Saturday, October 13, 2018

found lost thing I wrote

Thought I had lost this, but found it among old papers. I wrote it a long long time ago. Another lifetime it seems like. It was originally a cut-up poem but I kept messing with it.

digits

the fingers are mounting up
for an offensive against the mutinous toes
in alleys where the dead were dragged

the fingers look like cabbages
lined up for harvesting
under the mouths of exploited technologies

the fingers will lick the toes
after streaming chlorophyll
onto them: quality obsessed costumers

the fingers are colored by different rays of yellow
as bones bleed onto pages of returns on stockholder's equity

the fingers are cutting themselves off with razors and staring
with great commercial success

the fingers are tripping over regions where the sky
crunches beneath the feet of giants
and sandwiches barbed with prongs

the fingers scratch away at patches of dirt over sores
in a win-win solution of trade channels
draining the world of imagination
where skulls have been left out to dry in the clouds

the fingers are swelling 20% a year in sales
while the company balloons are left
scattered over peach fuzz and cactus

prickly joints crack and clatter
over cut out teeth

-Joseph Owen

Thursday, August 16, 2018

writing through the sanity block

how to scream when commercials are so much louder

softness strains
the most interesting movement where
sand and glass
flesh and paper
sky and light
filaments and synapses are
frozen on my tongue

so scream until skies catch fire underwater
and atonal fears
vanish under the weight of shards
of stars
holding scattered dreams
washed out by moonlit stone

how to repair
chemical thoughts
shining silent now before the snapping electric sound

deep breath and heartbeat through veins
eyes
sun’s burning contrasted with the haze
bordering the mountain’s solar patterns

of rainbows in storm red flashing into
a state of consciousness that slides into mesmerizing spheres
of brown blue green orange pink

vision induced catatonia of magnetic silences

the sky will flesh out what has been broken

Joseph Owen