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The Way the World is Spent.

by Eli Skipp


The vast behavior of cages,
Rather,
I am lost in copious belief.
The way that house paint smells, it borders on pure memory.
Tomorrow is a day for relief and a day for excitement
For sweet reunions
I suppose.

Meet short skirts and rosaries,
They go hand-in-hand.
Art these days has been reduced to line-work and free interpretation,
The least of my laments.

Rather,
This supposed liquor,
This Bacchus and stage-two sleep,
It happens to be fucking with my head.
With the state of my spine.
With the brittleness of my fingernails,
It all has something to do with.

I seem to be the wasting world and incremental swine,
I seem to be excessive adjectives.
All morning I fidget in my seat under the judging gaze of strangers,
Feeling pure noise and never knowing where to set my eyes.

My mouth tastes like the metallic decay of scar-tissue.
Who invented this horrible thing?
Advances in technology and medical science have done me no good at all.
I want this ignorant pain.
I want this unspeakable beauty forever.

Rather, I have been caught unawares.

03/27/2006

Posted on 03/27/2006
Copyright © 2024 Eli Skipp

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by H.M Stevens on 03/28/06 at 01:40 AM

This poem, in parts reads like a song...the end is smooth and hit with real force. Really great read. Thanks

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