My current trend in writing is to treat it like bits of code. Debugging as time goes on (fixing spelling/grammarish issues).

Most of these poems will rest the way they are written, but given time and interest many will see a patches or 2 before it is over.


Catastrophe in Tomato minor

I filled the used tin can
  a pervious house for organic red crushed bodies
  a former sea of guts with tiny
urine yellow seeds as floating buoys

orifice open to receiving the
  scolding water,soap combo
shoved the shaven lid down,
forcing its lip beneath a protruding tooth on the other side
sealing the stench in, trying to boil the last
remains clinging to the white walls of its own throat

cleansing my garbage of barnacle debris, since
metal likes to be run back through the works
but things over time may ware down
in ways unspoken of, like
people get tired of being people or
of being tin cans, or aluminum foil or
what ever chemical, electrical things they might have been before

and maybe that is why the lid,
I had fastened shut so carefully
flew open and threw through the air
millions of tiny heated charged molecules of water
closer to steam. Splattered against my
pale face
gun fire from the
freedom march within the bowels, striking out to
my skin, warped like the yellow leather of a couch
under pressure of large braying asses, guts, seeds
hung tethered against my flesh

and I thought, is this poetry


Anonymous Anonymous said...

yeah it's poetry. Gettin slathered with tomato goo is about as deep as it getz. foggy day in the bay. bored at work gotta give a presentation to 25 people in about 15 minutes. Sheeeittt....


1:43 PM  

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