doomedspork - Tumblr blog

doomedspork · 11 months

Text

My Daughter

Wrote this a couple of days after my baby was born. Was fucking intense- my partner had pre-eclampsia and they had to do an emergency C section. Still don’t think I’ve wrapped my head around it, let alone her.

Tiny baby born in the apocalypse,

We tried to keep you at bay, just three more weeks,

But you take after both of us,

And you're stubborn as fuck

We broke your mother's waters on the hottest day of the year,

Spent the nights sheltered in pink curtains,

Wishing the blistering sun wouldn't break through,

Craving the safety of our barrier,

To keep out one patrolling midwife

We huddle together for comfort,

Though our bodies are divided by furniture

We filled this room with love,

And smiles behind masked faces

I listen to your heartbeat in our makeshift womb,

We feel safe and timeless behind our barrier,

The curtains closed from the sweltering heat,

Awake at all hours,

Strapped to machines,

Probed and prodded,

Then alone together

Waiting for freedom day

The two of us entangled and tortured

By silence and noise in equal measure

The deafening emptiness of a deserted room,

Once filled with doctors and sirens,

Left with only a weeping and confused man,

Those few seconds stretched on for eternity and oh I wish I could break free from their stranglehold

The chill in our bones,

Your mother's body and mine raptured with adrenaline,

Shaking in tandem,

Wet faces and wild eyes,

Scared apes in human clothing,

A cooling sensation in the thoraxic spine,

Her stomach an open book,

Blood, bile and words splattered on the pages of the plan,

Vicera and vomit,

Broken consent and orderly panic

A pull and a hand and faces and calm and strong and quick and comfort and push and words we don't fucking understand and a scream but it's not coming from either of us

I hand my phone to a nurse and she takes some photos of a baby embalmed in red and white

I walk and stand and hold her and hope she doesn't feel my panic

#pre-eclampsia #C-section #Childbirth #Baby #poetry #poem #creative writing #stories

1 note · View note

doomedspork · 11 months

Text

Nostalgia Bites

Incandescent,

That was the word I'd use

A lamp's afterglow searing through my corneas,

Hate's birth left dichotomies cleared,

From skinned knees to socialism,

To useless utilitarianism,

Whoever you were, you were bright,

Fire imagery moistened at the slightest slight,

Insurrection against the right was right,

Shite in a fight but you'd bleed in the night,

The scent of the incandescent stymied by blood,

Knotted sinuses struggle with lines,

The world is as it is, but it isn't fine...

All my friends are smoke and mirrors,

Some are smouldering, some are thinner,

Forged in reflections, born from glimmers

Of aspiration, burned by hesitation,

Between pregnancies and hypocrisies,

We walk the line between smoking and drowning,

Between hard drugs and crowning,

Created between the gaps in phone wires,

Toy soldiers and communal prayers

Toast shaped holes in video players

Punches and kicks, stones and sticks

Our dreams slot together like lego bricks

So what room is there for hate in a world like this,

Who can I shout about when I'm pissed?

Lips transfixed, puckering from arses kissed,

Gritted teeth, take a knee,

Is life so bright that I can't see,

The hate suffocate the air you breathe,

Contort my soul as you seethe,

You were the phoenix born of the ash,

God of fear, good times and trash,

Anarchic glee,

Occasionally friendly,

Someone else,

Definitely not me,

Bizarre,

That is the word I'd use,

The more often I think I'm right,

The more often I'm wrong

From platonic spooning to neural pruning,

Dualism to pluralism,

0800 reverse this schism

Somehow always trying to run,

Fearful of strangers, fuelled by rum,

Cannibalised compassion courses through cauterised cuts,

Capitalist couture adorns the ruts

We find ourselves in,

Who am I?

WHO AM I?

Burning questions sear your skin like sand

Grand narratives and 12 grand,

Vinyl crackle comes cash in hand,

Identifying my identity with cocaine and clothing,

Drifting out to sea, seeing what hope brings, bringing the boat in, treading water and floating,

Just floating...

