benjamism

Ode
I always imagined blooming to be quite

quick - specific to an eclipse...

finding waffles burning...

while your mind was gone on tangents of

International Blue.

A burning plastic,

the color of a stinging throat,

reflects a closet of

impending stagnant prisms in the

back where it's dark - still a bite

plucks a chord like lipstick

ever defined.

Something of curiosity, or a purple dancing

on peaches - at last parts the

lips of yesterdays dryest dreams!

where fingers touch the sillyness of

inertia.


What is beauty without vulnerability?

Constantly waiting, not fearing some

wild animal, or dumb asshole to stick

his knife in you.

I can only lament,

and lament,

the boundaries of of your

yellow weary

when it wearies way

back to the beginning

where the whip cracks

and silence awakes -

and noise

is only self consciousness,

just as sometimes you notice

that the music was playing

only as the record

fizzles at its end.

Beads magnetized towards the sky fall

in my own outward

direction,

as you're not fighting age

you're taking it with you, to a dusty

corner for tea, sausage, and the

flashes of light on the legs of

the table.


You sit holding hands -

contemplating the weather,

waiting for news broadcasts of rain-

It's rain that stings old-fashioned glee

through brass conductors to

commense with spirits on the

television screen!


(a long quiet pause)


So many voices that seep in through

the holes of the web...


(pause)

at the shoreline,

blink

whenever you feel

it's

necessary.