my own sheets and
listening to the rain


back again
to deposit some more…

impending doom feels
like single digit
wait…that, backwards

the depth of winter
is revealed in mountainous
gatherings of laundry

and contempt

days yawn
and stretch
to ensure that  the sun
does indeed touch the edges of our screens
(generous i know) yet, still
they are confined to stunted frames

they die
so we gather
enveloped in black




full of cling wrapped
static, tv dinner cardboard
cutout sermons

seeping black ink and
pervasive locust
sounds. the friction
of ambidextrous wings

red flashes sprinting through my skin,
tightly wound electrical coils,

Sucker Punch

kiss the hand that feeds you, 
save the teeth
for pointed snarls beneath
fake smiles, politely now

gently lull walls to sleep,
pink gums fading
into pale enamel, cheap tile covered
in gloss, shining

i woke this morning
eyelids stuck together
and feet buried in warm,
newly shattered sand,
it burns

i shuffle through glass, blind
while light seeps through skin
and pale reflections catch my jaw,
sucker punch.

Written by: SyntaxAndSemantics and WhoArtGos

i still don’t trust mirrors
(as if the world spun counter to my steps)
or helping hands, or newly healed

bananas browning on the chipped counter,
neglect speaks volumes
  like revolving wrists  and chattering masses

my jaw is tense
and i’m not sure how long
i’ve been staring,


i told her i was scripture
my skin holy scrolls

she laughed and flipped her hair
neither pious nor particularly interested
and i knew that life then
was a familiar book, written
by other hands

i said i had agency
an empowered mind,
i am clamped lids and a steady
supply of stimuli(cause-effect)

i told her i was scripture
words meant for her eyes

she smiled “I can hear you laughing”

blood substitute

saturday night
is a search for
something like

$2 whatever-the-fuck
and slow rolling

what’s a key grip?
the white in your knuckles
before letting go


your animated speech

you remind me of wet clay
often, but more than that,
a pensive glass and dark tea

a dim fire, near it’s last gasps

you remind me of gentle rot,
the smiling kind

slow baked into the psyche
topped with sprinkles,
just because

cranberry fudge stout

sticky sweet irony,
victims basking in vitriol

her. frost touched
melting slowly

obscure lamps
manufactured in
antiquated countries,
since swept from the maps

rising vision(s)
taut horizon