The needle jumps,

Your hair stands on edge like television static

Hope inserted between automatic

Thoughts, your hands aren't idle

This isn't a downward spiral,

It's an upward climb,

Don't slip or I'll fall,

Don't sleep or you'll stall

Combustion engines inside your heart,

Ignite and finally fucking start,

No retreat,

Don't forget to eat,

Carrots and creatine,

Smiles cast in neoprene

Gym and chagrin,

Money and Manuka honey,

Self-aware skin care,

Bolstered blackhead treatment and damn good hair,

All my friend's have crooked smiles,

Talking points structured around meanwhiles,

Bags seated in the aisles,

Finally fear and freedom unite in 'free choice',

Decisions made by a silent voice,

Conscience bendings and unsatisfactory endings,

Every choice that was ever made for you,

Every moment binding your soul, glued

Every smile, look, glance, fuck,

I do, do you?

Dealt cards, broken hearts,

Value-free irony,

Slowly softly whispers to me,

Just fuck off and let it be.

#Poetry #Poem #fuck capitalism #spoken word #creative writing #stories #rum #philosophy #spork

1 note · View note

doomedspork · 11 months

Text

Tailor

The man who mends armour has none for himself,

His sword is his tape measure and proximity

Into the den of wolves he delves,

Yet for all his moral fluidity

And the conscience upon the shelves,

He finds some incongruity

He helps those who need no help themselves,

Nagging as a tapeworm,

As the formation of an endoderm,

A concept or idea,

A notebook laced with fear,

Measurements are taken

Of his own hand,

And the invisible hand,

He does not own the numbers he inscribes.

He does not own the pills that his doctor prescribes,

He does not own the tremor

That will put him out to pasture,

For utopia he could endevor

As the future progresses faster

Oh his irrelevance never

ceases to cast a

Shadow on his mind,

But he can never seem to find

A deeper meaning,

In the death he finds

In his client's eyes

Their vacuous confusion

To a tool that speaks,

Suffering under delusion,

He questions if he breathes,

He wonders if he's resting,

Underground and under wreaths,

If there were a time for denial

It'd be in purgatory,

To explain the loathsome bile,

His television speaks,

The devils in their suits and ties,

And the monsters in the streets,

Their tongues serating all that pass,

And feasting on the weak,

Oh to explain the void in the eyes,

Of those with conscience on their sleeves,

Pride is in the label he provides,

Gluttony in the price,

The smiles of the client,

With dollar bills in their eyes,

And a pocket full of lies,

Of course he can keep the tip,

Marked with Churchill's genocide,

Or if he's lucky, Adam Smith,

And the violence he supplied,

Though he's a hero in his own right,

How many have died,

For the conquest of money,

And the blood that marks the eye,

Oil, money, power,

Domination, segregation, now a

Mention to all the orders,

And all the wars supported,

All the propositions put forward,

That hurt those born without right,

Or urge for conquest or for might,

Given a goal from a mile away,

To support thier opportunity or throw it away,

For every hope of something better,

For those that hurt and those that bore it,

For those damaged but who endorsed it,

For those with apathetic smiles,

And those who's words drip with denial,

Oh the inequality he sees,

The rigged meritocracy it breeds,

The cloaks he makes sow the seeds,

Of tyranny and usury,

Of apathy and greed,

For all the suits the tailor makes,

He is where he should be,

If the world is unjustifiable,

And pain undeniable,

Is this not hell he sees?

Is this not the hell he makes and feeds?

Snipping off another hem,

He finds it is cut short again,

He takes the change and gives a grin,

Filled with overwhelming belonging.

#poem #anti-capitalist #poetry #stories #creative writing #spoken word #free style

1 note · View note

doomedspork · 11 months

Text

Goodbye Friend

Wrote this about 6 months after my ex got kicked out of the country. Never actually sent her this poem, and I’m assuming she isn’t following this anonymous poetry blog. Guess it just stays between me and all you delightful strangers.

I guess when I last saw you, I wasn't prepared to say goodbye,

I'd tell people I'd never see you again,

But I didn't believe it.

