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W. Hunt Poem
water weeps wildly
whilst washing away your
jesting foolery.
I saw the sun annihilated
Against backdrops of liturgy
Lethargic activity that earns
It’s title as the Earth’s endearing child
Against backdrops of monogamy,
Pedestrian thinking,
Accelerated usage,
Lapping up mentalities from bowls of pulled poultry,
Doing nothing for the Universe, Yet stealing all unities,
Dissention and green lights and babies birthed and apostrophes in time,
Influencing the way we work on thinking of ourselves as HUMANS, As people, not things.
Growths, from children to adults, the contortion of time, the peeling of fate, the sweet sugar coating like a scab on your life,
Bleeding out of your heart and seeing out of your eyes and feeling through your brain and feeling through your synapses.
Here are the producers of the broad way show of assimilation
Here are the problems, Here are the irregularities with the hole in the boat, But don’t worry everything is now under…
Black as a burn on white , yellow as a can of
Cream, not yellow at all.
Not nothing but irregularities we perceive as
Potential ingredients in life.
But in greed, is what we are, in need
Not so much, Thinking SO outside
Of the box, that the box has grown
Legs and walked away and has grown
A full beard and a full head of ideals.
And we are trapped outside of this fully
Matured matron of mystic answers.
And we are pleading to God to be let
back in...
But you know something, GOD IS IN THAT BOX TOO.
And you know something else, inside all of us
Is a little box opening when
It's ready to breed a plague of
Insatiable urges.
A quest for self.
A journey through self.
Black and blue benches where a man sits,
Breathing, he breathed.
Waiting for his anti-matter mother to annihilate him,
But less than he believes because anti-matter
Kills not what it touches, But what it needs to
Kill itself.
A piano, might be boxy and Brute-Like
But might mean more than piano
To you.
It might mean the 'end is nigh'
For music is the sound we hear to
feel forsworn,
to feel filthy inside of ourselves.
GOOD, GOOD
But remember, the Doctor is here
And he is watching from inside
The box, and he's sitting over a cup of tea,
With GOD,
In that BOX
Copyright © W. Hunt | Year Posted 2014
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Details |
W. Hunt Poem
Apostrophe in time. Mixes twenty foot differences between mice and men. They all fail. But the failure is only a thought a big lie. The fun now is the brow of the valley under Universal,
stars is the quiver of virgin blossoms. Untold tales of taxidermy of humans. Oh Morton, what happened?
I see you swimming, sorrow sucking you through to the stacks of a library in Dante’s Inferno.
No place to be for a man of you great disposition, interpretations of a fourth dimension.
Four inceptions of Christ. Fourth inception of the days of anguish.
Languish in language and learn to learn before learning obsolete standards learn to kill you.
Linguistic suicide imbedded in society.social leapfrogs.
Obnoxious butterflies LEARN. Morton where? Are you? Who is? I want, no,
I yearn for justice days of pleasure, of bountiful journeys to distant mind sets.
Eating jollity, consuming foreign fingers to be intoxicated with race and jest.
Just cause is NOT enough. Powdered power, outage of time. A pill of sensitivity.
Now SHE blooms, like England, like death, time, ANYTHING.
She leaves earth including me and I fall into this pit, this chamber of blame, insolence and filth.
Perturbed, perturbed, perturbed to the enth degree.
her, her, this love, this life, this Christmas eve is playful.
Playful of POWER. “it is NOT YOUR FAULT.”
Is what I tell her. I tell her listen, listen, listen, listen, listen to, not me.
But any authority that is NOT. Write down books and books of blasphemy, blasphemy.
Any authority that is NOT. Yes. Not.
Copyright © W. Hunt | Year Posted 2014
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Details |
W. Hunt Poem
If I were to compare thy thoughts with mine,
Success would be barely obtained by me,
For you have made me feel this way inside,
My mind is tormented by thy beauty.
Where goest now? Deeper into my heart?
By tormenting, thou hath made my eyes wide,
By tormenting, thou hath play'd out thine part,
The stars have an answer that I've denied.
From pain, from constellations in thine eyes,
Thou stays within the skies, but denies them.
I give myself, so now with thou I lie,
Pity me! For I hath now been condemned.
To love, But I love thou eternally,
Eternally, thy love hath set me free.
Copyright © W. Hunt | Year Posted 2014
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