poetry, Rantings, Uncategorized

4 am massacre

a verbose bird
typewriters outside my window
like a bell ringer who downloaded
too much cocaine

my cement legs
bolted-to-the-bed
refuse to muscle up the courage
to deal with this imbecile

instead my mind
fondles the delicious trigger
of a 12 gauge shotgun
because no pussy pistol
will justify this moment

“but wait…” says the brain
maybe marinade the base of
the tree with gasoline and happiness
the flicker of flame and
stench of smoke
will help him finish his argument
and muffle voices in my head

“let’s go for convenience”
retorts the devil in my dreams
breadcrumbs in a shopping bag
and the cheerful glisten
of a baseball bat
to bring an end to the
symphony this asshole started

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

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poetry

drifting

two warm bodies pulse
into the black night
two brains
shimmer in between veins
of streetlamps

tonight he straddles
the fuel tank
underneath its engine
gurgles and mutters
like an actor
lost in monologue

they pour onto the freeway
four eyes pump and ignite
with ecstasy
the road stretches
like a careful corpuscle
headlights and cabins of steel
shuttle past them

her arms are woven into him
he feels stronger when he rides – she says
they share a heart
they share the air
crawling through the arteries of their egos
and slowly it will coagulate
into the depths of their minds

when it’s over the purr of a heart
continues through chapters
of slumber
two chests rise and fall to
the rhythm of dreams

By Kalen Bloodstone

By Kalen Bloodstone (Click on the image to go to Kalen’s DeviantArt profile!)

PhilosopherPoet

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Thoughts

It tweets while you sleep

My eyelids were twitching. Not in the way when someone tells a lie. While I attempted to sleep the other night it felt like they were clicking along like a typewriter, recording the dreams. It was odd. I had something similar happen to me some years back. I’d listen to music almost constantly through out the day. At night in an attempt to calm my mind down, I would imagine a giant iPod in my head. I’d give this massive click wheel a spin, and whatever artist it landed on…I’d start playing through one of their songs in my head. I use to test myself to measure the accuracy. Perhaps there was a band I would be afraid of? Nope. Never a hesitation.

The other night I had clicking eyelids. I need to learn to manage information in smaller chunks. The eyelid culprit was Twitter. I’ve had a blog for a while, and explore other nooks and nuances on the web, but never this type of…uh…what do you call it? Micro-blogging I guess.

140 characters to say as much as you want, whenever you want, as often as you want. It’s endless, and because it’s all text-based any number of Internet URLs, pictures, YouTube videos, and so forth can be shared. Yes it’s my foot in the door of social networking, since I’ve been on a diet or sorts. (A while ago I cut all contact to social networks.) It gave me time to look and see how I promote myself.

Why the sudden revelation with twitter? I heard about this service in the early 2000s. I shrugged it off and thought, well it’s just like having a dedicated Facebook status site, right? Maybe, but I find comfort in the fact you have a certain amount of anonymity. You can post a tweet (140 characters to say something profound), and that’s it. There is no ‘like’ button. Hooray! You won’t find lazy urchins pressing one button to say you did a reasonable job, and then bugger off.

Maybe it’s because I write incessantly that this has grabbed me. However, I always like to find a meaning behind my online ramblings. Today I’ll leave you this pearl of wisdom. Set aside time for social networking. You won’t want to get the same twitching eyelid syndrome, it’s not fun. Plus, it scares the ghosts away.

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
poetry

visitors

his face is an alloy
he keeps his dreams
buried under the
enamel coat he wears
for unconscious
visitors

tonight is different
he writhes in the
stagnant sheets
with a hollow head
thoughts bounce
inside and echoes cascade
into archetypes holding
his stare and turning
the prayer shaped
hands into fists

only strangers can tame
a swollen psyche
it feels like a bruise
but heals under
a canter of laughter

hours will
tell you its time
to rest and let
the kernels of misery
climb out your spiderlike
hair

follow the purr
of the shadows where
the thrum of journal music
collects folds chuckles
whirls twitters and pours
into the pliant chamber
in his skull
tremors and calm
daggers evanesce
much like the tea
that wakes him

the soft milk
glides over
the soldier spoon
chemicals coalesce
his eyes newspaper
the events

the headlines rinse his thoughts
and stay as a reminder like
that gypsy laundry laughing
in the backyard

Standard
poetry

the nighttime singer

one pill
nothing.
except for the ether
fragrance rising and falling
between the pages of absence
caught in the blankets.
his head lies, his eyes
continue to swim in
the gyre of midnight.

two pills
flicker.
the curves of the ‘s’
fall off his tongue and
leave a spiral on the ceramic.
the morning will slobber
its honeyed tongue, and the
toast will jump
up and panic.

three pills
somber.
those voices sucked up their
cold hands. the shadows
buried the cuffs. because
the evening wears clothes,
clocks tick time, and tender
ghosts morph into my bones

tonight.
i hear the soft sounds of the
Nighttime Singer unfurling
the notes of slow chamber music
deep into my veins. my glued-focus
watches the slow dance of velvet
darkness hold me. She unties my
consciousness – still hanging on
with a white hand – and tells me
to rest, and let the liquid night
wash me and slowly evanesce.

PhilosopherPoet

P.S. – This poem originally appeared on this site: http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/PhilosopherPoet/556247/

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