When the time came to greive, it

Seemed too far away,

Everywhere I stay,

Is somewhere far away from home,

Truth is I'm alone,

But I didn't feel alone

Your smile still keeps me warm,

When others make me shudder,

Your laugh is an echo,

And I'm a refraction,

Different to different people,

We tear or we fold

We half or stay whole,

There is a hole,

Where my heart should be,

It beats to drum and bass,

Visions fuse but don't replace,

The glass in my phone,

That I want to smash to reach you

Memories fade and cinematography,

Strips what little I have left of home,

I've been homeless and cold

Carrying around coal,

In my chest,

Burning for the rest,

Of a race

I'm wholly ambivalent to,

Olfactory quartets blare synesthesic trumpets

Headlights and bent heads,

Ambient noise,

Distraction

Somewhere deep down, i blame the world for taking you away from me,

Deeper, I blame you,

At my core is a headache

At my core is inward rage

Magma can cool,

Creating caustic continents,

Nations will tear us apart,

Four fucking letters tinged in regret,

Burn a mark into my soul,

V

I

S

A

I smell you in the static hum of steetlights and in dimly lit carparks,

As my fingers hit my keyboard and the capillaries in my eye burst one by one,

Factories built into my bones have your family name,

Choice was never an option,

The rollercoaster of my nose seeks you out,

In smoking areas and daal,

In the exciting and banal,

In the crowds and hum of canary wharf,

And the way I snear at any attempt of pretence,

I'm a lot more on the fence,

Since I met you,

Shouting till blue

In the face...

And now our roles are reversed,

You're the athiest,

And I'm just trying to make you believe in me,

I'm so fucking devout nowadays,

Conscripted by my own propaganda,

I spew hope on every page

I write, Constantly fighting,

The reality of my surroundings,

Wind hounding me down,

I hit the ground again and again,

And hesistate a bit more each time

Before getting back up,

Strain and shame,

With little relief from the pain,

The world seems colder since you left

Without your shoulder I'm bereft

Of some semblance of sanity,

No I'm ruled by vanity

And delusions of grandiousity

But I'll murmur truthfully

One last time

Through all the months of lying

Acting fine,

Truth is:

I love you

And I will confront the fact

That I'll never see you again.

#Visa #Migration #love #romance #poetry #spoken word #poem #stories #creative writing

0 notes

doomedspork · 11 months

Text

Admissions from a futon fumbler

OH YEAH IT’S WHAT YOU’VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR.

Part 2 of that weird poem about my friend wanking on my sofa.

After sending over my beautiful poem to him, I got this reply. Thought I’d publish it for all you lovely peeps.

I woke up to a beautiful piece of art

A story to which I played somewhat of a part

Day to day my guilty conscious grew

It was from that day I knew

That poem that my faithful friend wrote for me was true

I am the futon fumbler

And proud of it I may be

Like many of our references I’m proud of this memory

So here I stand before you

A proud proud man

If anyone can fix it, I sure can

Those stains are a part of our history

To which you now share

We can get through this with your tender love and care

For us this is more than just a futon it’s a symbolisation of the friendship we hold

Don’t ever leave me there again I was simply too cold

I did what I did to heat me through the night

Please don’t think less of me in this naked spite

#futonfumbler #futon #wank #poem #poetry #spoken word #creative writing #story #stories #spork

0 notes

doomedspork · 11 months

Text

Goon

So I wrote this poem about 3 days before my ex’s visa ran out and she had to leave the country. She was smart as fuck, but made the classic mistake of graduating and couldn’t find a sponsor. Never saw her again.

We are a candle burning at both ends,

The blinding light that upends,

The darkness,

And I'll confess,

I don’t ever think I'll know that I know you,

But as long as we have words I'll try to show you,

We burn twice as bright as any motherfucker,

I'm your black mirror, you're my Charlie Brooker,

And I don't have such great corneas,

But the world burns bright when you are near,

We met at a Weatherspoons,

And the irony wasn't lost, but you looked like you were,

My cigarette light permeated the gloom,

As my words began to slur,

I'd borrowed a 20, so that I'd seem rich,

You bought your own drinks but then we'd switch,

I laughed too loud,

Disturbed the crowd,

But we talked,

And pensioners gawked,

When you went in for a kiss,

Fuck, life was simple then!

