bottledaux
Stronger, with sight
New, set, walking with relieved growl
Music in all hand movements, turns
The night waits, the day celebrated
Push on one side, pull another, but I
Don’t bother
Understanding can be expelled I guess
And maybe that’s the point
to stop decoding skies
and just let a pig waddle as it wants
to walk without apology
to snort without a sense of
to be that body trudging forward
because forward feels like truth
The conviction is interesting, but still sick.
Telling Candle
Yes, another
Why am I not shocked
The rain tells more
Instead a remedial
Repeat
It’s Autumn, my syllables
Invade your street
And me, completely freed
Oh I’m speaking, so contradiction
So happy to know a devil can listen
2025 =
If it stops, I live
I keep living, I live more
They drew it all wrong
Joke, comedy
Clowns and their
Sickness
No chalkboard with
This
Just obvious
Lines crossed, all t’s
Once there’s a response
Then there’s a freeze
Mouldwarp grimace
Deranged visits, but
Keep it complete, endless
Feature, show a juggle
Or another trick
Sign nowhere
Lost, direction dereliction
Easily seen, stuck
Laugh, why not I’m amused
Recycle regurgitate, ruin
Choosing Quiet
The Noise, not
anymore understood
Dunce run
Needing none
Boring and predictable
like a pun
Untitled
Comet space lost when
All hours, desk, rule, chalkboard
Thought I’d be taught more
No aim or direction but me with confession
Better than their crescent lesson
The kitchen once kept him
Tell the sky I need it
It’s there, drumming while
I read something to myself
New songs after the hour
Nothing too candied or sour
Just the honest octave of a quiet street,
lampposts leaning like old friends,
moon yawning into its silver coat,
and me note-hearted,, word-minded,
trying to out-run the echo of yesterday’s missteps.
The coffee cools, ink winks,
and the night forgives in small, invisible ways.
There’s a freight train of thought I never boarded,
so I walk instead—skipping soul, unhurried hands—
learning that every Beat is a page
and every page is a place I’ve already lived
but never fully seen.
Sing for the sky I need
need its whatever color, its bruise, warning, its whisper—
need it like unspoken incantation
from the place of a musician
finally willing to play.
No Time
No time,
no clock for the chameleons.
They slide through hearts like
bad jazz,
riffing kindness into currency,
polluted rulings,
eyes rehearsed,
mouths like matches—
they light what they never built.
I’ve seen them—
in confers with laughter,
behind the applause,
feeding on echoes,
calling it connection.
No time.
Just rhythm—
a syncopation of take and twist,
souls sold for smirks, and a check—
love bent into leverage.
They play sincerity
like a horn with no reed,
all breath,
no tone—
still somehow convincing.
But we—
we’ve learned the silence
between their beats,
the off-time claw,
the moment the mask nightmares
and the music is litter
and all that’s left
is noise pretending
to be song.
Stapled.
Distance Words Why
Exaggerate, conflate
Pontificate, erase
Does that make sense,
To anyone
Take a survey
No need but decision made
What should I do, stay still
Be tied to post
Blinders, don’t look
Make a sound,
Or even be
Unnecessary, just wait for another
From anywhere
Counsel counsel, book on how to
Scoundrel, value doubtful
So it’s a comedy, got it
Where is Lear, the Ado
No matter, no need for proof
……..
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