No genre goes unnoticed in this list:
From photos blurred in backdrops flush with filters
To paintings brushed just like impressionists
(Though some I note from other sites are pilfered).
Although I find your watermark distracts
From screaming natural unnat’ral glows,
‘Least you adjusted all their hues & blacks
‘Way from their boring, ordinary tones.
& you know from no search should e’er be stricken
Such fitting pics of figurines & chickens.
For hours I’d gaze up @ those spritely flames
Bourn by the coupling ‘tween sunset & clouds,
& meshed e’en mo’ unscorched in icy rain,
With thunder white & hot—& just as loud.
I spread my arms & wait for rain to flood
Around my body, soul, & coupon stashes—
Veins running @ the touch of such cold blood
Till filling my soft stomach with warm splashes.
I’ll always miss the weather you display,
Every morning, night, & all the days.
April is the coolest month1,
breeding flies & leaking oil.
¡Plastic stomachs’ filthy fluff!
¡Mattresses with ripped-up coils!
Here the seagulls sing their squawks
through the acid lemon rain
over rusty concrete blocks
with glass shards & worthless change.
Spread your arms, feel all the brine,
bang your heads while ravens cry,
«HURRY UP PLEASE IT IS TIME.»
Rainbows spread its fingers through
granite gray & silver liquid
crystal screens that always plume
in the rain that makes it fidget.
Should I splash my feet in you?
Does it feel like smacks or pets?
Looks as if you always snooze,
slowly swaying white light flecks.
Puddles never make me frown,
always soothe me with their sounds—
in their love I want to drown.
Is that chocolate syrup splayed?
Spread the fluffy iris yolk,
taste the ashes in the rain,
smashing heart ribs with 1 stroke.
I remember still your warmth,
stilled by runny April sundown,
when imaginations swarm,
when again I lose my grounds.
Still you leave your rusty stains
on my mug, which won’t go ‘way
—last month’s taste as yet remains.
Bloody eye o’ Zero, were
I as steadfast as thou aren’t
in your purple milky blur,
my unbeatable broken heart,
sickle cutting through the leaves,
cut through by our shadows, yet
that don’t mold your curdled cheese—
not a clot: your veins stay fed.
I arrived each hour last night
—or this morn—so that I might
see you flush, but you were pale white.
Some will say you hide the sun;
I say that the sun hides you.
Clean as cream or stained with mud,
mixed with every hue o’ blue,
you find comfy every season,
mixing with both sun & rain;
bubble me from earthly treason:
pillow me in dreams away.
Then the billows all turn gray,
lullabies turn into shakes—
1 last thunder ‘fore my wake.
I can’t even count how many objects you so hawk
From your gaping maw with stains of nameless substances.
How your papers darken with forgotten liquids; bruised
Apple cores turn brown & yellow, swarmed with plump li’l flies.
Still I smell that odor sharp like needles splashed in piss;
Still I feel the stickiness that never shall subside,
Like the ghost of cream that streams out from a phallus cocked.
I desire to roll in you all day, pristine refuse,
For it is in you I know I truly should reside.
