totouch-theearth

There's a hole where I can be forgotten, Find the holes in laws, politics, and humankind. I don't want to be known, I don't want to be prone To absorbtion. A fugitive from convention. Still I squirm, through holes in the earth, I'll find the spaces in the world, If I gotta eat dirt. Yeah, eat dirt. Drink water out of the taps - I am drinking, Artificial flavour right now, Simulated variety of lemons and limes. Next it's sheep, Next androids, Then sleep. And still I squirm, like worms in the earth, Still I eat dirt, Just to stay alive. Still I cheat and find the holes to stay outside the lines. I'm gonna claw through the

The fly flew, The fly flied, The fly fled, Into the pie.

I'm stoned, eating a mango. The fibrous material in the flesh Squirms between my teeth like worms in the earth. I could've written a charming 'piece' Involving these words, Along with nostalgic descriptions of a youth gone by... "Warm summer, fireflies at night, Bright blue- and white- Marbled skies And grass so thick and fragrant." To touch the heart. But no! I'll state explicitly that these words came to me because I was stoned eating that mango. I'm stoned eating a mango! Yeah, stoned. That's how I wrote the poem. (Stick that in your pipe and smoke it!)

Two words A line full of implications, I got the blues. (It's emptiness, there for the taking Emptiness for creating, creating) I don't read faces, I don't read pictures, People, spaces, Love, Anything. I can't read anything, except for words. I can't see, and not say: "I see" When it's all quiet, I'm breathtakingly Unoccupied, with it all - I'm a poet but I just can't read. But I see black and white in a million colours. And I know, Oh no, I'm glad. The blues still have some beautiful hues too - Gimme the poets blues. ------------- Poetry Isn't not me. Poetry isn't anything That isn't me. Not 'freedom' at the pric

Pt. I Somehow feeling like I need to find The means to the ends                             or the meaning to the ends                             or even - the meaning to the means. If I can't make any meaning, I only have to tilt my head back On the cold hardwood floor like chilled pain and meditate                      Cause nothing else makes sense. and I'm tired of all the repetition, (the shit) that's in the world.                      Because I say:                   Dress simple. Eat simple. Live simple. & Think complicated. & All I see is complicated holding hands with complicated in a warm embrace with complicated who

Nothing is new                          Under the sun.      No day can shine on all                          At once.      Evening.         The day is undone,           Swathed in fiery pastels                                       Until it is doused,           When all is clothed in black. For what can I see      When all illumination has escaped,      When from the clutches of the mind      The subtle influence of sight is torn?                         I want no sunset inspirations,                         Or the day's exasperations.                         I only need the breath of life,                        

[Enter Charlie Parker, a former soldier of World War II and a poet by profession. Going into the war as ambitious young man, with some success as a writer, he was stripped of his creative view of the world by the pain of war. He adopted a frusterated, cynical, and uninspired approach to life, and became an alcoholic. His numerous friends never knew of his internal anguish, they were only fellow writers, drinking buddies or people he met at parties. He went on only being able to drown his fears and doubts in alcohol.]     My name is Charlie Parker, 26 years of age. I'm an old 26, a tired old that is ready to die. I think I would forget I was

Night is no newcomer, Waiting for the day. I wait for sleep's embrace, Its secret halls of dreams detained. Insomnia is an old friend, A stale comfort I leave behind, To meander streets of my mind. To be lead to the door, The coveted door. Tick, tick, tock Sings the clock, It mocks. These pills cannot seperate dawn from dusk, They offer no relief from struggled midnights, From dead afternoons. Pills of blue, Bitterness in my throat, Finally, losing composure. The streets start to stagger. Tick, tock, tock The laughter of the clock, Turns insane. Morning, It hits me like a train. Brightness pounds my skull, The sun scr

To be a building in the city, Surrounded by others And can embrace none. To be the sun, Who paints the earth everyday Only for the night to take it away. How tired he must become. Like the clock, His cold hands ache In their miserable cycle, He knows how long pain can feel.

I love the reality of dreams thoughts It's not like this reality of sight touch sound It's reality on different terms It turns natural occurrences like a flower or a lake into beauty It sees It interprets what is already there and gives it a new identity brings it alive In its world a different world a different way of seeing A different way of seeing for a million different minds and worlds People meet and Worlds meet in the world of sight touch sound What a rich dimension of thoughts dreams forms How dense it grows when walls break down when you're sleeping When water pours in and saturates your horrible boring couch The thri