Drawing breath, intending a scream, Time passes, wake from dreaming, Sometimes excessive zeal demeans, So squeak like the law itself, Garlic men, in the broadest sense, Concentrate on the bread when pressed, But what of butter and how it melts? Even of appalling strength, Does it correspond to depth, or meaning? Rocking chair, what have you seen, Beside the bedside and people watching? Even if time lacking, population immense, Despite desperate pleas: fences.
sitting on the red couch eating rice and beans straight from the pot the rice is undercooked and toothy it sticks to my spine it burns my throat picking around green peppers while the south winter sun runs through the window and reflects off the floor and is blinding bright it burns my eyes it doesn’t feel warm at all despite the two pairs of socks and layered shirts and oh i’m so tired. might just. wrap up in a blanket and go to sleep.
Ball fist, if wishes could talk, One would place their chips down; If life were a play, or odd film, Kings would admit our wrongs, But it's not. Wishing could be in your head, Talking all things that god is, Appending the self at the end, Thinking itself less important, But it's not.
Debbie downer of many outcomes, Money protected against downturns, Fathered from powerful maelstroms, Freshly showered out of sleep, What is deep? What is to and from, Blue sea, who flowers their queen, Without a penny, empty bellied, 'You let them down, son' Sour cherries, as he devours many Let them down yourself, please, Out of envy, twenty thousand leagues.
To hurt him, like ordinance, Without pair, like oranges, I know the judge, stole from her, And I showed the world, Like porcelain, life and purpose. Too curt of whim, by your judgement, Like my origins, like ordinance, I simply shoot from the hip.
And what is knowledge, Seeking cage or collar, Blue, An ocean fathered, Or Purple, red and other; Purple, being safe, Circle, being safe, Purple screaming veins, Journal speaks of rage. Press candles, pages, Stress handled in stages.
Bindle stiff of simple things, Fake brickwork buildings, Frugal beginning. Mind filled with bitterness, Still feeling ideas stone: Life constatant, slowly. Hands in gauze and clovers, One makes a river of oceans, A farm of forests, dogs of horses. Yet smashes up against the stone, Dark and lonely, eyes gloss over.
To scratch to paper to feel, A rat pampered can keel, Catch as cant, caped and kneels. To manage a brokerage well, Manger broken, belly swells, Change hopeful, soon quelled. The train is gold but gone, Pain is old game to fawns, Again retold, they carry on.
A Fool, wreath of barbs, Writing of films' stars, Barns, and what lies beyond; Tools for reaching disembarkments, A cool way to clean her clock, A gun, put into a mouth, Entire crowd in shock; His cigar takes tocks, Ticks boxes and lives onward. He rewrites his ducks: swans, Cooks his brownies blonde, Looks at his frowning fawn, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Like drowning frogs, A fearless John. When he writes of life, It's to a howling mob, Sexy songs, luck gaunt, One of us, One of us, One of us, Eteonicus lives, reeds or not.
“Writers ———————- Have gentle souls Have a heart of a sunshine The one written word they paint From their lives with each brush in their hands The good times The bad times The treasured of times Their words are best told From its beginning to no ending They paint each season They create each reason They form each line As they stand even at the bus line As they wait for their train to arrive As they drive their car they must stop At the parking stop and quickly write Otherwise they will lose their track of Song they want to sing” (c)10/31/2020 by Petar Kostadinov
these are the golden years, the golden day, she says like the sunrise or the sunset? i say both. or neither. she says do you miss it? she says your youth, i mean. i know. i miss it. i am still young. it has been torn from my chest and weighs on my hips and i miss it. i say how was your birthday? she says better than before, i say. before what? the moment it became my birthday. were you gifted anything? she says on which birthday? i say all of them. or none. she says do you think we could preserve this moment, cast it in gold or bronze or iron? she says no. who said that? i pick up the mirror and drag it home. ten, nineteen, two thousand and one.
Writing one hundred pages, It turns out to be permanent makeup, Not exactly an act of nature, Rather products of one's labor, Tattooed to the skin with lasers. Other people, Other places A number of changes, fables; One's mind, the world adjacent. Fine, just fine, Never find time, Why bother in the prime of life, When eyes stretch beyond the tide.
To claw and claw, Writing of natural law, Barracks and arches, Scientific approaches; To be driven ashore, Hearing of chorus, Fairs and archfiends. Only death can stop me, Friends and colleagues; Stems, large leaves, Cigarettes, coffee, Footsteps and then leaps; See my craft on screen, See their past as I see. Consequence on my freedom, I feel men are not sheep.
Is my life but a minor arc? Mirror dark, a nine of hearts, Why walk into the distant fog, Past miles of silver boxes, Simple props with silver foxes, Waiting for their turn to balk. I could write ironic of a pen who talks, Night-time bombings, a man who moved on, Wildlife watching. 'Will I be fed to dogs' The pen responds: 'Terrified by conflict you write a law, But will the dogs obey? I think not.'
If you Really Saw Me What would you do if I told you all my secrets? The ones pulled from deepest trenches, darkest corners. Scraped them like the drippings of my innermost self Onto your proverbial plate Would you push them all back? Demand a reverse regurgitation Of all that was ugly in me And pretend you never saw Would you sift through my soul? Stir a fork through all that is me, Looking for the parts you can use, Discarding the rest Would you shatter the plate against the wall? Shards of me on display for all to see, Lay me bare in front of the eyes of the world And laugh at the tears streaming red down my face Or would you love me just the same? As my inner enigma bleeds over the porcelain edges As you see all the sides unseen Would you smile at my uncloseted skeletons? Would you hold my empty vessel self and fill me with the light, the love, my soul needs? What would you do if I told you all my secrets?