She had black lipstick stains on her cigarettes.
A broken doll with eyes like the abyss.
Two barcodes hanging on to both wrists.
She said wait right here your really going to love this.
She bit my neck, blood draining from her lips.
A pair of fish net tights stuffed into both slits.
Then she went down, and I went down.
She looked me in the eyes and said surprise.
I'm doubtful if you make it past the sunrise.
then she took my hand and lead to the dark slide.
Now I can't remember the sunrise.
she went down and I went down to hell.
Categories:
barcodes, dark, emo, evil, gothic,
Form: Ballad
Everyday we mimic the bar for instance the electric wire,
the ways, the road leading to the north, the road leading
to the west or east or south,
or sometimes the ropes and somehow their threads and
towers?,
and sometimes the cars themselves that travel away?,
and the vision of the swans and the movements of the
winds about the weather of the day?.
And sometimes monsters' dreams and eeries and zombies
and all sorts of clumsy witches.
And sometimes all what is neither blue nor barmaid
and barcodes providers and nightmares of let say
backyard bro bro bro....
Categories:
barcodes, inspirational,
Form: Free verse
Barry was a simple man
Who had a simple plan
He would be the greatest collector there has ever been
Of all outstanding Barcodes anyone would have seen
So he collected them from sun-up to sun-down
He was seen sniping these line patterns around the town
And his walls and ceilings were all covered
There was no Barcode that was undiscovered
But alas one day when hunting at the local tip
He fell in front of a bulldozer and that was the end of it
Some say it was a sad way to end for an avid collector
While others said he would be happy as a new wave instigator
For he was the human Barcode once the bulldozer ran over him
With the lines from the tracks on his body as a final fairy-tale whim
So Barry the Barcode collector can now be seen
The third Sunday of every month at the Barcode Bazaar looking extreme.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Categories:
barcodes, dedication,
Form: Ballad
At 21 I should be filled up with more than just questions
that go unasked and unanswered, I always hated thinking
of the things I'll never know because I never tried.
I'm rising up in some things, filling up the wine glass in my sleeve
with something expensive that overflowed the rim gallons back.
I'm just watching it go to waste, pooling around my toes
underneath the nails and riding up my ankles.
I'd drop to my hands and knees and lap it with my tongue
but my feet are dirty and I don't like alcohol.
"Here it is, just where you said it would be."
The road is where we find ourselves every morning,
every night, and all the time between. We spend
our time turning pages of books with barcodes
we'll leave behind in Bertrand, maybe keeping a few
of its meanings in mind. But that is hard because
our minds are ever elsewhere, the same elsewhere
though we tell ourselves it's different.
We're down the road under some lights that never burnout,
always shining bright atop the grass that never freezes when it snows,
a soft place to hold our dreams so that when they fall hard,
if they fall hard, at least they won't break.
Categories:
barcodes, allegory, introspection, life, time,
Form: Free verse