Microphone.

DW


I remember listening to words that blew
congested air; that spit like hot water into my
rigid, lined face. I listened to some man's fight
for freedom throughout the one coloured, rainbow
hands that joined for the revolution--they extended
to the back back's and open fields, with tribal wings
woven into their bodies like angels. I stood high before
them, and I saw that man and woman shrink to ants
and can'ts; The one's that cried little rivers and
sweat into their black and blue, heavy tailored suits because
they were comfortable, or confused.
Kings popped and rocked
countries and blew long tunes
in lean nights with tiny stars waving like
an ocean in dark skies. Rocks rolled, and
boom-bap sounds clicked and clacked following all
plethoras of puns that bang into the ocean like
a fist of God tsunami.
I listened to those good vibes and
'peace up' anecdotes against cherry-top, black armoured,
cain carrying soldiers.

I listened to them.

M-P

With the flavor
of open arms stuck to the tip of my tongue,
I exhale
a breath
of insanity...
and watch the world explode.
One beat left to kill.
There's an orange sunset
waiting for me
at the end
of a black and white rainbow...
and I've only just begun.
The sizzle,
frying dreams
and artful snapshots
falling desperately,
gracefully,
like fingers that forgot to fly from the ink
before it set,
to their ears.
I can only poke holes in reality,
but reality is left to poke holes
in my words.
I am a body full of sounds -
so let me sing myself.
Sing...

Wonder words and lustful metaphors
like a meta-physical rhapsody
of damaged dreams,
drizzling on darkened clouds -
everything is frustrated
and only beginning to live.
There is a greeness
in the cheeks
of forgetfulness,
but still we strive
to remember.
Let go,
slice it through the mesh,
spit it through the wire,
wriggle out of the flesh,
drop it from the rooftops
and blow it from what sweats,
just let...

let the world slip through your hands
and into gravity.
There is only so much saliva one tongue can chew
before it spits.
There are only so many letters one can write
before the ink sets.
Crackling expectations
and sultry whispers loaded from frozen thought -
there is reverbration,
and background noise,
and then -

silence.

I dropped it.