Because it existed, but it didn't, the indefinite end,

Flickering in carbon dioxide,

Trying to spend every day outside,

My favourite Muslim coffee shop,

Breathing smoke until I'd drop

Pain au Chocolates after loan day,

The bridge over the way,

Uber Drivers and Vapo-rub,

Every uni snub,

Boiled garlic and Anarchism,

Lightning chasing and Capitalism,

Arguing with our beliefs,

Like a magnifying glass to burn leaves,

And the darkness seemed so close then,

But I just couldn't let you go...

And it was all so easy,

Before the 4am starts,

Before the night shifts,

Before every goddamn cheddar seeking American,

Every cleaned bowl of Nutella and Salami,

Broken feet and broken spirit,

You left for uni when I came to bed,

You studied while I chased the noise of drum and base,

And the world seemed broken,

But you didn't,

And for the first time, I didn't,

Slowly, surely, I got this little thing called confidence...

You make me laugh like Seth Rogan,

I sound like a seal climaxing in a van,

Like a baboon making love to a can,

Or like maleficent cooking up a plan,

But I don't give a shit,

I'm not brad Pitt,

But I've got an ass that don't quit,

So deal with it,

Somewhere, along the way,

The night took shelter from the day

Our scars faded into obscurity,

Every mark, just a part of our body

And even when you're far away,

I'll carry what you gave to me,

You guide me from my fears,

And wipe away my tears,

And I think I'll always love you,

REDACTED.

#Poem #VISA #migrant #poetry #spoken word #love #romance #story #creative-writing

0 notes

doomedspork · 11 months

Text

The human equivalent of a Coldplay song

Right so I actually published this poem on a totally different blog once and some twat commented on it like “yeah man love Coldplay, you’ve really captured Chris Martin’s essence”, so just in case there’s any doubt I actually fucking hate Coldplay they’re the milk-flavoured ice cream of bands designed so that sweaty politicians who’ve never actually met a human have an inoffensive answer if anyone asks them about their favourite music.

