. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Saturday, October 23, 2010

The View From Under a Tree

Some things change completely when we look at them from another angle, if we are strong enough to get up and change that angle...

Some things,
Some things are things I do not know,
And here I am strangely still,
Shuffling in-between so softly supple tits I find myself
Alone and like a child again,
So near to a heart that is not my own,
Thin blood dangerously close to the end of my knife,
Spending so much time focusing on the blade’s tip
We never know just how much we’re worth,

She drummed her fingers along my summer-time window,

Laughed aloud and we drank till dawn,
The sun with its thick lips catching our tears as they fell,
One tiny mind growing into a peanut of conscious thought,
Captain Two-Week Old
Waltzing in the rain and unable to feel the same things I feel,
Never understanding just how much he’s worth.

I could beg you to come along,

Standing there trying on your clothes,
The night-time stars overpowered by a fragile world outside our window,
Lost to our imagination,
Corrupt canons decreed at the dawn of our days,
I could find work in the cracks of our wanderings,
Soft and like a rebel in a bank,
Like a free man having too much wine and leaning on the wall,
To be free,
To be free,
The life inside the tomb of your skin pushing itself to the limits,
And no one knows what it is,
To be completely insane,
No one knows what it is,
To be free.


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