CONTRAST
a dozen lips,
not to know who I am
but by halves
and haves
:;:
a drunken moon,
dully reflecting,
laying claim
to light not
it’s own.
Just a temporary man, who writes poetry and listens to too much noisy music. His hobbies include salivating about glaciers destroying civilization and the cultivation of facial hair. Additionally, he generally strives to make himself as useless as possible....follow the thread back...
HINGES
January 19th, 2012 by Zack
HINGES
where a door
once stood
the empty frame
hangs waiting
still permitting
the exchange
of thoughts, objects
from this side
to this
other side.
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ALTRUISTIC SARCASM
January 3rd, 2012 by Zack
ALTRUISTIC SARCASM
spitspeakskip :;:
a vomited sunrise,
half-digested light
soaking into your
knockoff comforter,
your burnt hair
your shallow, graven
breaths, each exhale
a wasted chance to
steal another truth.
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EVERYTHING IS IMAGINARY
October 4th, 2011 by Zack
EVERYTHING IS IMAGINARY
heptagonal, wounded
a breath alone,
in the unknighted night,
still squired, unsquared
and moon round, but not
moon red.
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PEBBLE MOUTH
October 4th, 2011 by Zack
PEBBLE MOUTH
mutter, love
as if there was
any other way
to pronounce it
the unwelcome house guest
chuckles, anecdotally
moon spotting, writing
a guide to her pale
disguises.
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‘MAZE
September 27th, 2011 by Zack
‘MAZE
smooth wall folds—
unclue,
a constant discovery
for the beast at the center.
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HUNCHES
July 27th, 2011 by Zack
HUNCHES
all ‘fores :;: off
her ring, smooth
ed, silver un
sinuate. :;: lie
for giving, or
and/or taken
a back, a, b,
:;: longing, im
print, fictitious
cartographer’s class.
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8 OUR
June 28th, 2011 by Zack
8 OUR
chitinous Gregor,
slips ‘low the fridge,
trivial seconds, pie
spoils, oversweet,
oversweated, Bloom’s
go under-celebrated,
ha—bless you, a waste,
Wyoming hides work,
we don’t walk, the talking
swallows our tongues,
the birds bark, the leaves lie.
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THE APPROXIMATE IMPERSONATOR
June 28th, 2011 by Zack
THE APPROXIMATE IMPERSONATOR
no thing’s
stumble tongue
stuck syllables
stalk semi-selves,
“Sirius sez”
no other ‘nother,
unsung sunset,
un-gun-ed, sounds
suck the life from
us—like words
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