Inextricable

From the ceiling fan and the yellow light,

Breath from the mouths of

Stressed, depressed and overdressed,

Slightly slighted students,

Part of me always belonged here,

From birth, I was destined to be buried under concrete

Off-white lights and the grey, secret-ing

Permeating walls

Plain white bathroom stalls,

This moment is a daydream at 5% power,

This moment is my future, if I didn't think too hard

Something is being pulled apart

Through my brain and out through my nose,

Did no one notice the continents on my lower back,

Knot Pangea but something freer,

I'm standing taller,

Divided but not suicided,

I am an email chain, 5 re's deep,

Underneath my fingernails and crawling around my scalp,

Bones, sinew, tissue, pulp,

I'm damn good at replicating,

Yeah, it's genetic,

That DNA is prophetic

I chose TCAG not SKAG

My alleles are for real,

Conceal-ing

Seething,

With every day, I get less angry,

One day, this office chair will be so comfy,

My arse will be sedentary,

Inflating,

Spooling,

Over my seat,

Shampoo, rinse, repeat,

Always repeat,

Secrete interactions,

Dripping personality,

Into a fresh, sparkling glass of conversation,

I don't want you to see me,

But I want to look at all your faces for as long as possible,

I'm selfish, but these days that isn't bad,

Dichotomies of light flicker and fade in the night,

Vibrancy outside the window

And in my mind, I'm pressed up against it,

If I could fade into nothing but a pair of eyes,

Dissolving, into a chair, into a crowded room,

Into the gloom of your beautiful, terrible minds,

Through the treacle around your lungs,

A walking endoscopy,

For every escapee

Of monotony

The spark behind your eyes,

The lumps in your throat not your heart,

A showreal of emotion to disguise

Everything we despise,

No, everything we revise,

I was made in my image,

Pillaging the ash,

For fragments of the past,

Patch- ing

Over solder

And iron deficiency

Superstitiously, Surreptitiously, deliciously,

Superfluous,

My hugs hid my face,

My smiles hide my teeth,

And we know, but we don't look underneath,

Our appeals for authenticity,

Hard fought and rarely free,

I could be the symbol of a tree,

But I don't know if I can provide oxygen,

Still, I'm all bark and no bite,

Feeling full-filled but filled with shite,

Wearing my halo,

As if it was a yellow ceiling light

#Poem #Poetry #Short story #creative writing #spoken word #spork

0 notes

doomedspork · 11 months

Text

Moving City

Paradise feels fake in the moving city,

Personally, personality reflects onto me,

At a 30° angle from the sun,

Not enough to burn but sure enough to stun

She's wrapped up in tangents and self-fulfilling prophecy

The Amun Ra of the 21st century,

Trying to pin the pin on the edge of a slope,

Gazing up to Giza in the inverse of hope,

If shit rolls at you, you just roll it back,

Keep moving forward, try and hack,

Away at any tatters of your tattered soul,

Refining what's left as not a part, but a whole,

I came out in the burning sun today,

Hoping the ultraviolet might make me feel clean.

In this place,

Time only infiltrates the occupation of new space,

Sand whirls around like some sort of dream,

Defected stone, stolen from temples,

Mountains and sphinx's, the ocean drinks its

Fill of the land,

My mind is stuck on some grand

-iose notion of altruism through capitalism,

Some counterfeit counterfactual prism,

Refracting through the schisms between

Who I was,

And who I can't be again

#poetry #poems #Story #Spoken word #Creative writing #spork #City #Life #Egypt #Stories

0 notes

doomedspork · 1 year

Text

I Know That Stain is Populated by the Ghosts of your Unborn Children

So, in the first place I ever properly rented by myself, there was this futon, right? And I thought it was the coolest thing, because it was huge and super comfy and my friends could stay round. And I had this one friend who came to stay round and he was horny, just like 24/7 horny. Anyway this poem is an exact description of a conversation we once had when he came to visit.

I let you sleep upon my couch,

It was to me that you did vouch,

To remain celibate throughout the night,

“I shall not orgasm” you said, as I turned off the light.

Yet while I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

From a slow drumbeat to rapacious rapping,

And I became convinced it was a fapping,

And so I opened the door,

To see my precious futon close to the floor,

And my friend asleep…

Quoth the me,

“Don’t wank on my futon you whore”

And as I drifted close to dreaming,

I envisaged you were scheming,

To pollute on my soft futon,

Like Schumacher with a champagne cork,

But there is the chance that maybe,

You don’t want to spill your baby gravy,

And oh these thoughts did fester,

I wished to protect my polyester,

I was ready for attacking

Certain he was already whacking,

And so I opened up the door,

And shouted

“Leave my tender sofa bed,

Thou shall no longer lay your head,

On my futon oh so tender,

No not during this weekender,

Not for any legal tender,

And I will have to send a,

message to you now.

You must leave my home, horny man,

Run now and leave, while you can,

Take your penis and be gone,

Before I smite you, with the force of a thousand suns!”

He looked at me, quite abashed,

And said to me “well...

I WOULD NOT WANK HERE OR THERE.

I WOULD NOT WANK ANYWHERE.

I DO NOT WANK ON YOUR FUTON.

YOU’VE OFFENDED ME, NOW I’LL BE GONE.

I WOULD NOT WANK WITH A SOCK,

I WOULD NOT WANK, THERE IS NO LOCK”

Calmly and rationally, as I always am, I picked myself up and said:

“You claim you have not sullied this bed,

You claim I am not right in the head,

That makes me feel like lady Macbeth

Out damn stain, I am bereft!”

