Trickster Union

Verse of the Day


Posted by terminalhip on June 29, 2014 at 8:40 AM

Roving, Rambling, back alleys- space, the architecture's the same a week might be an eon, Governing, regulated second hand clatters cadence of our motions too bad it's not tempered with the right emotion?  Through our strives and our fail ever bright we hail, this our raft plodding mire, the spliter puncture sharp,  a drop or two shed as scurried our feet, Evidence falls weightless as minutes, hours consume- it's never the same. . . Combustible soul, fuel, fire, air, that which I breath, bone flesh spirit that which can't be seen, make pyre, pavement grave- keen undertaker- stone and serpent under feet turpentine in glass, neat, fuel, fire air, that's what I breath, a room, a vacant chair, I was there between crouched sheets, leopards laid bare, mostly a glimpse but full on into that tree. . .maybe another time, it was red suicide three weeks of drifting- playing roulette with the spirit, I came up "00". . ..

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Reply ZQ
10:33 AM on June 29, 2014 
Reply brian miller
11:02 AM on June 29, 2014 
wow. quite the journey in this james (or should i say ancient mariner, ha. figured it out) its rather a cacophony of images but all bears the same current pulling us forward into it...a red suicide three weeks of drifting, indeed...kinda scary to come up double naut there in the end...
Reply Sherry Blue Sky
2:17 PM on June 29, 2014 
What a rich array is visuals. I like "combustible soul, fuel, fire, air."