papers/lighter/text

crumbled and rolled

blown over 04/12/2011

Filed under: sloppy sonnet — paperslightertext @ 9:15 pm

Pacific rim, O ring of fire,
Perched on Nature’s lip
What ardent ire is desire
Hot and bothered by a quip

Erupting ash might spew
from its chimney with care
One would hope it might avoid
Poor old Pioneer Square

Which is quite close for comfort
To the Columbia Tower
Rumored terrorists would bomb
at the Oft Remembered hour

Pick your poison, so they say
Goes the time-tested cliche.

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piercing 04/10/2011

Filed under: gender trouble,readable — paperslightertext @ 7:04 pm

Their throats were grateful gutters,
stoppered by the guttural guh-guh-guh
fostered by the culture of utter contempt.
Quit clicking! This runoff’s senseless typeface
dreams in bold, baby blue, powder blue,
indelible marker of sensitivity pink.

It doesn’t matter how you dress the Barbie.
Her proportions prop up the lackluster verse
Spray paint apathy chic on the goth kid’s hearse
He’s got tunnel vision- staring down an inviting esophagus
Warm, wormy wet, ribbed for his pleasure.

In his eyes, we were cylinders of fluid.
Were I tipped off by such sloppy proofs,
a Like Like who swallowed Link’s shield,
equipped with super suction,
I’d’ve steeled myself for the puncture wound.

 

visions of 2014 04/01/2011

Filed under: readable,silliness — paperslightertext @ 11:24 pm

They were given cigarettes as provisions,
those who hedged their bets along the lake.
Packets of civet cafe, bread and cacao,
apples bursting with icy rain, all blended
in ice with non-fatty whipped topping.

It was around that time McDonalds started selling
sustainable milkshakes in ethical containers of endocrine,
but it was too late. We’d already eaten the salty sugar
from the bottom of the plastic liner, getting dog fur
in our mouths, transmitted by sticky kid-like digits.

 

a different city

Filed under: readable — paperslightertext @ 12:41 am
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TV talks to an empty couch
the welts on my knuckle
weigh somber with solitude.
Pale perfumed pink petals permeate
a picture-day backdrop of slurry grey
its fluorescent possibility illuminating
the lonely screen. It flickers at me,

frightening what within remains
staving off splinters, asleep,
adrift on an under inflated mattress,
extracted from hard old cash.