Lo, a tint Cashmere! / Lo, a Rose!
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ~Emily Dickinson
I have seen my preceding generation sell Tweets.
Make art. Not war. Make poetry. Money.
put it in a blender, shit on it, vomit on it, eat it, give birth to it.
Fear death of poesie by distractions.
Is that you fear the Internet?
Huge floral prints on bedsheet, in aquamarine, et cetera, most exquisite.
Exercise love poems every two weeks.
to do bullet • iambic pentameter
no masturbating more than ur body could hold
the pain & the ecstasy //
ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ// semen & the sonnet
:holy tetrach.
Here’s Keats, buried under water; corals for his headstone.
tiny tattoos of the four archangels on the fingers; Satan’s on the thumb.
Dead God, corpse-less. ㅤ Shakespeare.
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤAshbery.
‘t is Greek to me ‘t is God to me
Ariana Grande comes to mind …this not a beat poem
daDUM.. daDUM.. daDUM.. daDUM
this is, by the way, how you catch one.
|an iamb|ㅤ |tone deaf ears|ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ |✅ i’m not a robot|
A meter long black thread brought from a local shop:
some tied around the neck as taweez
the rest tied down a lower angel’s ethereal wings in a gordian knot.
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ Yeats, as in rhyme with bait(s)
what would you with it catch this continental?
swear to the dead God, this one exhausted me to sleep.
Now then, Muses ye,
g’night sweet ladies g’night g’night g’night g’night
notes:
- 3rd line from a Lady Gaga praise.
