Static
love doesnt live here anymore.
It stuck to your heel as i watched it follow you through the door.
i dont feel alone. your ghost is still here. your memory is still here. your name is on the walls and
in my skin.
orchestras played by thunder and static, everything is an emotionless monochromatic.
the last living resident passed long ago before the century turned.
his last moments he tossed, turned. screamed. burned.
Windows to and old white house.
now jagged doorways to an unholy cell.
On the floor sits a crucifix carved into a knife.
Next to a pretty white blouse.
a damp and abandoned existential hell.
have you ever reached into a mirror and feared you wouldnt want to leave?
are you addicted to the way your blood tasted
are you scared of what your mind can percieve?
do you fear what you've wasted?
charred remains of memories once held dear
dancing away in the wind
sprinkled into the atmoshpere.
i have existed before time,
waiting here. it is my weapon.
my tool. my sin. my rule.
roaming this desolate graveyard.
its king, its guard.
plagued with death. the air filled with blood and chlorine.
ashes and kerosene.
This place i describe to you, this poem scratched into its walls, a dead monochromatic, a dark
room, its only entrance is an attack on my sanity, my own dysphoric
reflection. his eyes a portal to a vacant temple of stone.
this place is called the static.
Coma
transient drops of cotton suspended in air,
drifting back and forth, as if being directed by an ethereal composer.
fractals, auroras
nebulas and quasars
forming into a whole, than detonating again in a massive array of scintillating luminosity.
the untamed vitality of the supernova,
vivid igneous arms converging with every corner of whats to happen and what has already
happened, the down-tempo replay
coruscating behind my eyes.
Astria, ambassador of the utopian golden age, sketching the sky before me,
drums incircling me, syncing every last beat to my pounding heart.
engulfed in flames but never burning,
the copper key, belonging to the tomb of the king.
My spine is cold. Wandering aimlessly,
My brain a door to stories untold.
My last breaths leaving me painlessly.
-400 degrees farenheit, comatose
the only thing between the buried and me is a dim ray of moonlight.
I wish that i could tell you i was down to earth but as youve heard in these words my head
couldnt be farther away from the world.
I awake in a cold sweat. I look around and im still here.
Im not dead yet, im still in the mirror.
my visons fuzzy, my clothes are messy, my feet still hurt, my face still covered in dirt.
i guess im still here for a while, three cheers for planet earth.
Savage
before i was ten, i watched my family bury men.
was natural causes to blame, not likely.
my people dead nightly,
you only care if its pricey,
once high and mighty, held highly, lead precisley, obituararies reading my last name are hard
blows to my psyche,
i apoligize if this poem isnt even slightly delightful,
where do I start?
If it sounds too crazy
Then I'm lying
If it's abstract
Then it's art
If I don't say it poetic
I'm ignorant
If I do
I'm not convincing,
And I could've said it with metaphors
But this way you understand it, Goddammit!
three dead two wounded, is it wrong, is this a crime?
i guess not! its just a man on the crow reservation being taught a fucking lesson!
id like to say no to racism held against me
sadly enough i just sometimes have to agree.
the "savages" cant keep their homes nice.
the "savages" will kill eachother for enough drugs to suffice.
they all struggle financially,
exposing children to meth, fucking stains on humanity,
did that piss you off?
too bad it just described half of my family.
Michael Birdinground. Just letting people see the world through his eyes.
