Here is the product of my betrayal:

The ceiling in your room
is nothing short of deception;
paper stars hanging like
bejewelled eyes, surveying
the complacency of flesh on flesh.
I take my baseball bat
to your cotton wool ears,
pummel the vanilla love
into a muddy mess of awakening:
I am not daily prone
to violence and vice
but In this I've found,
one knee less skinned.

09/30/2005

Author's Note: I feel the repetition of years sweeping over me. No new words, new meaning. Not even old words with new meaning. Just the same sentences and connotations as before, dripping with archaic pessimism, settling into my chest cavity and replacing brain cells. So I coined a phrase out of thin air and nothingness and fed it into a poetry generator. How harsh and cold, how detached from everything I believe about the written word and the art of creation. And I was left with nothing but a mess of words until I started to deconstruct and reconstruct life from the rubble. And it means nothing to me. Or nothing new. But I like the way the words roll of the tongue.

Posted on 09/30/2005
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