“Twas not me” my friend declaimed,

As he was behoved to explain,

His message penetrated my brain,

He was not this sofa’s last or first,

He would not be the best or worst,

This sofa had had a long run,

This sofa likely was filled with cum,

Jizzm from the past decade,

Sometimes cleaned after it was splayed,

Sometimes left to marinade,

All sorts of bodily juices,

Made me question what the use is,

Of maintaining a sofa’s virginity,

When it clearly never belonged to me,

“Have your way with my sofa, my friend,

I hope our friendship never ends,

And if a stain is the price to pay,

I’ll gladly wipe it any day,

But do not bring your girlfriend round,

Because I will watch, and I will frown.”

#Poetry #Short story #Wank #Creative writing #Futon #Poem #renting #furniture #the true meaning of friendship #Spork

0 notes

doomedspork · 1 year

Text

This moment

Cockroaches crawl

Under fingernails,

Impaled on a filament,

My sanity exists as spark between lightbulbs,

Injustice is a bitch

Superstitious and nutritious

Cockroaches surround,

All that we ground

Ourselves in,

The silence screams so loud,

The gaps between our memories,

Cease to exist

So oil up your synapses,

Because this is a fond memory

Your pedigree

Means very little to me,

Certainly,

We will quiver and fall as reality,

Is no more real than a clock hand,

Every moment you've planned

Is a memory,

Categorically,

This is the past,

The veins on your arms are swollen as you recall,

Behind sagging eyelids,

Off grid in the circuitry of your cerebellum,

Often sure but hard to tell them,

Apart,

The nights blur into one,

And that night you've been planning for a while now,

Is the only warmth in your inconceivable rocking chair,

Is your life enough to keep you warm?

Take a deep breath,

The weight of your legs, your arms, your jacket,

the zip digging into your lower waist,

The thoughts darting around your head as they trigger fear, arousal, times gone past and futures yet to come,

The smell of your partner, pheromones and perfume, the smell of the person next to you, of the room,

The stick from your feet to the floor,

The noise of my syllables overlaying my vowels and my prayer that this moment will never end,

The pounding of your heart and the slight chatter in the back of the room,

The dark and the light illuminating me, shading you,

The amalgamation of acts, people faces, cheap words,

Every second you try and anchor yourself in has already passed,

It's the next day and your head hurts,

It's 5 years and the night is forgotten,

It's 20 and the lines on your body are only conceivable because you lived through them,

But to you in this moment, they aren't real,

And you can remember forever,

How improbable your present existance felt on this night.

#Poetry #Poem #Night out #party #Depression #Anger #creative writing #Stories #Spork

1 note · View note

doomedspork · 1 year

Text

Mean

Skies disguise us,

Lies decry us,

These guys despise us and

Talk in violence

All along, we belong,

To roads, pavements and

Any intersection,

We're people of the divide,

Inside,

The walls and halls of our mind,

The pitfalls that leave us behind,

In the dregs of sanity,

Success and vanity,

Clinging to the corners,

The whispers,

The early warners

Broken down but taking form as,

Blisters on the boots,

Of suits on their commutes

Of the lungs we pollute,

Staining the gulf,

Burning with hatred,

We are the fire that fights fire,

Revelling in ire,

You were the stake and I was the pyre,

The pomposity of atrocity,

The cages that hold our rarely free,

Mentality,

This murky dichotomy

Of hate for love,

I'll write compassion on my hand so I don’t forget,

Not just to insurrect an erect...

Wall,

Stall

Internalise the reason why's

Bellowing cries,

Fucking lies...

It's all fucking lies...

I branded the sky with my name,

Tied her up in jet cord ribbons,

Shame will beget incisions,

In my mask,

It is our task,

To take action,

Not self-destruction,

Not rage but courage,

Understand

I'll write on the back of my hand,

Actions not words,

Those words will remain unheard,

Stirred in the preferred whispers,

Glistening listening,

My cynicism could stop 1000 ships,

Speeches in-between fuck its,

But the lines in the sky are seething,

And they make me believe in believing.

#rebellion #hope #fuck off #poetry #poems #spoken word #creative writing #stories #spork

0 notes

doomedspork · 1 year

Text

The Helsinki Spectre

Lived in Helsinki for a month, working in a hostel. It was a pretty good time, but oh my god are Finns antisocial (until you get them drunk!) The night of the Arts in Helsinki is bloody beautiful, but wound up writing this poem drifting about between events. Give it a visit if you can.

