I look to my chicken for entertainment. It's always the same, and yet in the moment. Grasses' good, grains' better. She doesn't discriminate for there's an egg to be made.
Category: poem
I want to lick a squirrel’s butt.
I want to lick the squirrel's butt. Follow the flickering tail to the acorn stash. It's perky like a kids' lunchbox, stealing food like it's the best kept secret. Rousing turf war, no friends nor enemies. Ok, you can linger since you're this year's kid. Next time you better be ready for a chase. Oh, they're gone, I wonder how a squirrel tastes?
Spring.
I watch the spring through fisheye lenses. What I see triggers reaction from the other end which it processes duly like any excrements leaving behind some vague memory of experience. Strange that I've never compelled to be in it. Tried all my might to shorten the distance. Body gives feedback of pleasant sensations plus pain. I ask myself again what drug am I not taking?
Between death dates.
I'm closer to Y's death date than X's death date. Wonder if I will beat Betty White's record. It's too late to flame out in a glaze of vomit. Just hoping I don't out last my bank balance. As long as my death date's later than my parents', and there's no new birth date to be remembered. No worries if other generations fall off the calendar. No strings attached I can roam free of charges.
No one.
Never been comfortable being alive. Always thought it's at the cost of some one. I think that I might be that some one. I want to be any one but that some one.
Mistakes.
Waiting so long playing it safe, now watch me as I make all the mistakes. I don't think I care any more, what others say, who's gonna pay. It's high time, don't you think? To make all the silly mistakes. One, two, three, this is where it stands: all the drudging that's part of the plan. But no more 2nd guessing, just let it play the hand. Tell me now is this how it's gonna end?
If by your own consciousness you were deceived.
If by your own consciousness you were deceived, don't be shocked, don't be in denial! In the days of grief, be wild: depression comes & goes (who am I kidding?). The brain is made to entertain: the past is always rosier than the premium channels; but those who pay, will be dearer.
Morning.
Morning haze, golden light on chicken feathers. Golden fleece, anointed living, another day for chirping birds.
Running.
It's a wild hunt, I am the prey. Moments of my life flash like a dream. The beauties I see give me reason to flee. One more step, then I can breath. I hear the shouting ferocious & near. For a second I thought, what do I have to fear? But my legs won't slow, my heart hums so smooth. It's comically natural when I'm running from you.
V.
Life runs on love. I ran out long ago. Now I run on fumes, a trail of black smoke. Desparate for shelter to lick my wounds. The scent of weakness attracts hungry wolves. Finding in myself that last piece of coal. Don't tell me now, how the story goes?
hotsurf_ 