Oh I drop my guts out…
All the time,
Numb.
Nudge gently there now:
I'm wrapped around by them.
I am made sick dizzy
Cause someone's pulling
And spinning me around,
This ain't no yarn ball.
If I'm not spinning my yarn,
Then listen, and tug more.
But not on my guts kitty.
Nudge me gently,
I drop guts over kitties.
I was spoken to so classically,
Articulated visions from the sky
Dome, cerulean as I am found,
Preoccupied staring at clouds.
A wandering asked, how here
Have I come? Wordlessly,
Gave a lesson, too: I feared, then,
Head gently pressed in, pinched
Skin around, crowning teeth of
The untamed lion spoke. Throat agape
Black hole, a single swallow could
Witness death, life, and the time
But bawl against
What I don't know here,
What I see here,
What I say here,
What I hear here,
Must stay here.
Dense presence is soul.
I accidentally sold mine. So far,
Improvements have been vast,
But not by any accident I'm aware.
So I said
A weird wood walk by IamColderWithNoCoat, literature
Literature
A weird wood walk
Deciduous trees loom over above, and rustle.
They straighten their backs when questioned,
Sprinkling duff where tiny critter feet jitter
Dried scales from the brittle tree branches
Bouncing overhead, wearing green laurels of
Pride, proof, and preparation for winter. All lay
On them: one leaf counts for an acorn stored.
So more, more. There on the path, leafy limbs
Yearned and yearn, but not back like
From flame, as Eucalyptus bendings do.
Ephemeral erections again stand, a forest behind
Walking, empty of ornament, bare,
With bald lashes: a smothered forest floor
Preserves dirt heat and holds roots warm.
This pace smears all
Metaphor for good things by IamColderWithNoCoat, literature
Literature
Metaphor for good things
If only walls were cocoons. Solid
Wall might morph in a dream: I'd
Stretch, seep in me; watery, as ink
Spreads. Then the cocoon, extolled,
Aborted, her light magnet emerges,
Goddamn goddamn goddamn!
Spans densely, and glow immense!
Our butterfly absorbs wonderly
Glances, rendered to fatally brighten:
Final fleeting petrifies the life.
So the best perches are flowers.
Passersby's don't provide ponder.
Camouflage, a wash of petal, pollen:
Absent of flight, no eye would see.
Then down in the plush of colors,
Pillow visions soften, atrophy, deaden
Sight. Use the gift, fall from the sky.
Flower beds hold no heavy heads,
Flyi
Laughing during winter by IamColderWithNoCoat, literature
Literature
Laughing during winter
Sometimes a laughing from an unknown
Afar comes about the air, and if it were
When one was walking past American Alley
There would have to be an ear
Obliging to the sounds in carry
Of the air, as I were of today;
In sought of the origin of the air,
The laughter in the air, and the chill
In my chest escaping from slow atmosphere:
I believe I was laughing, but laughing still
Gets harder as a red paint roller on a shovel
Size yellow pole, painting a curb near a busy
Crosswalk I stepped over, noticing the homely
White beards of the laughing painters.
Falling from the cliff by IamColderWithNoCoat, literature
Literature
Falling from the cliff
A Leg and one arm, strapped by wind against a face's edge,
With your giant putting eye to a hole in the cliffs of Dover,
Ribbed waves and dredge silt crashed here, over and over.
There were people playing, a beauty on the beach, laughing
And rocking back too, knees pulled abreast, hair-filtered sun,
Beckoning, "Come down, join us," palm tree and plums.
Below, blue soup mashes, becomes white, the strangle grip
Of a creased hand can't choke rock to suffice the fury
From guffawed breath—fury which allows Wind wind's respite.
The fronds, as of late, on those palms, have been not shaking.
The sky has shut its mouth, swallowing arm
The swings of old playgrounds by IamColderWithNoCoat, literature
Literature
The swings of old playgrounds
It takes a little more to get into the swing,
Because here, trying to swing between sounds,
To my luck, takes some hope of skill,
Even though swinging is swinging—
And, feet down, I destroy the sway
Of my song. The riders sound
The same every time. I'm still riding a swing.
