Organic Thoughts, Wide-Eyed Spasms

Enter to Escape

Landfills of feverish outcasts, fit only for friends of the fallen.
The tallest is the ladder, it seems only right.
Children climb first, and arrange towards the morning warmth.
“Run my friends,” as the tall man turns back, “they’ve returned.”

Layered mechanical horizons, metal sheets ejected into the crevice, mother’s voice
under the steel placements, “God help us.”
a second interjecting, “At least now I can get some sleep.”

The tall man’s torso faces the rising sun, his legs splay across an orphan’s lifeless frame.
The hole began to spin violently.
The torso disintegrates.

The spinning ceases.
A boy and a girl stand over where they once resided.
Gigantic magnets lift for the reveal.
A stew of flesh, bones, and entrails float carelessly.
A man approaches.
Clean shaven, wearing dark. A proper suit, not a single mark.

He stares, his hand strengthening the brain in his chin,
“Bad Batch”.
His eyes rose to the children, “dispose of this.”

The young ones close their eyes,
and destroy the evidence,
embrace the forgetting.

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Organic Thoughts, Wide-Eyed Spasms

The Box

It is mine.
I have nurtured it forever, where years speak like seconds.
It shines ominously as I caress its wondrous skin.
Protecting an orb of yes, of do not lose it.

They took it from me when I was awake.
They set it in a glass case at the foot of my bed when I slept.

It is mine.
I stare at it through the pain. Polish applied every other day.
Light at certain angles shows the future,
but the dimness is understandable in such an enclosure.

Baseball bats only shower splinters.
Power drills weep like the fighting breath of dying animals.
My fists bleed for hours after the attempt.
The box is angry that I want it back.

It is not mine.

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Organic Thoughts, Wide-Eyed Spasms

Return to:

The substance of nothing
is nothing of substance.
A warehouse of souls transmits through their
tubes.
Does the body choose?
Does the soul choose the body?
We forced car accidents to test the rigidity of sorrow,
a poor performance.
The numbers cowered in the corners, a union of fear
from the timely tyrant.

It smooths to be sharp. Swallowing regurgitation. Running in mirrors from outside,
We must hide.
Stuffing the clouds for us. I present to you,
the lovely reader,
a deafening sound with a shriek on the side.
Hold the climax.
Joint custody of pleasurable perils. The night watchman dances around the fire.
A pit of gripping fingertips boil over with popping cyst money hits.

My whites are drying on the clothesline outside.
The rain started hours ago.

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Organic Thoughts, Wide-Eyed Spasms

The Place Between

Rolling fields of a
fiery length. I long.

Ravens cast shadowed voids upon
the woolen coats, the fragile monocle
crashes upon the pavement. Stretched
seams
break the novelty of Resurrection.
Prosthetic, the advance of advancement, the
blood is pooling in the bathtub, chasing
linoleum alleyways.
The mathematical hindsight, dragging through the woods towards
the river.
It’s all the river.

Younger days are afraid, I’ve asked for them.
Youtopia.

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Composed Thoughts

A memory

A symphony of song birds woke him, a spectrum of contrasting sounds blending together
paradoxically.
He found himself laying face down on a dirt floor.
There was no gravel.
There was no grass,
only the flat embrace of shaped soil.
He was squared off by four yellow walls devoid of doors and windows.
The ceiling was black, yet a small circular hole was cut in the middle.
Through this
he saw blue.

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Composed Thoughts

Old Man

The sun wept rays that blinded.
The confined, burning with
instinct, moral symptoms retained through the crevaces of canyon brains.
We stood like stones, bold and weathered, the ground shaking its core from our
human disaster.
The spectral days faded into
false hope,
the old man’s groans told more in
his wrinkled message than
the preaching of
believing in
a way out of
broken souls.

His grey strands fell by his side,
a pile of years, each inch
a regret of fractured attempts to
correct the unpleasant
missteps.
His love lost long
ago, her smile like the wind that
painted tomes only he
could know. The beauty is gone, but to know is to never let go.

He told me his tales, sighs broke the momentary breaks,
the closing of his raisin lids,
a sadness or the pains of past
sins.
“You’re all that’s left
boy,”
A quiver, pointing with the top
of his head,
“don’t fret now, help this old fool
to his bed.”

Spreading his carcass along the cloth, my heart skipped three times
before his just
gave up.
His peace, staring at the ceiling beams.
“You’ve taught me so much old man, but different than you thought. The pain of living, the plague of remembering.”
My fingers traced his brushes,
sending his soul into the infinite.
I laid by his side,
and followed towards
the beginning.

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Organic Thoughts, Wide-Eyed Spasms

Falling Through

The hour of the minute
resets seconds into moments,
loyal minds into conscious
ornaments.
The gleam, it glints, a fully aware
trumepty pile of
self-realized crucifixions.

But I know no more than those
before the calm of storm in
doors of steel plated mouth gaurds.

No more,
no less a source of dramatic intelligence, more so an escape
to solace.
Drums have played my tune through the night waves.
Beating the slave I call I, named in regards to my siblings in the sky.

Don’t refuse the hand when it’s might is fast apporaching to the moment of comfortably trailing streams through your canvas of hair.
We need reassurance, constant
piercings of consumer convergence in our fine little minds.

Dreams dream of you, of I.
They fear when they wake.
Foreign paintings devoid of
a proctor’s mindless
ramblings.

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Organic Thoughts, Wide-Eyed Spasms

Slightest

Sensations drifting into
focus. Slowing visions
return an answer last seen
when you first asked
the question.

It’s never enough.
The battlefields, bombshelled.
Languishing amidst the
warfare,
a young man
weeps an ocean into his
Holy helmet, a new commitment.

Brothers
our sisters question our
brothers
question us.

Listen to the falling rocks escaping
the hollow crypts carved into the mountain face.
Regurgitation of
an exaggerated meal.
The devastation commencing becomes a gluttonous landfill.

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Organic Thoughts

I Remember Nothing

Negative positivity.
Shackling responses from
a lock molded without
a key.
Discharged, another
gash opened where my armor
should be.

I wore a cape once,
unscathed, unaware, unprepared
for the boiling vat rising to my
hanging legs
strapped by an agreement
signed by a loving
treason.

My soul won’t rest
until I return this hollow
feeling.

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Organic Thoughts

Drained

Body shock.
A sleeping stance and
mock compliance. Am
I awake? Is this more than
fake? A mirage pond
more like a puddle,
a rolling stone stuck in the
muddle.

It comes in waves. Crashing
soothes my pounding veins.
Living rivers, crying timbers. Summer sinners wearing
nothing but
cross eyes and
dying butterflies.

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