A Pause

Is this consent to eradicating
What we know now will tomorrow fell
People running inside a metal crimson
Box face the wind like weaving wool?

This tree we will not use for homes
In the backyards of ways past
All this dark fuel we will pass
By has nothing to do with our wounds

We will seed into cloud the mourning sheen
We shall tolerate no frown nor jest
A stand be seen as solid as beast
Forever failure we will have not seen

You will take gestures from restructured table
I will stare at a baby in a hammock I wove
You will build and gather dust and tolerate no out
We will respect mothers' funereal route.

Labels: apocalypse, poetry, postmodernism, poststructuralism

Posted by Richard J.A. at 10:37:00 AM | Permalink | Comments

See, the thing is, you haven't a clue
To why it says it will not have cons
They the wretched shall claim bones
From babies, this pastry's origin

I do not know their picking a basket
Trash is lovely to look at if you eat
Them afterwards are the reasons
You do not want to go to such

Definite? How else to repay to buy
Buy, buy, buy, drink wan replete juice
Cream your body absent of licking
Absinthe of the leisure of suck, surfeit of

Impudence, exponential decrease of talk
That says there is white stain at the back

Of mirror, the glass has some black
To see.

Labels: contemporary love, pop, postmodernism

Posted by Richard J.A. at 6:14:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

I love it that everything's some sort of an extension
I dare no one to pay for me what I owe:
The devilish snarling when they said they will be nicer to eyes

I love its promise of daisy, its oath to a happy
Sleep tomorrow: is picking up of a dropped pin
A spy

I admire? It's declivity to smoothness, its lenient
Look at faults reflective of a spoon's back

Its temerity at defining my status, its coarseness
At the announcement I consider new lights

I extol its view of a forward, scraping of flesh, open gates

Labels: poetry, postmodernism, poststructuralism

Posted by Richard J.A. at 6:09:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

Hey, hey, 'tis the day we can't be used to words like flummoxed,
A coding at which no denying you will strike.

It seems to itself its history's never quite undone enough to find settlements.
It feels it needs something from us it can't quite possibly guide us to place.

Hey, hey, airplanes on your way. Not to be at your safety, but on you beat.
Hey, hey, this song, for your birthday. We'd be no more sorrier than you.

I begin to manage why it's going itself in a direction he can't guide.
I flashback my way to a syntax they cannot but loathe. Unbearably banal, our looking!
Hey, hey, there will be no more, no more for us left to say!

Labels: David Foster Wallace, netherland, poetry, postmodernism, poststructuralism, pretense

Posted by Richard J.A. at 10:43:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

"It should be thin, but thick enough not to break"
- A secret to a perfect dumpling

I am doing away of all your Neo-Calvin living.
Your smiles do me no good at the end of this shift.
Preferably all your mistakes boil down to my regard
For everything mistakenly small in all a calloused offer.

Moments like this it's to be understood we all are frail
Although nothing about this can show us some wound
That ever feeds on its own without any regard for space

In a new skin. There has been a war that continues unnoticed
There is portability in its being left for the damned.
Forever is the word we use to make it some sort of time-bound
Clearly we fool ourselves that all a sun does is to disprove

The wet. Final dances are like that, everybody knows it.
YOu pick some spacious ground that stretch across yards
Of yards stretching across the amazing nothingness of yore

Awaiting time, everyone has looked. And dropped. Yet won it all
Hasn't it been new to you who for a long time notices none
You don't think it's going to have it all changed in a day

Do you. Perhaps you're afraid shitless of this cat's reverse
Purr. Perhaps I've been too much of an overwhelming replacement
Perhaps you show me nothing much. Perhaps you untangle shoelaces

Wrong. I'll never know that which has as its roots the reverse:
Clearly this isn't what you meant: Dr. A.Teramisu, senile,ire,

Very ass, awe men as era stack on,eh? Who opt a butter?Ref sees
Gnat here. Here Hey-es tap more last "Ah".T'was. I saw that sale
ROM Pats eye here. Here H-Tang sees, ferret tub at Pooh

When ok cats are sane, mew as say,"Reverie lines us",
I'm a Retard....................................................

Labels: art, avantgarde, film, great sex, poetry, postmodernism, sex

Posted by Richard J.A. at 10:12:00 PM | Permalink | Comments