” Artist in Poets Clothing ” – everyday poetry 141


today – Sunday, April 13th 2014 @ 12:17:31

no convention altered

enough for U to want to scream U’r crying eyes out, with shouts of angst or joy of bliss annoyed to the toying of directions centered for a change, to past rules being broken from the deranged time stop of a mind forever changed with every experience of love and pain, seen they are, in the strain of paint, was it on wood panels, or was it paint at all, for canvasses that could never be stretched beyond a point of warped senses of humor in the dilemmas past and present that need to be spoken about in a clear and concise manner, for fresh breaths of tomorrows drinking of pure water

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i’m really an artist in poets clothing

after everyone of my attempts to eloquently con
vey the mental intrusions to the papered conclusions of dictated assessments of the very illusions of thought i think that i have ascertained cor
rectly, but for more introspection did i convey these corrections in highly lit computer glitches of ink exacerbations to the pulsating flickering of words entering brain stems in a collective effort to love them back to homeostasis

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they dotted

they trailed

they curved

they sailed

they stretched

they plummeted

they ascended

and the nights were stupendous in pitch

as the clouds hugged me in mists of the thick layers of dew

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seen they were in full moon refracted light crystals, toying with dark patches of shadowed trash cans, that looked amazingly like they were booked to my ends of artistic renditions, that one would not really mind having hung in their kitchen

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so that eager eyes would peer with heavenly bliss, as they ventured living room walls just wondering inside the mind, meandering through the mystery of why they were lead in through the backside of a living monument, of memories caught in colored hues imbuing the lines and curves of life’s present past and future, on canvasses textured and smooth

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we went into the drools of lusting fools, for tools of what we now know as living in this refined culture of class and classless, with all needing the same resources for any stretch of the imagination, to be realized from periods of dreaming what it would be like to actually live life the way one wished to, instead of in the gloom of their own living room, where there was no doom at all, but discontentment of the rearranged kind, for a big screen t.v. where i can watch U in your greatest moments in 20 or 30 times of rewind, if only it would fit in my closet on skid row, or maybe we could become neighbors

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as i said, i will ART for food, and that includes the very best of your health to my regaining of health and stability in every aspect of the meaning of living, from a dead mans corpse – Marine Corps, shored up short to the hell of anguish described in horrors not yet blinding U with disgust, and amazement as to how he is speaking right now at all, just waiting to get the green light for life again, before the dirt as we know takes U or i for our final spin, and all that is left is

an artist

in poets clothing


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