Poll: pourquoi est l'oiseau dans les toilettes?
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View poll results: pourquoi est l'oiseau dans les toilettes?
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Yeah... This took awhile, got caught up in stuff and haven't been active on here for some time. Here you go though, the finals of the (not so) Quicky Comp!


so now we sleep at parks.
drinking orange juice
stealing stars from skies.
drawing on sidewalks.
we eat at burger king,
running from tonight.
we sit at jupiter
spitting on a mirror.

"hand me another
glass of water
I just want to
leave the river
****ing dry
I want to
live enough
to die."

global warning,
nice age coming
time age coming.
must be warming
having a nice life
to toss under the couch


(naked on some tracks running down to a suicide barn with giant black horses
so cute, was a kid, took down six summers in loose-leaf notebooks,
played voice chords in the shadows, to any mirror i could get in front of.)
slept with beds of ivy and thorns, slept in days too cold to be numbing.

a trickle down to the behemoth of the Pacific,
birthed on the center of Mt. Hood, a great destiny:
watching a best friend maul my baby on the river bank.
under a waterfall's summer spray
they looked blind, ghostly, memory white, covered
by their hair, threads of tight bandages,
protecting them from bleeding. started running, hit the ground,
my feet devouring the path's old growth roots
like a Steppenwolf gorging himself on suffering.
took it down to the phrase whisper on the wind; down to the naked, broken
under a train screaming (I don’t remember what) in the background.

“a great destiny. we were born in a young thing
who shook too hard.”
we’ve been tripping over old hands of old gods, again.
to get to this this point. to this point.”, drowned out echo.

followed the side trails, darker better.
drove my feet far after they fainted,
dark soles down under my legs.
drove my throat to some more screaming
and birds flew away.
told my life away to a juniper with three hopeful words.
it wasn’t cold enough to be numbing and there was no response,
took my hand and nailed it to the tree
then took it out and walked back to the cabin,
leaving only footprints and a few bandage wrappers.
a snowfall light in a new womb.


She's been cut from the cloth
of one life that's been littered
with insolence and second glances,
and another that shadowed by
slack shoulders and
crackjaw antics.
Mother loves to put up borders,
father loves to grind his teeth.
Brother is always the exception
getting everything he needs.

In her neo-suburban fantasy
she's sold her own ashes
for better company, a tighter bind,
red shirts and a new place
to lose sleep.
By her third excuse
I'm counting my losses,
licking my wounds and
planning the next fix.

I guess that explains
how she can extend best wishes
and ignore my presence
both at the same time.