Well we'll go as far as we can on one.
Remember the last recess? Kicking
Both legs actually helped us to fly.
But the seats kept connected, so
Soaring away, we were kicking air by
Us until our feet touched the ground,
Our prints the judge of what distance
Was cleared, how high had I swung?
And what judgment passes from marks
Made, for not many children c
A Farmless Farmer's Horse by IamColderWithNoCoat, literature
Literature
A Farmless Farmer's Horse
Tread tight, swaddled horse; my legs are wrapped moldings, forming
Surround your trunk. Sag, pain straddled back. Your mighty spine sits
The keeper of your Earth, lying below your ribs: Fodder, or day-heated water filled.
Though nursing enough, having aligned insides, and dispersed of rainy infamy—
Trot, or canter, any way—but chagrin to so much ranging. Throw me in desperation!
For rottenness panders plentifully the mangy; and temperature vexes satisfaction
Dry of trough water, though but what beasts but pig feasts when grass is so green.
In the wild I will leave you near a watering hole, if ever a leg breaks ranging.
Attached things that thought by IamColderWithNoCoat, literature
Literature
Attached things that thought
When I was, not too long ago,
Amongst my tribunals of revision,
Settled to accept death in total,
Her akimbo, and I, all salutation,
There was less breadth nettled
Inside; I laid the coat to my shoulder,
Comfort's abundant against cold.
Fettered too, six minks stunk
The beauty of the fur, being mink,
So vitally lost and un-preened,
Cleaned dry by a devil's fire, so
Apart from the real, gleaned
Like our scopes to the stars, no
Unfettering may have made me
Or my six stinking minks free.
Snakes hang like they do, form
Six harrowing synapse residents.
So warm, and naturally unsettling,
They had taken the vacancy,
My blis
Attached things that thought by IamColderWithNoCoat, literature
Literature
Attached things that thought
When I was, not too long ago,
Amongst my tribunals of revision,
Settled to accept death in total,
Her akimbo, and I, all salutation,
There was less breadth nettled
Inside; I laid the coat to my shoulder,
Comfort's abundant against cold.
Fettered too, six minks stunk
The beauty of the fur, being mink,
So vitally lost and un-preened,
Cleaned dry by a devil's fire, so
Apart from the real, gleaned
Like our scopes to the stars, no
Unfettering may have made me
Or my six stinking minks free.
Snakes hang like they do, form
Six harrowing synapse residents.
So warm, and naturally unsettling,
They had taken the vacancy,
My blis
A Farmless Farmer's Horse by IamColderWithNoCoat, literature
Literature
A Farmless Farmer's Horse
Tread tight, swaddled horse; my legs are wrapped moldings, forming
Surround your trunk. Sag, pain straddled back. Your mighty spine sits
The keeper of your Earth, lying below your ribs: Fodder, or day-heated water filled.
Though nursing enough, having aligned insides, and dispersed of rainy infamy—
Trot, or canter, any way—but chagrin to so much ranging. Throw me in desperation!
For rottenness panders plentifully the mangy; and temperature vexes satisfaction
Dry of trough water, though but what beasts but pig feasts when grass is so green.
In the wild I will leave you near a watering hole, if ever a leg breaks ranging.
The swings of old playgrounds by IamColderWithNoCoat, literature
Literature
The swings of old playgrounds
It takes a little more to get into the swing,
Because here, trying to swing between sounds,
To my luck, takes some hope of skill,
Even though swinging is swinging—
And, feet down, I destroy the sway
Of my song. The riders sound
The same every time. I'm still riding a swing.
Well we'll go as far as we can on one.
Remember the last recess? Kicking
Both legs actually helped us to fly.
But the seats kept connected, so
Soaring away, we were kicking air by
Us until our feet touched the ground,
Our prints the judge of what distance
Was cleared, how high had I swung?
