Chromatic ticks, taking control of all interior.
How is it we follow suit, red, black, red, black,
Knowingly folding our cards,
Eager to present nothing.
Doing as does be said, and as dominoes do,
Falling simultaneously to the clap of our own humanity.
Orderation and osculation of the soul beginning at birth,
How is it we tolerate these utterances of being heard?
Only the purest of men source soul from soul, from dirt and tear.
.
Rain drops hold the secrets,
Then splatter to the ground.
The Secrets soak inside,
Where they're not disturbed or found.
The ground is a safe haven,
For these abandoned mysteries.
And still the world fails to notice,
Like waking past the blowing trees.
These people hide with passion,
Like they'd die if it was free.
But secrets will consume,
They won't know which of them to be.
But the rain holds some salvation,
Holds the proverbial aid.
And It masks all our secrets,
All the mistakes we have made.
Everyone has a secret,
That they hope goes down the drain.
But secrets never go away,
They just hide until it rains.
Then splatter to the ground.
The Secrets soak inside,
Where they're not disturbed or found.
The ground is a safe haven,
For these abandoned mysteries.
And still the world fails to notice,
Like waking past the blowing trees.
These people hide with passion,
Like they'd die if it was free.
But secrets will consume,
They won't know which of them to be.
But the rain holds some salvation,
Holds the proverbial aid.
And It masks all our secrets,
All the mistakes we have made.
Everyone has a secret,
That they hope goes down the drain.
But secrets never go away,
They just hide until it rains.
The Trial of an Average Man
An origin of a milkman
Of destiny, delivered right to the front door
In dimensional hermetic glass,
Doomsday on the floor - the word of Plath.
The morning paper clocked the headline hour
The negatives cancelling one another out,
You drank your coffee like original sin,
It somehow created positivity.
Created a sort of mundane creativity.
Of destiny, delivered right to the front door
In dimensional hermetic glass,
Doomsday on the floor - the word of Plath.
The morning paper clocked the headline hour
The negatives cancelling one another out,
You drank your coffee like original sin,
It somehow created positivity.
Created a sort of mundane creativity.
Political Journalism - Who knew?
The political machine.
The inanimate come to life.
The conventional flag wave.
Cormorants on pitched roofs watch the ship of state mandate folded twice over. This coming one-two march through a landscape. The dark relative against the brilliance of the last act of some staged production. The cast bows. A tape player click, click, clicks. Some kind of clock. A unit of measurement.
What in the picture would you get rid of?
The land that stretches back to prehistoric times?
Icecaps and etcetera?
The atmosphere?
The human body?
All of the above?
All but the latter? You’d like to keep human as an aspect of the formula but rid it of its grappling ambition to destroy? Good luck with that.
What does it mean to have a point of view? What does it mean to have a notable achievement? To succeed in representing the nuances of a determinate activity? Listen: however events turn out, if we want to we can continue to see the moon as an outburst of lyric, a vision of John Keats and his friends, but still we have the battle to fight.
Long after we are gone we can say we were here. We were working, wittingly or not, towards the eventual erosion of places ground down and fought over, especially in the literal sense — exploitation and industrial damage.
There will be that unsullied moment, down to the last detail, when the acquired interview and other quaint signs of demise will speak about us to the flood and the fire.
Election day is like no other.
The inanimate come to life.
The conventional flag wave.
Cormorants on pitched roofs watch the ship of state mandate folded twice over. This coming one-two march through a landscape. The dark relative against the brilliance of the last act of some staged production. The cast bows. A tape player click, click, clicks. Some kind of clock. A unit of measurement.
What in the picture would you get rid of?
The land that stretches back to prehistoric times?
Icecaps and etcetera?
The atmosphere?
The human body?
All of the above?
All but the latter? You’d like to keep human as an aspect of the formula but rid it of its grappling ambition to destroy? Good luck with that.
What does it mean to have a point of view? What does it mean to have a notable achievement? To succeed in representing the nuances of a determinate activity? Listen: however events turn out, if we want to we can continue to see the moon as an outburst of lyric, a vision of John Keats and his friends, but still we have the battle to fight.
Long after we are gone we can say we were here. We were working, wittingly or not, towards the eventual erosion of places ground down and fought over, especially in the literal sense — exploitation and industrial damage.
There will be that unsullied moment, down to the last detail, when the acquired interview and other quaint signs of demise will speak about us to the flood and the fire.
Election day is like no other.
The beautiful art of Earth's chaos at 12am
In Nova Scotia, Canadian's are hitting the snooze button for the second time.
In Shanghai, the Chinese are enjoying a spiced meal, around the Hsiung.
In Lahore, the Pakistanis are commuting hundreds of miles away, just to earn a living.
In Milton Keyes, the English are ready for the weekend - and it's only 3pm Tuesday.
In Cairo, Egpytians are breaking for high noon lunch at school.
In Toa Payoh, Singaporeans are catching the metro home, stopping at various newtowns.
In Phoenix, two Americans are making love under the stars.
In Auckland, one New Zealander is watching an entire world pass by in a day.
At 12am.
In Shanghai, the Chinese are enjoying a spiced meal, around the Hsiung.
In Lahore, the Pakistanis are commuting hundreds of miles away, just to earn a living.
In Milton Keyes, the English are ready for the weekend - and it's only 3pm Tuesday.
In Cairo, Egpytians are breaking for high noon lunch at school.
In Toa Payoh, Singaporeans are catching the metro home, stopping at various newtowns.
In Phoenix, two Americans are making love under the stars.
In Auckland, one New Zealander is watching an entire world pass by in a day.
At 12am.
New Love
NEW LOVE is like summertime, sequential and warm,
But NEW LOVE is autumn, superficial, forlorn.
NEW LOVE as a notion, sickly patronizing,
And NEW LOVE emotions, fearing, surprising.
That lump in your throat, sits NEW LOVES itch,
NEW LOVE causes blinding, who'd want to switch.
New love is a jewel, nor silver or gold,
Don't undermine NEW LOVEs power, the puppetry, the hold.
KM
But NEW LOVE is autumn, superficial, forlorn.
NEW LOVE as a notion, sickly patronizing,
And NEW LOVE emotions, fearing, surprising.
That lump in your throat, sits NEW LOVES itch,
NEW LOVE causes blinding, who'd want to switch.
New love is a jewel, nor silver or gold,
Don't undermine NEW LOVEs power, the puppetry, the hold.
KM
Shes a Fascinator
Through the crosses beams light, natural this time.
Through beautifully coated lashes, she peers up, the gauze over her head deciding which rays to blind.
Through crystallized goblets champagne flows freely, stakes raised as high as high fashion hair-dos are plastered.
She makes her way through the room, her grace transfixing men by the second. No man is immune to her scent, her presence.
Shes a masterpiece.
Through a fence of lace she befriends all, a flicker of her ruby red smile freezes all.
Through flowers propped upon her head stay perked, the veil underneath not squashed, but cosy.
Shes a fascinator.
KM
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