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It helps that she’s pretty. but it helps more if you aren't And really, who has seen the wind except under a microscope of black storm? Who is exposed, loneliest and pale for the explaining Who is opposed, homeliest and frail for the restraining. We get what we deserve who decides What lay ahead whose commentary's accepted swallow the stones, by the spoon, by the fist replace, politely, your bib to your tits Replace your snivel with the snail of your gentleman's Katmandu indefensibility concerned but not panicked running from bugs with a surplus of legs fuck you beardee three fingers of guilt I’m not drunk, I’m just disoriented. If my bones were made of iron this compass would have more than the moon to contend with. and I'd have a no need for directions. Getting lost would be bad habit and habits are those for which we are made well okay then Don’t lose out, just lose it the moss of consciousness was all around us. Don't rest on your sorrows. The next moment is now, now. No, no, don't rest. The next is the rest. Wilde played with sparrows. or did he? Everyone plays tricks Everybody wins Ask of the night, Invalid entries spoke to our future, selves dans toutes les langues I see it that way, too
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It helps that she’s pretty. It hurts that she's right. I can think of a a bawdy line next, but I think you want to keep it clean. It helps even more that she's also a robot. You can change the little words but appliances see with their skin. And that she's pretty helpful too. grotesque & macabre eccentricities revealed only after the vows but it's scanning her lines that I love Even if named Betty but what if she weren't? The frown has somewhere to hide. in candid wisdom and air The sun shining in her hair It helps that she's pretty If not, would be a terrible pity avoid death by advertisement this blossom, that anchor; take a seat. and if her teeth are straight If her kayak's curves are polished of their winter dust Although 'prettiness' is a construct So cynical and witty. It helps if she's right-handed, double-jointed, or even just unusually flexible. It all helps. If. but it helps more if you aren't In the way your father's fate needed help being sealed neither one is camouflaged be the satellite friend, orbit the divine pretty purdy petty yeti spag-- So much in demand And really, who has seen the wind except under a microscope of black storm? the use of interjections to establish authenticity is effective You can make a boat out of ocean if you are willing to drown in trees. sand in the eye, soap in the mouth wind rattles the windows the microscope loses its scope Who is exposed, loneliest and pale for the explaining And I replied, "Who has seen the stars except through a mist of pain?" she liked to believe that ghosts would explain themselves you stand there in your good shoes, lips squeezed free of blood pale exposed 'ulnerable. ility. Who is opposed, homeliest and frail for the restraining. you bring the oxblood leather cuffs, i'll bring the reinforced chain housed in her fragile skull, a new darkness Who learns own strength by the cracks that do not fracture and fall but find their use in their own movement. We get what we deserve cataclysmic gumbo and some of us deserve to be outsourced by sparrows it's the nerve that gets us pinched but not what we're worth, Input output a warm debris, a music box of calloused skin who decides brings a wall of mewling sharks and snivelling politicians weeping into their ontological oatmeal What lay ahead when this season ends whirlygigs, bad perfume, jaguars chasing after mad women wearing scarlet boaters who comes from a house on fire my head is the kind of lawn in which the divot maker rejoices whose commentary's accepted expect the unsuspected But whose tongue surrounds the stop sign swallow the stones, by the spoon, by the fist the Little Red Hen made soup from stones make an empty room to stack their teeth and snipped eyelashes or fill your pockets like Virginia Woolf and watch yourself sink. replace, politely, your bib to your tits Before this esteemed gathering lose their wits to hell with decorum & being well tucked in woefully lower - the ravages of gravity Replace your snivel with the snail of your gentleman's Katmandu indefensibility The stars snort beyond time or breath and all its soft-born shell, blue-ceilinged risk if the mucus won't come to Mohammed concerned but not panicked troubled but not distressed try not to be keen even in your emotions discerning but not CERNing, the insistence can't be turned off even knowing the naked eye with goosebumps of cararracts needs to be redressed, arctic thicknesses of magnitudes to see well enough be stripped back enough to