Every corner a carnival,

Every smile feels gut wrenchingly carnal,

Colour flow and the jumble of noises grows

To some vibrant cacophony,

But I'm only climbing out of the cave slowly,

Haunted eyes drink up lights whispering

'You owe me'

Lets be honest,

The Helsinki spectre

Has no place in the world of forms

Just a reflector for every shred of hope that forms,

In the saturnine solipsism of cirque du solei

#Helsinki #Arts #Night of the arts #Music #Poem #Poetry #Festival #Lonely #Spork

0 notes

doomedspork · 1 year

Text

Well this is Novel

Novels have a way of haunting,

The cracks down your spine,

Shivering your timbers,

Limber paperback attacks

The scenes behind your eyelids,

REM is a great band,

These days I'm scanning,

But devoid of the usual planning,

Watching, waiting, commiserating,

I blink,

I wake up early, happy, gleeful

And fully full of elation,

The anticipation of meeting you,

Is novel,

Electricity and elective key hole surgery

Seem to be rewiring the complexities

And gravity perpetrating free falling dreams

To hopeful anxieties

Booking tickets

Leafing through trees

The pauses and gaps in life

Please

Me. And my dogeared existence,

Diverging from the existential stance,

Slammed between an island

And my best laid plans,

I don't mean to grandstand

But fam,

I'm pretty happy today,

On each day of all days,

Always,

Dodging rain like bullets,

Sonder emanates from the gullets

Of scintillating street conversation,

Bright lights and street fights embalmed in mystique

Headlamps glisten and we're all on fleek,

My life is a trickle, running down glass,

The fly on the wall who needs to move fast,

The past and the future reflecting...

Selecting,

The road more travelled,

The road less addled,

Active narration is the curation of thoughts

And without hesitation I ought,

To get some sleep,

But still,

You flick through the pages of my mind,

Like Johnny 5 on crack,

Like Ted Cruz's twitter hack

I'm lack...

Ing any level of common sense,

Best dressed in pretence,

Second guessing reasons

Pleasing syllogisms and

Circadian Rhythms,

Because I don't know you well enough,

To say I've got your back,

But goddamn I really like you

#poetry #poem #Love #Romantic #Romance #Novel #Creative writing #Sporky Sporky Good Times

1 note · View note

doomedspork · 1 year

Text

Pathological Goldfish

*Hey so I got high one time and tried to write song lyrics.

I am not a musician, but if you can, try and imagine this in the exact voice of John Darnielle from the Mountain Goats.*

Pathological goldfish,

You were always one of the lookers,

Yeah-eh-eh!

Pathological Goldfish,

Smoking crack and beating up hookers,

Yeah-eh eh

Pathological Goldfish,

These cards are marked you bastard!

Pathological Goldfish,

Sodomising a priest with pasta,

Yeah-eh-eh,

Pathological goldfish,

What are you doing with my wife?

Penetrating her urethra,

That's the best orgasm of her life,

Pathological Goldfish,

Who I aid and I abet,

Pathological Goldfish,

You're starting to forget

(Song Repeats Infinitely)

#song #lyrics #poetry #creative writing #poems #mountain goats #goldfish

2 notes · View notes

doomedspork · 1 year

Text

Petrichor

A wheezing body with rusty cells and half fused synapses

A shoddy self-contained manifestation of magic crashes,

All the way down

And all the way deep

And all the way gently off to sleep

If I close my eyes too long I hear the ocean ,

There’s nowhere like anywhere but home,

The broiling bubbles and scum cause commotion,

Tiny horses dash towards the banks out of the foam,

Open sinuses infused with salt,

Enough to make a french beautician weep,

Thoughts are drawn, they clatter and then halt,

The turd-blue sea is rolling in the deep

Peaceful disruption,

Consensual enjambment,

The waves break

The waters break,

The pebbles give and then they take,

Trapped on this earth as God’s mistake

#poetry #poem #poems #poetscommunity #stories #literature #writing #creative writing #spork

0 notes