And what judgment passes from marks
Made, for not many children c
Falling from the cliff by IamColderWithNoCoat, literature
Literature
Falling from the cliff
A Leg and one arm, strapped by wind against a face's edge,
With your giant putting eye to a hole in the cliffs of Dover,
Ribbed waves and dredge silt crashed here, over and over.
There were people playing, a beauty on the beach, laughing
And rocking back too, knees pulled abreast, hair-filtered sun,
Beckoning, "Come down, join us," palm tree and plums.
Below, blue soup mashes, becomes white, the strangle grip
Of a creased hand can't choke rock to suffice the fury
From guffawed breath—fury which allows Wind wind's respite.
The fronds, as of late, on those palms, have been not shaking.
The sky has shut its mouth, swallowing arm
Laughing during winter by IamColderWithNoCoat, literature
Literature
Laughing during winter
Sometimes a laughing from an unknown
Afar comes about the air, and if it were
When one was walking past American Alley
There would have to be an ear
Obliging to the sounds in carry
Of the air, as I were of today;
In sought of the origin of the air,
The laughter in the air, and the chill
In my chest escaping from slow atmosphere:
I believe I was laughing, but laughing still
Gets harder as a red paint roller on a shovel
Size yellow pole, painting a curb near a busy
Crosswalk I stepped over, noticing the homely
White beards of the laughing painters.
Metaphor for good things by IamColderWithNoCoat, literature
Literature
Metaphor for good things
If only walls were cocoons. Solid
Wall might morph in a dream: I'd
Stretch, seep in me; watery, as ink
Spreads. Then the cocoon, extolled,
Aborted, her light magnet emerges,
Goddamn goddamn goddamn!
Spans densely, and glow immense!
Our butterfly absorbs wonderly
Glances, rendered to fatally brighten:
Final fleeting petrifies the life.
So the best perches are flowers.
Passersby's don't provide ponder.
Camouflage, a wash of petal, pollen:
Absent of flight, no eye would see.
Then down in the plush of colors,
Pillow visions soften, atrophy, deaden
Sight. Use the gift, fall from the sky.
Flower beds hold no heavy heads,
Flyi
A weird wood walk by IamColderWithNoCoat, literature
Literature
A weird wood walk
Deciduous trees loom over above, and rustle.
They straighten their backs when questioned,
Sprinkling duff where tiny critter feet jitter
Dried scales from the brittle tree branches
Bouncing overhead, wearing green laurels of
Pride, proof, and preparation for winter. All lay
On them: one leaf counts for an acorn stored.
So more, more. There on the path, leafy limbs
Yearned and yearn, but not back like
From flame, as Eucalyptus bendings do.
Ephemeral erections again stand, a forest behind
Walking, empty of ornament, bare,
With bald lashes: a smothered forest floor
Preserves dirt heat and holds roots warm.
This pace smears all
I was spoken to so classically,
Articulated visions from the sky
Dome, cerulean as I am found,
Preoccupied staring at clouds.
A wandering asked, how here
Have I come? Wordlessly,
Gave a lesson, too: I feared, then,
Head gently pressed in, pinched
Skin around, crowning teeth of
The untamed lion spoke. Throat agape
Black hole, a single swallow could
Witness death, life, and the time
But bawl against
What I don't know here,
What I see here,
What I say here,
What I hear here,
Must stay here.
Dense presence is soul.
I accidentally sold mine. So far,
Improvements have been vast,
But not by any accident I'm aware.
So I said
Current Residence: California Favourite genre of music: genre is a ridiculous word Favourite photographer: I am the favorite photographer of the photographs I take Personal Quote: Quotes are spontaneous, dick.
Favourite Visual Artist
I am the favorite artist of the art I make
Favourite Movies
Apocalypse Now
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Smashing Pumpkins, Tool
Favourite Writers
I am the favorite author of the words I write
Other Interests
movies, reading, herb, biking, women who don't suck