be ready to perceive. cucumbered but not pickled To see my sister so manic running from bugs with a surplus of legs The spine considered as a secret, a cloud, a noodly song Kafka says we cannot be unbeetled. do you agree? legging it like eggs, every arrival in a Orkan transport promising sheer gloss and not a whit nor wit of protection, when I wrote my Master's Thesis fuck you beardee curses, Batman My taxes taxes are the taxes of my enemies, the birds or else worms three fingers of guilt Little cuts sting, big cuts ache, shedding more skin than before for every finger of scotch & a fistful of both I’m not drunk, I’m just disoriented. Which means I can't find Asia even with this pint-sized Columbus handshake fading in the sun like the concrete curb we crouch on If my bones were made of iron this compass would have more than the moon to contend with. the rust would mingle with the rest and you'd taste copper on your tongue But I navigate by starling, microwaved burritos and the mesmerizing scent of my stale heart I would be even less likely to fly, wings or no wings and RA with his knuckleball has resurrected me-- but I'm talking about how far the stars have to dig to feel grounded and I'd have a no need for directions. Getting lost would be bad habit no word for flâneur, we translate as to lose ourselves, the art of getting lost. to be errant. to err a sort of directional dyslexia. unlike Thoreau my feet aren't sure magnets pointing west. they spin some epileptic dances where each toes has its own ipod tracks. and habits are those for which we are made But you can fuck me sideways on Sunday. made of the Habs and the Leafs, the 20-year upstarts in the league, and the a-sportists, and the have-nots with their leases and pleases and thanks, and the haves who just as much own a cut of tax-owned tanks and the digital arms of the watershed laws. well okay then approving or sarcastic tone, you decide A zither? I thought it was bird sinew and regret. As I stood in the flood water placid and calm... Time wavered on edge-- so equal and raw... Don’t lose out, just lose it Wiggle the tooth into a new dimension the spider hangs loosely from the web If I had a shopping bag for every goose, I sell migration or the wind. the moss of consciousness was all around us. it had bark but no bite we picked it from our beards; we were left directionless we found no cereal and ate the moss for breakfast I slung the sky over my shoulder, and continued to waltz Don't rest on your sorrows. The next moment is now, now. No, no, don't rest. The next is the rest. a thought is a lichen when it drives a bus, but slowly Wilde played with sparrows. or did he? Everyone plays tricks Everybody wins Ask of the night, knowing what you know of its restless ways, the rabbit is quicker than the I yet still we remained unconsciousness, numbed, unfeeling to truth - like a rolling stone, too busy moving - to think. It said I love you, in sloppy cursive, next to a picture of boobs the snickering hammock wherein my doubts were slung: yes, my philosophy was a slug few blades of grass unaware of their difference forced their way through the mass its dark underbelly dank and damp tickled its velvet green surface Invalid entries spoke to our future, selves like children awaiting birth, our selves float in the tidal fluid dans toutes les langues the syllabled cry of who and what and why when the tongue is the moon, the stars glisten, the horizon gapes. No words can express the truth I see in your eyes I see it that way, too All your kaleidoscopes shall be rewarded said the sock to the well-worn shoe horn. (but please, say it with feeling) from the light it made upon its arrival, from its finally having arrived. alas Cardboard cut-out mayfly wings don't move. haunted by their friend O poetry you take my exquisite corpse and blind me to what others have said before;/ before my eyes the incorporeal toque which crowns in rust like sunset your acquisitive tour But I have eyes in the back of my head what is seeing, then but a yelp and a flinging out of arms but just for now. Just tell me how to do this. your balls are showing Hey we're writing a collaborative poem exquisite corpse-style.
Add a line to the comments section below. Spam welcome. Note that your line won't appear on the site until the end of the month when we publish the whole thing. Each day for the month of April, we'll put up a new line for you to respond to (which will be the last line we received the day before). We'll publish the whole thing at the end of the month on Rusty Blog. April 30, 2013 Line "I see it that way, too" Post your response in the comments section below. You won't see it but we'll add it to the poem. |
The Rusty Toque: Collaborative Poem
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