“…he paced about the bricks with / empty glasses…”

A piece that transports and transforms. From the Archives, missed but now found in a Wormhole, this one needs to be sat with, allowed to burn like a glowing ember within the mind and heart of the reader, it illuminates and mystifies, mythologizes and moves and moves and moves.
Do go and “View The Original,” but be wary of these Wormholes. They are addictive. You will lose yourself. And you will be happier for it.

mlewisredford

“Wehrmut” by Cluster & Eno, from the album ‘Cluster & Eno’ (1977)

“…he paced about the bricks with
empty glasses…”

you could see the dust around his
shining car
driving into the desert

(he was driving through water he was
going away
he was drowning).

In the rooftop restaurant
I could barely see his eyes under
the reflection of building and sky

(on the street we
walked past the deep-blue sky poster
for cigarettes)

when he walked
the air rippled through his head
like worms, he said,

“…I felt the clear emotion
of the sky
I…”

“…crumpled inside
felt like wallowing yellow
like ribbed yellow…”

“…in my chest in
whapple, lapple, lapping, lopping…”
he laughed, dead serious.

He told me once
he smiled on the beach, the puddles
smarted his eyes

cut them:
real yellow tears
real yellow tears
real yellow tears

^{————w}(O)_{rmholes________________________________|—–}

beach wormhole: the…

View original post 54 more words

Only One Story

An absolutely phenomenal piece by a phenomenal poet.
Natalie deserves your rapt attention.
If, at her age, I had possessed half the talent and a quarter of the wisdom that this young lady does, I would have possessed more of both than I do now….

mywordpool

I’m returning to this scene like a dog

limping its way home after

being left by the highway,

look, here it comes:

the burning rooftop,

a gun in your mouth,

and the whole world

a shouting distance

from nothing at all.

This is how I like my heroes,

in the dark, locked out of

every house on the street,

broken six ways to Sunday,

this is how I like my tragedy.

This is how I like my love,

green and oozing,

that gets under your skin

and leaves someone dead

by the end of it, this is

how I like my romance.

We always end up here:

here on the asphalt,

here on the black and the dirt

where children used to

run in circles, where nothing

has changed and we’re still

children and we’re still running,

this is how I like my reminders.

Bring me back to this, always:

View original post 220 more words

Wednesday Witty-schism. 6/4/14

My mind's continuing verbal wars with itself.

“I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t like you any more.  It’s just that I never really liked you to begin with and now, I’m having a hard time hiding it.“